Monday’s Mob

by Don Pendleton

  West of the interstate route was entirely rural, with some rather dramatic terrain variations. No prairie that way. About fifteen miles to the west lay the village of Nashville and a large state park, in an area called “the little Smokies.” Interesting names on the map that way: Gnaw Bone, Stone Head, Bean Blossom, Stoney Lonesome. It sounded like frontier country.

  Bolan was playing a little mind game with himself when April Rose returned from her mission. He had adjusted the area display to the region west of Columbus, focusing on the route to Gnaw Bone.

  The girl moved in beside him and said, “Okay, Striker, I found the phone.”

  He immediately fired the engine and eased out of the parking lot, heading back along the reverse course. “I heard your words,” he told her, “but your face is saying something different.”

  “Well I nearly blew it. Have you heard of ACF?”

  He shook his head. “What is that—a company?”

  “No, it’s a new Bell System service. It means Automatic Call Forwarding. Anyone can have it for a few bucks a month. If you subscribe to that service, you can program automatic call forwarding from your own telephone. I mean, you program it yourself. You don’t tell anyone but your own telephone. It does the rest, via computerized switching circuits at the phone company. Any incoming calls will be automatically diverted to any telephone in the country that you may choose. The calling party would never have to know that the call had been diverted. If it’s a local diversion, the monthly service fee takes care of it. If long distance, the call is metered to your base phone and charged like any toll call.”

  “What are you telling me, April?”

  “I’m telling you that the Columbus number is a dummy, a robot number. I don’t believe we’ll find your friend Tuscanotte in Columbus.”

  “Me either,” Bolan said quietly.

  “The dummy is in a crummy little two by four office above a downtown store front. The subscriber is listed—what’d you say?”

  “I said, me either.”

  She had just become aware of their position in the traffic flow. They were crossing the river again, headed back toward the interstate route. “What are you doing?” she asked, very quietly.

  “Listening to your report,” he assured her. “Keep on.”

  “But you’re already—I haven’t told you—you already knew!”

  He shook his head. “Educated guess only. I do need your report, Tinkerbell.”

  “Dammit I wish you wouldn’t call me that!” she flared.

  He said, very softly, “Okay. No disrespect intended—believe it. I’m very impressed with what you’re saying. Can I hear the rest of it?”

  She snatched a cigarette from the console and lit it. Not until they’d reached the Holiday Inn, at the I-65 ramp, did she speak. “Go straight ahead,” she instructed. “Stay on state route 46.”

  Instead, he pulled into the motel and drove to the back lot where he unhitched the Ford and parked it.

  The girl was giving him a speculative gaze as he returned to the con and again headed out on 46 west.

  “Had me scared for a minute, there, boss,” she said quietly.

  He very soberly told her, “Perish the thought. There’s nothing indirect about me, April. You’ll always know precisely what I want from you.”

  “Fair enough,” she replied, matching his sobriety.

  They passed under the interstate route and picked up speed.

  The girl said, “I’m sorry. Where was I?”

  He told her, “You were in a crummy little office with a dummy telephone.”

  “Right. It’s listed as R.B. Smith Company. That’s all, no amplifying remarks. The bills are paid by postal money order, under the same name. I got the rest by blind luck. The girl in the telephone office knows the man who owns the building where R.B. Smith is located. Thank God for small towns. She said that the R.B. Smith Company is quite a mystery. The office was rented several months ago, the lease paid for six months in advance, the telephone installed—and since then no one has seen hide nor hair of R.B. Smith. Then I happened to notice the little billing code and saw that R.B. Smith was paying for ACF services. And here’s the part that hurts. I’d never heard of ACF. Had you?”

  Bolan said, “It’s a quick world, April.”

  “You bet it is. Well, then—look—I had to lean on my badge.”

  “Small towns work in both directions,” he quietly told her.

  “I know that. But I had to get into that computer and find the program. They were very helpful. Don’t worry. I covered it with a good story. And I got what we need. Or I guess you need it. Do you?”

  “I’m working straight from the gut. Sure I need it.”

  “Okay.” She made a teasing face. “But first I want to know how your gut sent you in this direction.”

  He shrugged. “I really couldn’t tell you that. I was looking at the sector display. My gut lurched west. Then you came back with your eyes rolling westward.”

  “Aw. They were not.”

  He chuckled. “They sure weren’t saying Columbus.”

  She said, “You’re scary—know that? Okay, slow down. I believe we turn left at this next—yes, that’s the road. Go south.”

  Bolan turned the warwagon south. Soon thereafter they were rolling past a rather immodest stone structure set high on a hill overlooking the surrounding countryside. A gravelled drive peeled away from the blacktop road at a very small angle, then climbed the hill in a series of switchbacks.

  Said the lady, “I’ll bet that’s the place. How does the old gut feel about it?”

  He asked, “Is this as far as the head can move us?”

  She replied, “I’m afraid so. We’re certainly in the general area. But I’d have to get out and read some line codes to—”

  “Never mind.” Bolan halted the vehicle and backed along the road. “We’ll just drive up and ask them.”

  “Are you serious?”

  He was. He angled onto the gravel drive and climbed the hill to the house. Almost to the house. The hilltop was larger and flatter than it had appeared from the roadway. Several smaller buildings could now be seen clustered about the main structure. The whole thing was densely wooded but there were no walls or fences in evidence. Only a chain, supported by waist-high metal gateposts, blocked vehicular entrance to the compound. “No Trespassing” signs were posted and a small turnaround had been provided.

  Bolan pulled into the turnaround as he asked the lady, “What name is R.B. Smith using here?”

  “Roger G. Tucker. That’s pretty close to—uh oh!”

  A guy wearing a bright orange hunting vest and toting a double-barreled shotgun had suddenly appeared at the chain barrier. Bolan donned dark glasses, growled, “Stay put,” to the girl, and made a quick exit.

  He called an amiable greeting to the guy at the chain and strolled over for a parley.

  “Who’d you want?” the sentry inquired, not at all amiable.

  “I’m looking for Gene Harney,” Bolan lied.

  “Wrong place,” the guy growled.

  “Do you know Gene? He lives somewhere in this—”

  “Never heard of him. You’re trespassing. Get lost.”

  Bolan said, “Hey—I asked a civil question.”

  “You got a civil answer, bub.” The shotgun came up. “Beat it.”

  Bolan quietly retreated to the motorhome. He told the girl, “Bingo,” and put that place behind them.

  “Tucker is Tuscanotte?” she asked nervously.

  “I couldn’t swear to it,” Bolan replied. “But I was just jawing with Skids Mangone. And he’s a long way from home.”

  “Who is Mangone?”

  “Used to break legs in Chicago for Joliet Jake Vecci.”

  “Well who is Vecci?”

  “Vecci is no more,” Bolan explained. “But he was the Lord of the Loop for many years—in Chicago, you know. And he was an uncle by marriage to Carmine Tuseanotte.”

  “I’d call that prett
y conclusive,” she said.

  “So would I,” Bolan agreed.

  The lady’s eyes were fairly dancing. “So what do we do now?”

  Bolan had no need to ask himself that question.

  Indeed, there was no question.

  He knew precisely what had to be done.

  CHAPTER 4

  WISE GUY

  Harry Venturi had come by his “Apeman” tag honestly. He had the torso, arms and shoulders of a six-footer but from the hips down the guy was strictly five-foot material. In the trade-off between the two halves, the whole man emerged as a rather curiously constructed five-and-a-half footer who appeared to be all torso and arms. There was no deformation but only a quite noticeable mismatch between the two halves.

  He had not been kidded about that since early in his youth. And nobody breathed Ape-man within his earshot—though, of course, he knew how the Mob had tagged him. It was okay with Venturi, so long as nobody said it to his face.

  He and Skids Mangone had come the long way together, moving progressively through a succession of connections from the juvenile street gangs to within the very shadow of the underworld throne of power. They’d made the whole trip on simple savagery. Neither had ever worked a legitimate job. Mangone was technically illiterate but had found his rightful place in an environment where brutality bred respect. Venturi had a bit more cunning and could read with understanding the editorial page of the Chicago Tribune; also, he seemed to have a natural ability to pick winners and to alter connections at advantageous moments. And, yes, the two had come the long way together. But … to where? To this joint in the sticks? Was this success?

  Things would never again be the same in Chicago. He knew that. This was a sort of exile—a self-imposed exile, on the part of his current boss. And Venturi felt that it was no answer to the problems at home. Problems had a way of following a guy. They’d followed Carmine all the way to Kentucky, hadn’t they? And maybe that was just a beginning.

  He was staring at the telephone and wondering why no further word had come from Ben David when Mangone—officially the yard boss at this encampment—came through the kitchen door and went straight to the coffee pot.

  “What was it?” Venturi grunted.

  “The same,” replied his old sidekick.

  “Another camper, eh?”

  “Yeah. Had a smart mouth, too. Wise bastard. We ought to start shooting these smartasses. Belt ’em around some, anyway. Then they’d think twice about tramping around on other people’s turf.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Huh?”

  “The camper.”

  Mangone carried his coffee to the table and sat down as he replied, “Like all the rest. ’Cept his RV was a bit snazzier. I shoulda shot the son of a bitch and kept that RV. Think I’ll get me one of those, Harry. You ever been inside one of those? Hell, they got everything in there. They got—”

  “How many boys you got out?”

  “Huh?”

  “Who’s on watch?”

  “Buck Jones and Hopalong Cassidy.”

  Venturi was feeling very edgy. “Them two. I thought you told me you was going to split those boys up.”

  “Aw, they’re okay, Harry. Like you’n me in the old days. Full of piss and vinegar.”

  Venturi did not reply to that.

  “You know they got toilets and everything in those—even a shower? They even got—”

  “I think we better double up.”

  “Huh?”

  “You better put all the boys out. Make sure their radios work. We get any more campers, I want to see them before they’re let go.”

  Mangone was unhappy with that decision. “Hell, Harry, just because we got hit in Kentucky don’t mean—that’s a long ways off. It don’t mean—”

  “Don’t tell me what it don’t mean,” Venturi said harshly. “We take no chances till we find out what it does mean. Get it hard. Right now.”

  He disliked using that tone of voice on his old buddy from the southside. But it had the desired effect. It started the adrenalin flowing through the big dummy.

  Mangone’s eyes narrowed to mere slits as he muttered, “Right—I gotcha, Harry.” He finished his coffee with a quick gulp, snatched up his shotgun, and went back outside.

  Venturi carried his coffee to the kitchen window and watched as his yard boss moved purposefully toward the cabins at the rear. Some yard boss. Skids Mangone and his fearless crew of four piss-and-vinegar cowboys. They’d asked for horses for their patrols. Shit! Not a one of ’em had ever sat on a horse in his whole life. Who’d feed the damn things, and water them, and clean up their damn mess? Those cowboys?

  He shook his head over the thought of it. Yeah. Things had been going to hell for a long time. It wasn’t like the old days. Fuckin’ goddam Bolan. Things had never been right since … well … it wasn’t all Bolan. The Outfit itself was going soft. Those kids back there would grumble and bellyache like hell about being rousted this soon after their nightwatch. So let ’em bellyache. It was about time they learned what life is like when you hire your guns to the highest bidder. They’d had it too damned easy for too damned long. A little extra watch wouldn’t hurt ’em none. And Harry Venturi would kick some asses if they—

  Something was wrong!

  A few harsh words had not moved Mangone’s adrenalin that much. The big dummy came stumbling around the end cabin with his shotgun at the shoulder and whirling.

  Venturi instinctively ducked as the double-barrels swung across his line of vision. Hell, that guy could send a load of shot any damned place he wanted it to go. But there was no report. Skids wasn’t shooting—he was …

  Venturi made a break for the outside door and edged cautiously through it, his pistol at the ready. “What is it?” he called to the disturbed yard boss.

  Mangone had taken shelter in a clump of trees new the corner of the house. “I don’t know,” he called back. “Stay indoors, Harry.”

  “What is it, dammit!”

  “It’s Arnold and Piccolo. Dead in their beds. Throats cut.”

  Venturi snarled, “Get in here, Skids! Come on! I’ll cover you!”

  The yard boss tucked it in and made a run for it. But there was no challenge to that run. Venturi shoved his friend inside and quickly followed, going immediately to a two-way radio, which sat on the kitchen drainboard. “Hoppy—Buck!” he yelled into the microphone. “Check in, dammit!”

  Mangone had gone on through and was standing at the living room windows. “Nothing moving out here, Harry,” he reported.

  “Hoppy! Buck!”

  He tried again and turned the receiver squelch control all the way to zero, but there was no response to the radio summons.

  “Well shit!” Venturi yelled. He spun to the doorway and called to his old partner who’d come all the way with him, “I get nothing from outside! What’ve you got?”

  “I got nothing, Harry,” was the worried response. “What do you think it is?”

  “The cowboys,” Venturi replied with a sigh. “I never felt right about those boys. They cut Arnold and Piccolo and split.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? Somebody has set us up, Skids. Hell, you should recognize it.”

  “You think it’s tied to Kentucky?”

  “I know it is. They’re after Carmine. And they screwed it up. They think he’s here. They’ll be coming in. It’s time we did some thinking, you’n me.”

  “What’re we thinking about, Harry?”

  “Connections. This one suddenly stinks. We need to think about it.”

  “Whatever you say is okay with me,” was the taut reply from the front windows.

  Venturi went in there and stood by the stairway in agonizing indecision for a long moment, then said, “I say let’s give it to ’em. What the hell are we protecting? It’s not as if—maybe we can play it both ways.”

  The big dummy turned from the windows to say, “Carmine will be coming back, Harry. He’ll walk right into it.
”

  “Not if we can get out and warn him.”

  “Okay,” said Mangone, reaching his decision without apparent difficulty. “I’ll go out and get a car ready. Cover me, then come on out when I honk.”

  “Better not,” Venturi growled. “They could be—we’ll have a better chance if we hoof it out the back way.”

  “God it could be a long walk.”

  “Could be a damn short one, too. You got plenty of shells for that blunderbuss?”

  The dummy cradled the shotgun in the crooks of both arms to pat his vest. “I got plenty, yeah,” he reported. Then he did something very peculiar. His eyes flared and locked themselves onto dead space several feet above Venturi’s head, as though that clouded mind had suddenly gone off somewhere to play. Then he knelt on the floor, going down very slowly, and carefully deposited the shotgun, allowing it to slide off his forearms without a sound.

  A voice behind and above, from the stairway, called down, “You too, Venturi. Drop the piece and show me your smiling face—quickly, very quickly.”

  Harry the Apeman felt very little like smiling. But he did drop the revolver, very quickly, and turned a pained countenance to that bloodchilling voice.

  He was a big guy—a very big guy—all togged out like a guy in some war movie in a black combat suit; belts and shit strung all over him, knives and guns and chokestrings, even a couple of grenades. More chilling than anything, though, was a giant silver blaster hanging there in the guy’s big paw like they were made for each other and the damndest, hardest eyes backing it all up Harry Venturi had ever seen.

  There was no need to wonder about anything, now.

  The whole story was standing there on that stairway, blowing death at him through the eyes. He’d never seen this guy before, of course, but there was no doubting the obvious.

  “Hi, Bolan,” he said weakly.

  “Hi, Harry,” said the Executioner. “Where’s Carmine?”

  “He ain’t here,” said the big dummy with the fearsome shotgun at his knees.