Thermal Thursday

by Don Pendleton

  “You’re thinking maybe I’ve blown the cover?”

  Bolan shrugged. “Possibly. Maybe you should safe it, anyway. Check out, Leo.”

  “No way,” Turrin muttered.

  “Stubborn,” Bolan said quietly. “The guy is just plain stubborn as a damned old mule.”

  “Look who’s talking stubborn,” Turrin growled. “Second mile, for Christ’s sake. Imagine that. A second goddam mile.”

  Bolan grinned and said, “Watch the swinger, pal.”

  “Same to you.”

  “Need help with the garbage?”

  “I’ll manage. Sarge … dammit … be careful. And sit tight till I hit your floater. Wait for me. Say you’ll wait.”

  “Let’s say I’ll try,” Bolan replied soberly. His eyes flashed toward the death car. “Sometimes you just can’t, you know.”

  Turrin said, “Yeah. I know.”

  Those eyes flashed something very intense from very deep inside, then the big guy spun on his toes and trotted softly up the street toward his cruiser.

  Some kind of damned guy, yeah.

  Turrin threw a kiss at the night, and went on to take care of his garbage detail. He would do what had to be done, then leave that vehicle within walking distance of his own rented wheels.

  “I know,” he told the darkness. “Sometimes, yeah, you just can’t wait.”

  CHAPTER 2

  READINGS

  “Good work,” Bolan said to April Rose as he joined her at the con.

  The girl accepted the quiet praise without comment. She turned the cruiser about and headed it toward the highway. The other vehicle had already departed the scene. When they reached Highway 2, Bolan growled, “Head north.”

  By the time she executed the corner, Leo Turrin’s confiscated wheels were far ahead. “Track or break?” she inquired softly.

  “Break,” Bolan replied, sighing.

  The girl sighed also as she moved to break the electronic lock on the disappearing “target” vehicle. The big grim man beside her was, at his most talkative, not your standard conversational item. At times like this, he was a veritable Sphinx. April had always tried to respect his mental privacy, but it could be aggravating as hell, sometimes.

  After about six blocks of total silence, she quietly invaded that grim atmosphere. “Read it, soldier,” she said, trying to mimic his command voice.

  Bolan’s troubled gaze met hers in the mirror as he replied, “I’m trying.”

  “Let’s try together. Who got killed?”

  He lit a cigarette and responded in a musing tone. “Couple of old pros from Brooklyn. The Baldaserra brothers. Torture freaks, hit men. For pay.”

  April made a face and said, “Ugh.”

  “Yeah. They were originally made by the old Mavnarola family. That’s also the family that brought us such stellar citizens as Augie Marinello and Freddie Gambella. The Baldaserras went free lance a few years ago … I guess trying to revive a little Murder Incorporated shop for the New York territories. That was before I came onto the scene. By the time I first got to New York, the feds already had those boys on jury-tampering charges. We never met. Until just now.”

  April was clearly impressed by Bolan’s phenomenal memory. She asked, “How do you keep all this stuff in your head? You’re saying you saw them for the first time, in the dark, just a quick glimpse … and that was enough? You made them, then blew them away?” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that? What—from some dingy old mug shots in your hinky-dink machine?”

  She was referring to his microfilm library in the intelligence console, a thorough study of the denizens and habitats of the species Mafiosi carnivoris.

  “I keep it updated,” he replied quietly. “I can tell you what those guys like for breakfast. And I’d recognize any of them in hell.”

  The girl shivered slightly and wondered, in a lighter tone, “Are we away clean?”

  “I think so,” Bolan replied soberly. “Rented car. No radio. It’s unlikely that they could have flashed any reports without losing the track. No, I think it’s clean. For us, anyway. Sticker, now, I don’t …”

  “He thinks he led them here.”

  “He did. Which means that someone is beginning to wonder about Sticker.”

  “Sticker is really Leopold Turrin, isn’t he?” she quietly ventured.

  “Bite your lip,” he said, just as quietly. “How’d you know?”

  She tossed her head and said, “I look at pictures, too, you know. And I had a special interest. He used to have the pussy franchise in Pittsfield.”

  Bolan grinned, a bit self-consciously—his usual reaction to her use of vulgarisms. She knew that it both amused and slightly embarrassed him. Which was primarily why April did it.

  He told her, now, “Leo had a lot more than that in Pittsfield. He had the keys to the kingdom.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “I guess I broke his lock.”

  “I see.” After a moment of silence, she prodded on. “I’m surprised you didn’t break his head. Instead, you convinced him that he should come over with the good guys. I find it very strange.” Another brief silence, then, “I’ve been doing some studying myself, the past couple of days. I’ve, uh, learned who Cindy is.” She glanced at him. “The girl who sent you the annotated copy of Don Quixote when you were in Vietnam. With love forever. I was jealous of her. Well, just a bit. Then Mr. Brognola told me that Cindy was your kid sister, that she was dead now, and … and all about that. That’s why I find it so strange about Leopold Turrin. I mean, all that mess is what started you off. And Leopold Turrin was the man directly responsible for it. Why … what … how did you get so damned big-hearted as to let him off when … when … well, it’s kind of weird and I guess I don’t understand it. Everyone in Brognola’s shop knows that you and Sticker are thicker than molasses. I just never would have dreamed that Sticker and Turrin are one and the same. I mean, of all people …”

  Very quietly, Bolan told her, “You don’t have all the facts, April. In the first place, I did not convert Leo to anything. He was ‘Sticker’ long before I came on the scene. And he was not responsible for what happened in Pittsfield. Actually he crutched the situation all he could. Took some great risks doing it, too. I didn’t know about that, at first. Something else I did not know, then, was that Leo was covertly helping me all he could, too. All the while I was trying to whack the guy. Damned near did. If it hadn’t been for …” He took a deep breath. “We’re thick, yeah. Leo is the best friend and the largest man I’ve ever known.” He threw the girl an oblique glance. “Try to understand this: I’d die for that guy, with no regrets.”

  She murmured, “I’ll try to understand that.”

  “And I’m very concerned about his present situation.”

  “Exactly what is the situation?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to read.”

  “We were reading together. Remember?”

  Bolan gave her the information that Leo had brought from New York, concluding with, “So that’s the way it lies at the moment, and I haven’t the gleam of an idea as to what Leo is heading into. Hell of it is, neither does he.”

  “Well, he’s a good game player,” she said, trying to sound reassuring.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What do you think he’s heading into?”

  Bolan raised his hands to shoulder level and dropped them into his lap. “Who knows?” he muttered. “We’re not dealing with—standard logic doesn’t work, with these people.”

  “What kind of logic does work?” she asked.

  “Crazy,” he said quietly.

  “Crazy logic?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re saying they’re all insane.”

  “Of course, they’re insane.”

  “Wow. You’d make a good witness for the defense.”

  It came out with strong sarcasm, though she’d not really intended it that way.

  But he let it ride. “Who’s taking them t
o court?” he responded softly.

  “Right, right. I keep forgetting that you are the judge and the jury.” She was trying to lighten it up, but—she knew—only making it worse. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m sorry.”

  Bolan was not rising to the unintended bait, anyway. He said, “I’ve never considered myself the judge or the jury.”

  “What are you, then?”

  “I’m the judgment,” he said softly.

  Right. Right. A small distinction with a great difference. He did not judge them. They judged themselves, by their actions. Mack Bolan was nothing but the Executioner. “Some day I’ll want you to explain that to me,” she said quietly.

  “You’re the scientist,” he replied. “You could explain it to me better.”

  “Action, reaction,” she said, almost smiling.

  “If you say so.”

  “So what about the crazy logic?”

  Bolan frowned. “It isn’t crazy to them. A twisted view makes for a twisted world. In a twisted world, smart is dumb and good is bad.”

  “So how are you reading their view of Baltimore?”

  He said, “The men in New York could be thinking of cutting all their losses, with Leo as the pigeon. That’s the way they would do it. Every move in a twisted world is a twisted move. And, yes, that’s how they’d do it. Send an ambassador down to lull the guy into a false sense of security. Then pull the string on him. Of course, the ambassador doesn’t know that the twist is on. Couldn’t have that. Because when the string is pulled, the ambassador goes down the chute with everything else.”

  “Would that explain the Baldaserras?”

  “Sure would. If that is the show New York has in mind, the Baldaserra boys would be the wires on Leo—their only job to keep him in sight and report his movements. With great stealth. Not because Leo is suspect, but because he has been dispatched on a delicate mission … and because the timing is very important to this particular type of treachery.”

  “Is that the only scenario?”

  Bolan shook his head. “No. It’s also entirely possible that the New York bosses have decided on a strong stand at Baltimore, just the way Leo laid it out.”

  “Where would Ike and Mike fit into that sort of scenario?”

  “One of two ways,” Bolan explained. “Either someone in New York has reason to suspect that Santelli will not go along—or else someone is feeling a bit uncomfortable about Leo. In the first case, they’ve wired Leo to get a quick feedback on Santelli’s application of crazy logic. In the second, they’re watchdogging Leo in case he’s harboring some crazy logic of his own.”

  April commented, “It gets drearier and drearier, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Either way, I don’t like the reading for Leo.”

  “What happens now when New York discovers that their wires have been cut? Won’t they suspect Leo of…?”

  “Leo knows how to handle that kind of problem,” Bolan assured her. “Those boys won’t turn up dead for awhile, yet—maybe never. Someone may wonder where they are … but wondering is not knowing. In a world of crazies, who’s to know whatever became of the Baldaserra brothers?”

  “So what is your final reading?”

  “My final reading,” Bolan replied, in a matter-of-fact tone, “is that it’s going to be a damned long day in Baltimore.”

  “Or a damned short one,” she said, very soberly.

  “You can put that in your teacup and drink it,” he assured her.

  Yes. To be sure. April had already done that. And the taste had grown quite bitter. For everyone concerned.

  CHAPTER 3

  AT THE JUGULAR

  The sentry was about an arm’s length away, breathing very shallow, half-asleep on his feet and lost in some quiet reverie of the pre-dawn, hands in pockets, shotgun propped within easy reach against the stone wall of the bayside estate. Dim yellow light spilling from a corner of the house at the second level caught him now and then, as soft breezes from the bay shook the branches of a skinny tree nearby. Young, very young—just a kid. What did little boys such as this from the big city streets know of the loneliness of the night watch, or the hazards of innocent reverie at the edge of the jungle?

  Not enough, obviously. Two others here, far more mature, had finally learned all they ever would about that.

  This one was just too damned young to …

  Bolan’s hand stayed for a flickering second at the fresh nylon garrote, still coiled at the waistband; instead, he stuck a cigarette between his lips, growled, “Bang, you’re dead!” and struck the lighter in the kid’s face.

  The guy just about broke himself in half trying to pull it back together, trying to seize stature and shotgun all in one motion and failing to achieve either.

  He gasped, “Jesus! You scared the shit outta me!”

  “Be damned glad that’s all you lost, kid,” Bolan growled, in a not unfriendly tone. “Someone else could’ve ripped your throat just as easy.”

  The young sentry tried to alibi it. “I didn’t … I thought I heard … I was looking …”

  “Forget it,” Bolan said airily. “Nothing out here but you ’n’ me anyway—right?”

  “Right,” the kid replied, obviously very much relieved by the other’s casual manner. “To tell the truth, I been wondering why I was stuck out here. I ain’t heard or seen a damn thing all night.”

  He was trying for a better look at Bolan’s face.

  Bolan obliged. Better here than somewhere else, with all the chips down. He handed his cigarette to the youth and lit another, taking his time and giving plenty of exposure. Then he told him, “Yours is not to reason why. Right?”

  “Right, Mister—I didn’t mean …”

  “You call me Frankie.”

  “Sure. Thanks. Oh, and thanks for the cigarette, sir.”

  Nice enough kid. Under the circumstances. Under different circumstances, though …

  “I said you could call me Frankie.”

  The guy was still off balance, floundering, uncomfortable. “Right, uh, Frankie.”

  “What do they call you?”

  “They call me Sonny.”

  “But you don’t like that.”

  “No, sir. I been Sonny all my life. It’s time I made a name.”

  Bolan very soberly said, “I make you Pacer.”

  “Sir?”

  “You wanted a name. You got one.”

  “Pacer?”

  “Yeah. ’Cause the first time I saw you, that’s what you should’ve been doing and wasn’t. It’s a name that’ll stick. From now on, you’re Pacer.”

  The kid was visibly affected by that. In this strange society of stealth and knavery, “making a name” was somewhat comparable to a christening, or a bar mitzvah. Didn’t really matter what the hell the made name was; the important, thing was for a guy to have one, And only a boss could make a name for a guy. This kid was not so green that he did not understand that.

  He gasped, “God, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize—there’s so many people coming and going these last few days—I mean …”

  “Don’t finish everything you say with I mean,” Bolan instructed him. “People will think you play with yourself too much. Whatever you say, say it flat out and don’t be afraid someone won’t like it. Fuck ’em. Just say it.”

  Sonny the Pacer smiled at that and replied, “I guess I’m kind of tired.”

  Bolan did not return the smile. “How long since you had a break?”

  “Sir?”

  “How long you been out here?”

  “Since two.”

  “It’s damn near daylight. You haven’t had a break?”

  “No, sir.”

  Bolan growled, “No wonder you’re out on your feet. Who’s your crew boss?”

  “Mario,” the kid replied with considerable discomfort.

  Bolan quickly sniffed the scent of that one and tried for it. “Mario Cuba?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “Go take a break
,” Bolan commanded. “And tell Mario I want to see him out here in ten minutes. Right here. Ten minutes. Right?”

  The kid was thoroughly shook up now. “Right, Mister Frankie—ten minutes, right here.”

  The disturbed young man picked up his shotgun and trotted away, heading for the rear of the house.

  Bolan went the other way—making no attempt, now, to soften his steps—and encountered the final sentry at the opposite corner of the property. He halted, took a drag from his cigarette and softly called ahead, “Who’s over there?”

  A mature voice called back, “Jimmy Jenner. Who’s that?”

  “Mack Bolan.”

  “Yeah, ha-ha. What’s up?”

  “Nearly daylight. How you doing?”

  “Doing great,” was the quick response. “Already since two I laid three hot blondes, a Chinese nympho, and a spicey Italian momma. How you doing?”

  Bolan laughed softly and replied, “Your dreams beat mine, Jimmy. Just do it with your eyes open, that’s all I ask.”

  “You, uh—where’s Mario?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. I’m going to take some ass from that boy when I find him. Sonny says he hasn’t been relieved all night.”

  This one was growing quickly uncomfortable, as well. “Well, it’s not all that … uh … Mario’s been out a couple of times.” He was edging toward Bolan in the darkness.

  “If you see ’im again, you tell ’im Frankie’s looking for him.”

  The sentry halted abruptly. Bolan could feel those eyes straining toward him across the darkened yard. They were perhaps twenty yards apart.

  “Are you Frankie from New York?”

  “I’m Frankie and I’m from New York,” Bolan called back easily.

  “Well, Jesus! I didn’t think I’d ever—I heard a lot about you, Frankie. I had a cousin with the Talifero brothers, once.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “His name was—they called him Charlie Wonder.”

  Uh-huh. And the Taliferos had once been Lord High Enforcers of the national ruling council.

  Bolan told Charlie Wonder’s cousin, “Too bad about Charlie. He was a hell of a wheelman.”

  “Yes, sir, he was.”

  “Too bad about the Talifero boys.”