Battle Mask te-3

by Don Pendleton

  Lyons whistled softly. "The profits in junk," he commented in an awed tone.

  "Yeah. I wouldn't recommend moving on Blythe right away. They'll be cooling it after your hit this morning."

  "We let one of their boats get through," Lyons said. "We're watching it."

  "Good thinking. Play it right and you can line up their entire wholesaling operation."

  "You know," Lyons said thoughtfully, "you could be Bolan."

  His guest laughed and replied, "You just won't t let it go, will you?"

  "You think like him and you talk like him and it wouldn't take too damn much to make you look like him."

  Bolan laughed again and replied, "The word's all around that the guy got it at Palm Village."

  "We've never found a body. Just how much do you know about Palm Village, Pointer?"

  "An old gunner by the name of Pena was in charge up there. Somehow he's missing in action, or something. The whole mob is wondering about him."

  "Pena is in custody," Lyons said.

  "Yeah?"

  "You interested?"

  "I guess I am. Fair exchange?"

  "No reason not to tell you," Lyons said. "The news is probably out by now, anyway, or will be. Braddock went up there today and busted the thing wide open."

  "What do you mean? What thing?"

  "The Palm Village police have had Pena under protective custody since shortly after the fireworks up there. His own request, as I understand it." Lyons laughed. "That head cop up there is something else. He's been hiding Pena in his own home. No charges, no nothing — just sanctuary. Or that was the way Braddock read it." The policeman's eyelids dropped to a half closure and he added, "Aren't you going to ask me who Braddock is?"

  "I know who Braddock is," Bolan replied coolly.

  "I know who you are, too," the Sergeant said. "You're Mack Bolan."

  "You're out of your mind," Bolan said laughing.

  "It's a good face job, Bolan. I had no idea it could be done so quickly. What's your cover? Maybe I can help you strengthen it."

  "Thanks, but you're still out of your mind." Bolan cracked the door and Lyons got a good look at the face as the interior light flashed on. "I'll give you a call for the next setup."

  "Do that," Lyons murmured. "One of the people in this detail would be interested in anything you might learn about the Palm Village massacre. He'd appreciate some intelligence, asked me to tell you that."

  "Who's the interested party?"

  "Agent named Brognola, Justice Department. He's interested in rackets."

  "Everybody's interested in rackets these days," Bolan said. "Brognola, huh? I'm not sure I like the name."

  "Hell, he's straight. Just because his name sounds Italian, you can't . . ."

  "I know, I know," Bolan protested, chuckling. "Some of my best friends have Italian names." He got out of the car and walked into the darkness.

  Julian DiGeorge stepped forward to greet Franky Lucky with a wide grin and a warm clasp of arms. "Come on in, siddown, siddown," the Capo said. "I was just fixin' some drinks. You still with Scotch?"

  Franky Lucky Bolan smiled tiredly and dropped into a chair. "Sure, that's great, Deej," he replied. Philip Marasco leaned over to light Bolan's cigarette. DiGeorge thrust a glass of Scotch and ice into his hand and settled into the other chair. They sat in a sort of triangular arrangement, with Bolan at the point. The implications of the overly warm hospitality were not lost on Bolan. He realized that a lot of effort was being exerted to put him at ease. Outwardly, it worked — but his mind was seething with the possibilities of directions which the interview could take.

  "You're looking tired, Franky," DiGeorge observed. "You're sure a go-getter. I guess you don't hardly stop all day long, eh?"

  "It's not that bad," Bolan said. "I'm used to depending all on myself. I'll get used to an organization around me pretty soon."

  "Feel like you're getting any closer to this Bolan?" Marasco asked quietly.

  "Yeah and something else, too," Bolan replied quickly, staring steadily at the bodyguard. "What's this I hear about the big Mexican bust?"

  "Just one of those things, Franky," DiGeorge put in hurriedly. "We learn to roll with the punches. Forget it. Hey, you always worked alone, eh? You never were in the army or navy or anything?"

  Bolan snickered and flashed a broad grin to Marasco. "Hey, Philip Honey, does the boss think I'm that big a sucker?"

  DiGeorge chuckled and hid his eyes in his glass. He sipped the drink, then came back with, "Only suckers put on the uniform, eh? Did you burn your draft card, Lucky?"

  "Only suckers burn their draft cards too," Bolan said genially. "There's better ways. Some guys I heard of even bought themselves a stand-in."

  DiGeorge's eyebrows elevated and his eyes locked with Marasco's. "Yeah, I guess I've heard of something like that myself," he said thoughtfully.

  "They're not getting no uniform on Franky Lambretta," Bolan said tightly. "Behind a uniform, behind bars, it's all the same. No, thanks." He waved his hand as though to dismiss the entire subject, saying, "Listen, Deej, I stumbled onto something today maybe you should know about. Especially since this big Mexican bust everybody's talking about."

  "Yeah?" DiGeorge was smiling archly at Marasco. His gaze flicked to Bolan. "Where you been all day, Lucky?"

  "That's what I'm talking about. Listen. I was up around Palm Village. Now I've heard the boys talking about this Screwy Looey Pena. Listen I think the guy is a bird in a gilded cage."

  Marasco's hand jerked toward his pocket and emerged with a pack of cigarettes. DiGeorge exhaled sharply and said, "What're you onto, Lucky?"

  "Just this. Screwy Looey has been cozying it up with the cops at Palm Village. All this time. And get this. There's no charges on him, nothin'. I make it that he asked to be held."

  Marasco's cigarette broke in half and fell to the carpet. He hastily retrieved it and tossed it into an ashtray. "Jesus!" he said.

  "What was I telling you, Phil," DiGeorge said softly. "Wasn't I telling you just a few hours ago that someone needs to talk to Screwy Lou?"

  "What made him fall apart?" Mamsco asked.

  "The question is, who puts him back together again?" DiGeorge said.

  "You want him put back together, Deej?" Bolan asked casually.

  DiGeorge glanced at Marasco and said, "That is exactly what I want, Franky Lucky."

  "I work better by myself," Bolan said.

  "I like the way you work, Lucky."

  Bolan got to his feet and carefully set the empty glass on a table. "Thanks," he said. "Also I see better in the early morning."

  "A man should pick his own time and place for his work," DiGeorge said.

  "I better get some sleep. I'm dead on my feet."

  "Yeah, you do that." DiGeorge stared somberly at Philip Marasco. "You keep on working like this, Lucky, you're gonna wind up with a sponsor. What do you think of that?"

  "I think that's great," replied Franky Lucky Bolan. He excused himself and went out.

  DiGeorge and Marasco sat in silence for several minutes. Finally Marasco said, "Well?"

  "It figures, that's clear enough," DiGeorge said. "He's the kind of guy would hire himself a stand-in."

  "He's the kind of guy who's going to be a Capo some day," Marasco observed. He smiled. "You better watch out, Deej."

  "That's part of the job, isn't it?" DiGeorge puffed. "I gotta leave an heir, don't I? Let's be realistic, Phil, this isn't saying anything against you, but who've I got to turn things over to now, huh? Who've I got?"

  "You sure don't have me, Deej," Marasco admitted.

  "Tell the boys to light a candle for Looey, eh?"

  "Sure, Deej."

  "I wonder," DiGeorge said thoughtfully, in a barely audible voice, "I just wonder . . . you think Frank Lucky's still big with Andrea?"

  Marasco grinned. "You thinking of more than one kind of sponsorship, Deej?"

  "Maybe. Yeah, maybe. Now wouldn't that be the all of it!"

&n
bsp; Chapter Seventeen

  Man on ice

  Tim Braddock leaned forward in his chair and said, "I just don't see how you could let yourself into a mess like this one, Genghis."

  Conn coolly replied, "I wasn't in a mess, Braddock, until you horned in. I had the man on ice, he wasn't bothering anybody, and he was beginning to come around. Now you've got him scared to death again, and he's insisting that I charge him or let him go." The lanky lawman spat wet tobacco leaves on the floor at his feet and added, "I don't see any warrant in your hand, Tim."

  "We're getting one," Braddock assured his host.

  "On what?" Conn asked disgustedly.

  "You name it, we've got it. Criminal conspiracy, for one. And then everything from intimidation to Murder One."

  "In what town were all these crimes perpetrated, Braddock?"

  The Captain from Los Angeles smiled serenely. "The conspiracy was originally hatched in Los Angeles and we can prove that. The execution of the crime, or crimes, covered a three-county area and possibly four. Sacramento is working with us on this one. We're going to bust the syndicate in this state, Genghis, with or without the help of hick . . . of small-town cops."

  "I was told that Hardcase was cancelled," Conn said quietly.

  "That's right. And now I'm on special to the Attorney General's office. We're starting here, Genghis, right here in your nice, balanced town. And you'd better get ready to explain why you've been harboring a known criminal in this balanced little town of yours."

  "Who says he's a known criminal?" Conn wanted to know.

  "Don't quibble with me over semantics."

  The Palm Village Chief pushed his hat back and scratched his forehead. "There's not one shred of anything to link Pena with the hell that hit this town, and you know it. Don't think for a minute that I wouldn't have him booked and walking toward the grand jury if there was. The fact is Braddock, I have a guest in my home who may or may not be a member of this syndicate you mentioned." Conn stood up suddenly and threw his hat to the floor. "Aw shit, enough of this pussyfooting, Braddock! Let's talk like men!"

  Braddock grinned and sailed his own hat across the room. "Let's do that," he replied.

  "This Pena character is scared clear out of his skin. He fumbled an assignment, and worse than that, he knows damn well he isn't ever going to have the stuff to get the measure of a man like Mack Bolan. He's scared, he's proud, he's getting old and knows it, and he don't want to go home in disgrace. Now that's the way it's laid out. I could like the guy. I could really like him, if I didn't know what he's been, and I say that even knowing what he is. Do you want to know the kind of a deal he came to me with? I'd help him get Bolan, he'd get the credit and see that I cashed in on the hundred grand bounty. Now that's what brought him to me in the first place."

  "And your reaction?"

  "Don't insult me, Braddock," Conn snorted. "You know how I feel about cops on the make. Twenty years ago I would have thrown him in a cell and clawed my way to an indictment. Just like you're wanting to do now. If there's one thing a man learns on this desert, though, it's patience. A month or a year makes damn little difference out here. I still haven't given Pena his answer. I've got him on the hook and I'm keeping him there. Meantime, he's on ice. Or he was, until you bulled in."

  "What kind of hook?" Braddock asked, exhibiting remarkable self-control.

  "We're bargaining. He knows I'm not too interested in the money. But he's got something else I'm willing to bargain for, and he knows it. Understand this, Braddock. Those boys busted my town, and I'm not standing for it. I want them, all of them, every damn one."

  "What sort of bargaining?" the Captain persisted.

  "It's been two weeks of Paris Peace Talks. I say something like, 'Well, let's see here now, Lou. I'll give you two of Bolan's fingers for three Mafia heads.' And he says, 'Well, you better let me think about that, Genghis.' He thinks about it for a day or so, then he comes back with a counter-offer. It's never enough, so I try to jack him up a little more."

  "Are you levelling with me, Genghis?"

  "Of course I'm levelling."

  "What makes Pena so sure you have anything at all to offer him?"

  Conn shrugged his shoulders. "I keep him pumped up. Look, Braddock, I told you the guy is scared to go home. Now the longer he stays away, the harder it gets to go back empty-handed. I told you I've got him hooked."

  Braddock stared dreamily out the window. "It's a fool's game, Genghis," he said softly. "Unless you've got some real bargaining power on your side."

  "Okay, so I've got that," Conn replied, his eyes dropping.

  "I guess you'd better tell me about it."

  "I guess you'd better go to hell."

  Braddock sighed. "For the next five minutes, we're off the record. After that . . . well, I just hope you've got clean skirts, Genghis. If you've got Bolan on ice somewhere, too, then . . . "

  "That sounds like a threat, Captain."

  "It is."

  Conn bent to the floor and retrieved his hat. He put it on and rocked back in the swivel chair, added a fresh wad of tobacco leaves to the cud in his mouth, and chewed furiously for a minute. Then he sighed and said, "I believe Bolan got his face lifted here at Palm Village."

  A muscle bunched in Braddock's jaw. He fixed Conn with a wide-eyed stare and said, "Where? By whom?"

  "Up at the New Horizons."

  "Is there a plastic surgeon there? Is that a . . . well, Goddammit, Genghis! New Horizons! Are you telling me that's a plastics clinic?"

  "Thought you knew," Conn said mildly concentrating on his chew.

  "Conn, I'm going to bust you for this!" Braddock spluttered.

  "My five minutes ain't up yet," Corm replied, eyes twinkling.

  "Five minutes!" Braddock yelled. "I could get you five years!"

  "Yeah, but you already gave me five minutes," Conn pointed out. He scratched at the fresh scar traversing his ribs, tilted his hat further down across his forehead, and said, "And now I'm giving you five seconds to get your fat ass outta my office. Beat it, Big City. Run and get your warrants."

  Resisting suggestions that he "mob up" at the DiGeorge villa, Mack Bolan had maintained his accommodations at the resort hotel in Palm Springs while enjoying a free and ostensibly unrestricted run of the estate. He knew, of course, that few of his movements within the villa went unwatched and he suspected the existence of hidden observation posts behind various walls and ceilings. He had even discovered "bugs" in his hotel room. He had nevertheless managed to gather considerable intelligence concerning the combine's operations, such as the information he had been passing to Carl Lyons of the Pointer Detail. Contacts with Andrea D'Agosta had been both rare and fleeting, and characterized by a marked hostility on the girl's part. Through idle conversation with the other "soldiers," Bolan had learned that the girl had been but 20 years of age when her husband of less than a year drowned in a boating accident near San Pedro two years prior to Bolan's entry into Andtea's life. She was, of course, tolerated and deferred to by the palace guard but — as far as Bolan could determine — not actually liked by many of the men in DiGeorge's command. She was "the Capo's kid" and as such could do no wrong. She was variously referred to as "the American beauty rose" — "Miss Hot-ass" — "Th' damn debbatant" — and "Deej's bitter harvest" — none of these, however, within earshot of DiGeorge or his daughter or any of the officers in the guard.

  Bolan had managed to identify himself with the common soldier, though most of them understood that he was "in probate" and undoubtedly destined for high rank in the organization. They talked freely in his presence and delighted in the gossipy tidbits which Bolan dropped in their midst from time to time. In less than a week of in-and-out presence at the villa, Bolan already could boast a considerable cadre who were ready to follow him up the trail of exaltation. "Franky Lucky's going to get a territory," was the consensus, and many bored (and relatively poor) palace guards were hopeful of being taken into his crew when the big day arrived. Bolan enco
uraged this type of thinking, through never overtly, and was quietly marking certain soldiers for his possible use in an emergency.

  As Bolan was departing the villa on the night of October 21st, he took the short cut across the patio to reach the parking area, resulting in one of his infrequent encounters with Andrea D'Agosta. She was seated beside the pool in a deck chair and wore a light wrap over her bathing costume, Bolan paused beside her chair and said quietly, "How's it been, Andrea?"

  "Oh it's just been a ball," she replied in a dull voice. Her eyes flashed up to his then and her face became animated. "Haven't you been told that the pool is out of bounds to you hoods?"

  "I guess I forgot," Bolan replied. He smiled. "No, that isn't true. I was hoping I might run into you."

  "You 'ran into' me once too often, Mr. Lambretta," she said coldly.

  "I'm sorry, Andrea," he told her, and moved on.

  "You'll be a lot sorrier when Victor Poppy gets back from Florida!" the girl hissed.

  It was more the tone of voice than her words that halted Bolan. He spun slowly on his heel and retraced his steps to stand in front of the deck chair. "What do you mean?" he asked in a subdued voice.

  Andrea's eyes darted about the patio. She lifted her arms to him and pursed her lips. Bolan bent to the embrace but she avoided his kiss, moving her mouth to his ear. "They think you might be a phoney," she whispered. "I'm betting you are. What is it . . . FBI or Treasury?"

  Bolan pulled her out of the chair and clasped her to him, burying his lips into the soft flesh below her ear. "What's this about Florida?" he murmured.

  "Phil Marasco sent a goon there to get a man out of jail. The man says he knew you, years ago, in New Jersey."

  Bolan kissed her full on the mouth. She gasped and curled her fingers into his hair. "Get me out of here, Franky," she moaned.

  "Don't worry, I will," he assured her. "Just play it cool. You understand?"

  She nodded and began silently crying. "It's awful to feel this way about your own poppa, but I hate him," she sobbed. "I just hate him!"

  "Save the hate for someone who deserves it," Bolan advised her.