Close, yeah. Too damned close for chuckles.
12
Valuables
Leo Turrin sent his tagman on with the rest of the crew to handle the formalities of registration while he stopped off at the message desk.
But there were no messages for "Joe Petrillo."
He proceeded on to a telephone booth at the far side of the lobby and made a coin call to his unlisted "cold drop" in Pittsfield, an automated answering system.
The connection was made and he fed in the verbal coder which would trigger the electronic brain to a release of messages stored since the last check-in.
There was but one, very brief — but the one which Turrin had been anxiously awaiting all day.
"This is Striker," announced a familiar voice. "Tap me at the floater, Seattle, two thousand and two hundred."
That was it, but it was plenty.
Turrin hung up and gazed at his watch. Twenty-two hundred meant ten o'clock. What the guy really meant, though, was ten minutes past that hour. He would answer no ring except at that precise moment.
"Floater" was, of course, the mobile number in the guy's vehicle.
You didn't simply pick up a phone and call Mack Bolan — not even if you happened to be the guy's only contact with the straight world. You called at ten past ten, if that's what the man wanted, then you called every hour after that until you connected.
It was now nine fifty, Seattle time.
Turrin went into the smoke shop and bought some cigars, then returned to the lobby in time to intercept the dumb but loyal tagman, Jocko Frensi.
"Go on up with the stuff," Turrin instructed him. "I'm going to hang around and make a few calls without switchboards. What's our room?"
"Ten hundred," Fresni reported with a woebegone frown. "Man says it's the best in the joint, but I dunno, it's only got one teevee. Uh, don't you think I better stay down here with you?"
"Naw, it's okay. Go on. You look beat. Boys on the same floor?"
"Yeh. We can open the doors and connect with them if we wanta. Pers'nally, boss, I don't wanta."
Fresni had once ridden some of the best mounts in thoroughbred racing circles. That was years ago. The little guy's last horse died under him, literally, and Jocko damn near died with him. He'd never been right in the head, since. Fast man with a blaster, though, and as loyal a bodyguard as would be found anywhere. And he really did look beat.
Turrin stepped over to his chief torpedo and told him, "See that Jocko goes right to bed. You guys leave 'im alone. Stay in your own damn rooms,"
"Yeh, sure," the guy growled back. "We're going to get some broads, anyway. What're you going to be doing?"
"Nosing around. Stay close to the rooms."
"You want a broad?"
Turrin seemed to be considering the idea before he replied, "Guess not. What do they call that — jet lag? Hell it's about one o'clock back home."
The head cock laughed and said, "You're getting old, Leo."
Turrin allowed that land of familiarity. Many bosses didn't. But Leo had a loyal crew. They knew what they could and couldn't — there was no need for squeezing their tails in the bargain.
He chuckled and tipped the bellman in advance then watched men and luggage into the elevator before turning away and looking for somewhere to kill another fifteen minutes.
His wandering took him outside to sample the air. The damn town was pregnant. It was about to give birth to something, that was sure. That atmosphere was loaded with something more than moisture.
He went back inside — located the bar, the coffee shop, barbers, main dining room — then found his way back to the pay telephones at precisely ten-oh-nine.
He dialed the mobile operator, gave her the number, and sat back with an eye to the sweep second hand of his watch.
Bingo — he got the connection at precisely ten-ten.
"Yeh, who'd you want?"
"Guy name Striker, also known as Tony." Which meant there was no gun at Leo Turrin's head.
"That was quick," Bolan's normal voice replied. "I just filed the request thirty minutes ago and hauled down for a long wait."
"Got it twenty minutes ago. I'm in town. What's on?"
"Damned if I know," the big one replied soberly. "I was hoping you could tell me."
"All I know is, for sure, about two hundred descending for head. You got a spare one?"
Bolan chuckled, but it was a dry sound — like steel on steel. "Not lately. Two hundred, eh? Heavy?"
"You'd better believe heavy. Best in the west. What the hell're you up to?"
"I think we'd better meet. I don't like these mobiles."
"Know what you mean. Okay. When and where?"
"How flexible are you?"
"Not very. I'm in party. But you name it, I'll be there. Somehow."
"Okay, let's give it a couple of hours. Make it three. Pick you up at the science fair building, by the fountains. Say one o'clock."
"Okay. Uh, Bigpush may want to come along. Okay?"
The Bolan voice flattened somewhat as he inquired, "He here, too?"
"Supposed to be. We haven't connected yet but probably will before one."
"What'd he bring?"
"Fifty. Maybe another fifty, shortly."
"Come to play, or to watch?"
"To play, I think. With a big worry."
"Okay. Bring him if it's his idea."
"Gotcha. Say, man. Stay hard."
"You too."
Turrin patted the telephone and hung it up, then crossed the lobby to the message desk for another check-in.
And, yeah — it was there that time, Brognola's side of the equation.
He strolled back to the phone booths, casually tossing a dime and reflecting on the crazy life he led.
At the edge of a knife, sure — balanced precariously between two worlds, and none whatever for himself.
So why'd he do it?
Why did singers sing and dancers dance? Leo Turrin was no philosopher. A guy simply did what he did best.
Bolan turned away from the mobile phone and lay a friendly gaze on his guest of necessity, Margaret Nyeburg. "Feeling better?" he asked, unnecessarily. It was quite obvious that she was.
The lady was perched atop his plotting table in the war room, fresh from a renewing if brief shower — legs crossed and feet drawn up under her, dwarfed and childlike in Bolan's dungaree jacket which was the only thing between them at the moment. Lovely, vulnerable, strongly appealing. Bolan found himself regretting even more strongly than ever his earlier involvement with the daughter. Some things just wouldn't work. A mother-daughter situation was one of those things.
A mug of scalding coffee was cooling precariously between her thighs. Bolan moved it, noting her silence, and said, "I guess you are. Feeling better. Eh?"
She sniffed and said, "I just hope I haven't caught a nasty cold. You're a strong young man, Mack. Thank you. That's silly, isn't it? How can I thank you?"
He'd caught that "young man" coder, and understood. She was telling him to keep away. He intended to.
He told her, "We're alive. That's thanks enough."
"For you, good. For me — well, it seems the least of consolations."
He growled, "Hey, hey."
"I can't help it. It's just all so miserable, so impossible."
He said, for about the tenth time, "Margaret —
Dianna did not know what she was getting you into. Believe that."
"I guess you're right," she said, sighing. "I have to believe it, don't I? Dy is all I have in the world."
His gaze shifted. "That's very sad."
"Is it? Why? Some people don't have that much."
"You're what? — thirty-eight? — forty?"
She wrinkled her nose and replied, "Squarely between those two. Diplomacy isn't one of your strong points, is it?"
"Not usually. At the age of thirty-nine, Margaret, all you have of value to your life is a daughter?"
She fidgeted under that penetratin
g scrutiny. "Well ... okay. I was being dramatic. No, dammit, I wasn't. What else do I have to brag about? Why not be honest with one's self? What do I have, Mack?"
He raised a hand and ticked off the points on his fingers as he called to her attention, "Frustration, self-pity, lack of direction, isolation, death instinct. That's five negatives." He raised the other hand. "Now you count me off five positives to balance that — and I'll tell you what you've got, lady."
"You're doing fine," she replied in a muffled voice, obviously offended by his tone. "Keep counting."
"Okay. You've got beauty, brains, heart, ethics, and a desire to be happy. I could probably count twenty more positives. You want to know what you've got? You've got the world by the very ass, lovely lady."
She flinched. "That's what I said, you're no diplomat."
"And you're no valid object of pity," he growled.
"What was it Dy called you? A tough guy? You are! Tough as an angry old bull, aren't you! And you expect everyone else to be just as tough!"
"That's right," he said softly. "I do. When it comes to standing up and proclaiming life, I sure do."
"You're preparing me for something," she decided, eyes flaring. "What is it?"
"Don't base it all on your daughter," he muttered. "That's all I'm getting at. Life goes on, Margaret. Base it on yourself, and what you can do with it."
Fear began at the eyes and radiated to the entire face. "What are you saying? Is Dianna ... ?"
He turned away from that naked terror. No, he was no damned diplomat — nor was he a dreamer. He'd been there, many times, at the finish of too many Diannas — and, sure, he knew the realities. And he'd decided long ago that there were those times when deception and half-truths in the name of mercy were more painful in the long run than squarely facing the truth.
He told Dianna's mother, "I couldn't get longshot odds from even a guy like Jimmy the Greek on that girl's chances, Margaret."
"But surely ..."
"Here's a surely," he said coldly. "She's playing with brutes, she'll be brutalized."
"John is not a brute! John is a ... !" Those eyes flared again, fizzled, fell, and she finished with a whispered, "Oh well."
"John, huh. Nice guy, huh. Okay, Margaret, you tell me all about nice guy John. This time you hold back nothing. Hear me? Nothing! This is no cute parlor game, dammit. Your daughter's life is hanging Over the edge. You saw how those guys operate! I've seen a lifetime of it! Now dammit, give me the key! Give it to me! Give me the damned key, Margaret!"
"You'd still help her? After all … ?"
"Oh for God's crying children! What the hell am I? We're talking about a kid! Your kid!"
"All right!" The lady was weeping. "I'll tell you. I'll give you your damned key!"
In the back of his brain, Bolan knew that an important domino had just toppled.
Up front, however, that was the least consideration.
More than dominoes, right now, he wanted Dianna Webb — alive and whole. Even if he had to drag her out of there screaming and kicking.
13
Hope
Seattle was a town that had seen its highs and lows — and was right now sitting somewhere in the middle, but with great hopes.
Beginning as a small lumber settlement in mid-nineteenth century and named after a local Indian chief, it received first substantial growth with the coming of the railroad in post-Civil War days then boomed into the turn of the century via the Alaskan gold rush, serving as chief port of supply and support during those fevered times, establishing itself as a major seaport for all times.
Growth had been mostly upward throughout the twentieth century, except for a few bad moments from time to time. Principal city of the Pacific Northwest, she'd surged mightily during W.W. II as a major shipping and shipbuilding center, then gone into the expansive semi-peacetime era as the seat of a growing military-industrial complex — with emphasis on aerospace and related technological sophistries.
Recent problems in the American aerospace industry had been particularly hard felt in Seattle — where a single large company had employed more than 100,000 skilled and professional workers only to drop its payroll to a lean force of 30,000 during a slump that still was evident. Dependent segments of the local economy were as badly hit, and the entire area was impacted by this mini-depression.
It was a town with guts, though, and a brave past. There were few outward signs of a city in trouble. She wore a happy face even if the guts were strained a bit — and Bolan liked the town. The beauty of the natural setting was unequalled anywhere. Built on seven hills and containing within her own boundaries four lakes and forty-five parks, majestically flanked by the Cascades east and the Olympics west — this beautiful city on Puget Sound held something worthwhile for any taste and every pursuit.
And that, at the moment, was what worried Mack Bolan.
In times of strain, overanxious city fathers would be more inclined to support rather than spurn new hope in the economic sector. They would, perhaps, rush to embrace without first closely scrutinizing.
And, yes, based on the meager revelations of Margaret Nyeburg alone, this appeared to be precisely the case at hand.
John Franciscus was a man with "an open past" but a peculiarly clouded present. If Nyeburg had been the face of the mob encroachment here, then Franciscus was most probably the muscle.
And that was a bit difficult to square with the known record. The guy was about Bolan's age. Like Bolan, he'd spent most of his adult life in the military — but with a difference. Franciscus was a West Pointer. He'd been a combat soldier, not a politician. Yet he seemed to have many political and social contacts, plenty of money, seemingly unlimited resources. He did not work, had not been born wealthy, and was not visibly attached to any business or financial concerns.
Margaret referred to him as "that playboy."
Allan, though, had been "frightened" by him, Dianna "clearly imbalanced" by him, and certain civic officials seemingly over-responsive to his "promotions."
Why that last? What was the guy offering Seattle that she did not already possess? Margaret could not answer that. Bolan thought that perhaps he could — with just a few more pieces of the puzzle in place.
The mission of the moment, however, was not to drain Johnny Franciscus but to spring Dianna Webb. Bolan had not been playing games with Margaret Nyeburg. He felt most overpoweringly that the lady's daughter was another moth with fragile wings fluttering too close to the consuming flame.
Bolan knew his enemy.
He knew their values, the things they revered, the prices they were willing to pay for success. And they would pay any life but their own.
If not already too late, he meant to see that Dianna Webb did not become part of that price.
Bolan checked the lady into a Holiday Inn under an assumed name, paid for the room cash in advance, and spirited her into the room wrapped in a blanket — with promises that she would remain until contacted and "play no more games."
Then he went to work on the warwagon, changing a few color panels to present a new "design" — replacing the license plates — rearranging various exterior dummy appurtenances.
The hour was nearing eleven when he wheeled the sleek "new" motor home to an address in Seattle's east-central sector. It was a high-rise complex in a parklike setting overlooking Lake Washington — an elite neighborhood for fashionable cavedwellers — security conscious, with electronic door interlocks at each building entrance, uniformed patrols on the grounds between the buildings and in the parking areas.
One building in particular did not seem overly confident of the normal security precautions. It was the address in Bolan's warbook. A car was parked at the yellow zone curbing just down from the lobby entrance, two guys in the front seat. Four more guys in well-fitted suits stood in a clutch at the entrance, chatting.
Not the usual mob guys, no. Soldiers nonetheless. Each of those four would have looked more natural in shiny combat boots and the spiffy t
rappings of the Military Police. That was Bolan's gut reading, at any rate.
He donned the yellow nightshades, pulled on to the curb directly opposite the entrance, and opened his window.
It was as good a time as any to probe the depths of Dianna Webb's defection.
Four pairs of eyes took that vehicle instantly apart, but none of the troops moved another muscle.
Bolan called over, "Pardon me. Which building is forty-two?"
One of the guys peeled away from the pack to take a couple of paces toward the curb. "This is forty," he replied in a not unfriendly tone. "Go back around the circle and take the first right. That should put you into forty-two."
Bolan said, "Thanks," as another of the four moved forward and squatted to peer at his undersides.
"That's quite an RV," the new one commented, coming out of the squat to flash a grin at the man at the wheel. "How's she do in the mountains?"
"I'll find out tomorrow," Bolan replied, grinning back. "Taking her up Olympus."
"I'd be interested in how she does," the guy shot back. "You live around here?"
"Not yet. Buddy of mine lives over in forty-two. We're spending the night here, taking off early tomorrow morning."
"What's his name?"
"Thompson. Know 'im?"
"Wish I did, no."
"Come in and take a look around if you'd like," Bolan grandly offered.
Genuine regret registered there as the guy flashed a sheepish glance toward his companions. "Some other time, I'd love to. How much it set you back?"
"God I hate to look at the papers and see," Bolan said, grinning. "It started out at thirty, basic. I just closed my eyes and signed my name. I'll look at the final price after I see how she does."
The guy laughed and stepped back. "I'll look you up when you get back."
"Do that," Bolan said, and moved on away from there.
No — not standard mob guys. These "boys" were all business — in a polished military manner. A high percentage of that friendly banter had been business-oriented. The guy dug the rig, sure — but he'd been primarily interested in establishing the status of it. Apparently Bolan had passed the inspection. Just as apparently, Dianna had betrayed his confidence.
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