“You want me to stay, Lieutenant?” the policeman asked.
Weatherbee shook his head in a terse negative and rose with hand outstretched toward the tall man in the U.S. Army uniform. “I’m Lieutenant Weatherbee,” he said. “Sit down, Sergeant Bolan.”
The tall man shook hands, then dropped into a plain wooden chair that was placed against the side of the desk, and leaned forward tensely with hands clasped atop his legs, peering intently into the detective’s eyes. Weatherbee waited for the door to close, then he smiled engagingly and said, “That’s an interesting collection of fruit salad.” He leaned forward to study the military decoration on the soldier’s breast. “I recognize the Purple Heart and the marksman’s medal—and, yeah, the Bronze Star—the rest of ’em are out of my era, I guess. How many weapons have you qualified as expert on?”
Bolan met the suddenly penetrating gaze. “Just about all the personal weapons,” he replied.
“Are you expert enough to get off five shots in less than five seconds, with a perfect score at better than a hundred yards?”
“Depends on the weapon,” Bolan said easily. “I’ve done it.”
“With a lever-action piece?”
“We don’t use lever-actions in the Army,” Bolan replied soberly.
“Uh-huh.” Weatherbee took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled noisily. “I’ve had a couple of Telex conversations with a friend of mine in Saigon. You know a Major Harrington?”
Bolan shook his head negative.
“Military Police in Saigon. Knew each other back when. Told me something interesting about you, Sergeant.” The detective’s face hardened somewhat. He dropped the cigarette into an ashtray and raised probing eyes to the soldier’s face. “Said they have a nickname for you back there, in your old outfit. Said they call you ‘The Executioner.’ Why would they call you something like that, Sergeant?”
Bolan shifted his weight in the chair and let his eyes wander about the police officer’s face for a brief moment. Then, “If you’re playing games with me, sir, shouldn’t I at least be told the name of the game?”
“The name of the game is homicide,” Weatherbee snapped.
“Every man I killed in Vietnam was in the line of duty,” Bolan replied lightly.
“This isn’t Vietnam!” Weatherbee said. “And a sniper cannot walk the streets of this city deciding who should live and who should not!”
Bolan shrugged. “If you’re trying to connect me with that shooting the other night—just because I’m an expert marksman …”
“Not just because!” the policeman retorted. “Now look, Bolan—you were in here the other day raising hell with Captain Howard over this Triangle outfit, claiming they were responsible for your old man going berserk! You—”
“Aren’t you the one who headed up that investigation?” Bolan broke in. “I mean, the deaths of my family?”
Weatherbee opened his mouth, then closed it and gave his head a curt affirmative nod.
“Then you saw,” the soldier said simply. “And you know why it happened. And nobody made a move against the leeches. Until last night. Somebody finally made a move. So who’s to complain? The papers call it a gangland tiff. Who cares who did it, so long as it got done?”
Weatherbee glared at him through a long silence. Then he crushed out his cigarette, lit another, sighed, and said softly, “I care, Bolan. Justice isn’t perfect in this country, but by God it’s the best justice under the law that can be found anywhere. We can’t have self-appointed judges and juries walking the streets with guns in their hands. Hell, man, this isn’t Vietnam!”
“If I am being accused of a crime, isn’t there a formality to be observed?” Bolan said, his features rigid in a set smile.
“You aren’t being charged,” the lieutenant replied. “Not yet. But I know exactly what happened, Bolan. You understand that. I know. I know that some one broke into The Hunt Shop on August 18th, took a shiny new .444 calibre Marlin lever-action rifle and a powerful scope. I know that he took the rifle out to the old quarry to sight it in. We know that somebody was out there for two hours on the morning of August 19th, firing methodically in bursts of five along three precise ranges—one of a hundred yards, another a hundred and ten, and one a hundred and twenty yards. The caretaker didn’t think much about it until he saw the papers yesterday morning, and I won’t insult your intelligence by trying to make you think he got close enough to identify anybody. Just so you’ll know I’m not playing games with you, Sarge.
“Then two days ago our marksman went up to the fourth floor of the Delsey Building. He sat in an open window of an empty office. He smoked four Pall Malls—your brand, I see—and he used a Coke bottle for an ash tray. At almost exactly six o’clock he levered five soft-nosed slugs into the street below, with the punch of a bear-gun, and the Triangle Industrial Finance Company suddenly went temporarily out of business.… And vengeance is mine, saith The Executioner.”
The lanky sergeant shifted his weight, causing the chair to creak beneath him. “If you know so much,” he said softly, “why aren’t you charging me?”
“Would you like to make a statement?”
“Not unless I’m under arrest.”
“You know you’re not under arrest.”
“Then I have no statement,” Bolan said, smiling tightly.
“What sort of screwy ideas you got in that noodle of yours, Sarge?”
Bolan held his hands up, palms out. “No screws whatsoever,” he replied.
“When are you due back in Vietnam?”
“I’m not due back.” Bolan grinned engagingly. “New orders came yesterday. Humanitarian reassignment.”
“Reassignment where?” Weatherbee asked quickly.
“To the ROTC Unit at Franklin High, right here in Pittsfield.”
“Aw shit!” the policeman exploded.
“Because of the kid brother,” Bolan added meekly. “I’m his only kin.”
Weatherbee charged to his feet and paced the floor between the desk and the door, working furiously at a sudden charge of static energy. “Well, this just complicates the hell out of things,” he said presently. “I thought you’d be tucked securely away in those jungles and out of my hair.” He stabbed a finger to punctuate each word as he added, “The front lines of Vietnam would be the most humanitarian assignment you could get!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bolan said uneasily.
“Sure you do, you know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the Mafia, an organization that can’t afford to forgive and forget. I’m talking about a guy known as ‘The Executioner,’ who may or may not have executed five of their number—and those guys don’t give anybody the benefit of any doubts the way the law does. I’m talking about the streets of my city becoming a shooting gallery, and of my inability to do anything but sit on the sidelines and watch like a spectator because I don’t have any physical evidence to take into a court of law.
“I’m levelling with you, Sarge. Understand this! You’re up the creek whether you’re guilty or not! You look guilty as sin—maybe not guilty enough for a court of law, but guilty sure as hell enough for the law of the Mafia! They may not get to you today, or even tomorrow, but believe me they will get to you. And I’m sidelined. Understand? I can’t do a thing to help you—even saying I wanted to. So what becomes of the kid brother now, eh? What becomes of the kid brother with your blood filling my gutters, Bolan?”
“What would be your suggestion?” Bolan asked, eyeing the other sharply.
“Give me a statement. A confession. It’s the only way you can get the protection of the law.”
Bolan laughed tartly. “Some protection. All the way to the electric chair, eh? And then what becomes of the kid brother, eh, Weatherbee?”
“I don’t think it’d be that rough. There are circumstances.”
“Sure. Sure, there are.” Bolan got to his feet. “You’re playing games with me, Lieutenant. If I’m free to go …”
<
br /> “Look, soldier, I don’t have a case on you,” the policeman fumed. “Am I being honest? How much more honest can a cop get? I can’t take a war hero into court on nothing more than a hunch and a couple of suspicions. I don’t have enough evidence to get an indictment. But I can’t forget that a guy like you is prowling my streets, ‘The Executioner’ for Christ’s sake, with a hard-on for the mob. And don’t think for one small second that they can forget it, either.”
“Well—thanks for the honesty,” Bolan said. He smiled. “See you around.” He opened the door and walked out, nodded his head at the uniformed officer, and made for the open doorway at the other end of the large room. Pausing as he rounded the corner, he tossed a glance over his shoulder. The big plainclothesman was leaning against his doorjamb, hands thrust deeply into pockets, gazing disconsolately after him. A sudden chill shot down Bolan’s spine, and he knew a moment of self-doubt.
Was he overestimating his own capabilities? Could he really expect to wage any sort of an effective one-man war on an organization that even the collective talents and technologies of the world’s police were helpless against? Bolan shrugged and went on down the stairs. There was no turning back. The war was already on. And The Executioner had an afternoon appointment with some of the inner circle. The law had made its point. But The Executioner wasn’t buying it.
4 — An Equal Opportunity
It could have been any gathering of successful businessmen, relaxing in a country club atmosphere. The florid face of Nat Plasky was just a shade lighter than the crimson slash of swim trunks that separated his hairy mass into seemingly equal parts. He leaned against a poolside cabana, a sweating glass of iced liquid held carelessly and seemingly forgotten in a massive paw, engaged in quiet conversation with an eye-jerking blonde young woman in an almost nonexistent bikini. Several other dazzling Miss Universe types, displaying various ideas of the nude swimwear look behind fishnet, nudie panels, and enchantingly strategic placements of mini-materials, sprawled here and there beside the pool. Nobody appeared to be wet, nor inclined to get that way.
A suave man of about fifty, carefully attired in white duck trousers, canvas sneakers, and a polo shirt sat at an umbrella table with a younger man who wore slacks, a turtle-neck shirt, and a light sports jacket. Several other men wandered about aimlessly, almost blending into the background of sunning platforms, plastic flotation devices, and colorful cabanas—bodyguards, was Bolan’s quick impression. And they were watching him. Some unspoken signal or herd instinct prompted all eyes present to swing toward Bolan as he approached the pool. Plasky waved his glass in Bolan’s direction, said something to the blonde, and hurried forward to greet the new arrival.
“We been invaded by the U.S. Army,” one girl murmured lazily, eyeing the tall soldier with interest.
“Shut up, stupid,” Plasky grunted as he brushed past her. He went to Bolan with hand outstretched, then led the soldier like a long-lost friend to the table where the two other men sat. “Walt Seymour, this is Sergeant Mack Bolan,” he intoned formally, presenting Bolan to the older man first. The obvious protocol was not lost on Bolan. He smiled and extended his hand, aware that he had progressed at least one step above Plasky, and also aware that he was receiving a firm but uninvolved grip of social courtesy only. The younger man seized Bolan’s hand as soon as it was free and wrung it enthusiastically. It was the sort of handshake Bolan could understand, and he swept the man with a warm gaze.
“I’m Leo Tirrin,” the warm one said, smiling. “Hear you’re just back from ’Nam. Welcome home. What outfit you with over there?”
“Ninth Infantry,” Bolan replied, hoping he hadn’t reacted to the other’s name. He’d recognized the comradely tone of another returned veteran, and the face meant nothing in his memory, but Johnny Bolan’s words, this guy she called Leo, were dizzying his inner ear.
“I was in the Green Berets,” Turrin was saying chattily. “I was a sergeant, too. Specialist-fifth, anyway.”
Bolan recognized also the value of the common-interest tie with this obviously “in” member of the circle. He grinned and tried a long shot. “I always heard the most valuable specialists in the Berets were the female-procurers,” he said.
The remark scored right on target. Turrin did a double-take toward the suavely poised Seymour, then exploded in a fit of laughter, digging an elbow toward Bolan. “Well, I’ll tell you-” he cried, then abruptly quietened upon receipt of a coldly disapproving glare from Seymour. The ex-GI winked at Bolan and dropped back into his chair.
One of the near-nudies appeared at that moment and thrust a frosted glass into Bolan’s hand. He thanked her and sat down at Plasky’s invitation, directly across from Seymour. “Beautiful girl,” Bolan murmured appreciatively.
“Aren’t they all,” Plasky said boredly. “You like her, she’s yours. After we’ve finished our business.” He glanced at the swaying tail section of the girl as she retreated toward the cabanas, as though wondering if he’d missed something.
Bolan noticed that the bodyguards had settled down, apparently on some prearranged station. “Then let’s get on with the business,” he said, grinning.
Plasky cleared his throat and dropped his eyes toward his own drink. “Seymour and Turrin and I were business associates of Joseph Laurenti. One of the men who were murdered. And of course we knew all five—almost like family, you might say. We are very much interested in—helping the police bring the killer to justice. Have you talked to the police yet, Sergeant Bolan?”
Bolan was expecting the question, especially in view of the fact that he had been picked up that morning almost in the shadow of Plasky’s office, and he was prepared for it. “Yes, they pulled me in this morning,” he replied. “Right after I left your office.”
“You went to them voluntarily,” Seymour declared quietly.
Bolan grinned. “Not hardly.”
“Why not?” Seymour wanted to know.
“Like I told Mr. Plasky, I didn’t want to get tied up in something that would spoil my last few days at home.” He broadened the smile. “As it turns out, I’m not going back to ’Nam after all. I’ve been reassigned. I’ll be staying right here in Pittsfield for a while.”
“Why?” Seymour persisted.
“My kid brother. He’s only fourteen. I’m his sole surviving relative.”
“That was very good of the Army,” Plasky put in.
Seymour ignored the goodness of the Army. “So you decided to cooperate fully with the police,” he commented. “After you left Mr. Plasky this morning and received word of your good fortune, you immediately contacted the police like any upstanding citizen would wish to do.”
Bolan was still grinning. “You don’t listen very well, do you. I told you I was pulled in. When I left Plasky this morning, a squad car was pulled up behind my U-Drive. A homicide detective wanted to talk to me.”
“Why?” Seymour was beginning to sound hung-up on the word.
“One of those odd coincidences,” Bolan replied, sobering. “The same cop who investigated my father’s death is working this Triangle thing. He—”
“Your father was murdered also?” Seymour asked quickly.
“Suicide,” Bolan said. “Nervous breakdown or something, I don’t know. He was despondent and he was sick and he was deeply in debt. This homicide cop remembered that one of the debts was with Triangle. He was just wondering if there could be a connection, if maybe I might be the guy with the quick gun. He called me in to talk about it.” Bolan realized he was skating close to a precipice, and hoped he wasn’t overdoing the open-face routine. He smiled. “Hell, I don’t settle money debts with a gun.” He nodded toward Plasky. “You can vouch for that. Anyway, I satisfied the cop’s curiosity. He thanked me for coming in, and that was that.”
“You’re leaving something out,” Seymour said lazily.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Sam Bolan gunned down his wife and daughter, too.”
“Hey, take it easy, Walt,” Turr
in said softly.
“It’s all right,” Bolan snapped, his eyes steady on Seymour. “I don’t hold it against my pop for doing what he did. Look—I cut out as soon as I was old enough. The less said about the women in my family the better. Okay?”
Seymour and Turrin exchanged glances. They know, Bolan decided.
“Sure, I understand, Sarge,” Seymour replied quickly. “Don’t mind me, I’m just trying to get your size. Okay?”
“Okay. You got it?”
“I think so. Why don’t you tell us your eyewitness version of this killing now, eh?”
Bolan glared at him. “Why should I do you any favors, eh?”
“Well—after all …” Perplexed, Seymour massaged his nose, then chuckled. “You’re the one brought the whole thing up,” he said. “And you did come all the way out here to my home to talk about it. Didn’t you?”
“No.”
“No?” Seymour’s eyebrows rose and his eyes angled toward Plasky.
Bolan calmly lit a cigarette, blew the smoke straight up, and said, “The cops changed all that.”
“I see,” Seymour said. But it was obvious that he did not see.
“I did see something. I was down there when the shooting occurred. I saw this guy come running out of the Delsey Building. We nearly collided.”
“So?” Plasky asked ominously.
“So I could never go on record with a story like that. It places me at the scene, and with Weatherbee wondering about me I can’t afford to be placed at the scene.”
“Who is Weatherbee?” Seymour wanted to know.
“A homicide detective.”
Seymour sighed and grinned at Plasky. “We don’t want you to go on record, Sergeant. We wouldn’t place your information in the hands of the police.”
“I know that.”
“You do?”
Bolan nodded. “But it doesn’t change anything. Look, my original idea was to sell you people the information. That’s all changed now. The cops told me who you are, see. And that changed everything.”
Seymour flashed a glance toward Plasky. “And just who are we?”
War Against the Mafia Page 3