“I see. Well, I’m glad we finally got that straightened out.”
He said, “Uh huh. And that inevitably turns into war.”
“Oh really!” she exploded.
Bolan went on, quietly and persistently, making a final try. “You think men or women war because they don’t care They make war because they-cannot tolerate the alternatives to those they love—be it a person or an ideal. A woman sacrifices for her child because she hates the thought of that child going hungry. A man kills because he cannot accept peril for his family from the marauder. A civilized nation picks up arms because it will not surrender to the savages.”
“Oh, fine. Now you’re mixing it all—a woman is going to war every time she breastfeeds her child!”
“Damn right. It’s love, and it’s war. One cannot exist without the other, in one form or another—so long as life exists in a savagely entropic universe. Take it to the basics. Take it to that pathetic tribe in Africa, the one that has surrendered to entropy. Your anthropologists and psychologists are having a field day with that one. Even the family units have disintegrated, babies lying dead in the streets because their mothers would not feed them. Those people aren’t making war and they’re not making love. They’re lying down and dying. Can you tell me why?”
“No. But I suppose you can.”
“I think I could, yeah. But why bother? All you’re listening with is your mind. And it’s not stretched far enough to hear. So let’s just forget it. Slow down. You’re doing sixty in a thirty mile zone. And right now I don’t need a care package from the Columbus cops.”
“They’re at war, too, huh?”
“Better believe they are. And you better hope they never decide to lie down and die.”
“I’m sorry, Mack,” she said softly.
“So am I. Forget it.”
She pulled the cruiser into the parking lot at the Holiday Inn. “Am I staying with you?”
“No. I’ll meet you in Indianapolis. By midnight.”
She recognized the finality of that. “You’re all heart, aren’t you, Mr. Battlefield Philosopher?”
The young lady was closer to the secret of Mack Bolan than she could realize. But it would require someone other than Bolan to tell her that. He was a lot better at showing than telling.
And the first day of the second mile was already half gone.
CHAPTER 7
LADY’S CHOICE
The motel occupied a low ridge overlooking the Salt Creek Valley, a narrow meadowland stretching a quarter-mile or so between the highway and the higher ridges to the south. Directly opposite the Ramada Inn, a small shopping center had displaced a chunk of that meadow. People in Nashville obviously leaned toward the rustic motif. The entire shopping center and even a fast-foods chain restaurant with national identification appeared to have been built from barn wood. The motel itself looked like no Ramada in Bolan’s memory. It was snuggled into the hillside in such a way that it hardly broke the symmetry of the terrain. Dark wood, stone, and smoked glass combined to suggest modern luxury at no expense to rustic charm.
Bolan drove on past the ascending motel driveway, continuing westerly toward the village. There were schools to the right, another large country inn to the left, then a blinker-light junction with the north-south highway 135—the east-west route doglegging across Salt Creek and climbing into the hills toward Bloomington, the village of Nashville sprawling off to the right and gradually ascending the northward elevations.
Harry the Ape had not been pulling any legs. The tiny town was choked with humanity. Narrow streets and narrower sidewalks were strained far beyond their capacity to carry the foot and motor traffic as visitors flowed in great masses everywhere like so many ants at a picnic spread.
Except for that, it appeared to be a charming little town, yeah—a page from the nation’s frontier past. Maybe four blocks square, with many ancient buildings wearing brave faces and here and there a new building wearing a cosmetically ancient face.
The warwagon joined the parade of motor traffic along the main route into town, blending with comfortable anonymity into the line of autos, motorcycles, and recreational vehicles. And Bolan knew that there would be no combat stretch here. Already his mind was beginning to disengage from the idea of a hot clash in this area. The whole valley was choked with human activity. Tour buses, yeah—chalk up another for Harry the Talking Head—chartered Greyhounds and others from far and wide were backed off and parked wherever space could be found. There were sidewalk artists and curbside vendors, shops with colorful names and craftsmen with artistic handiwares; and everywhere people, old and young, flocking in quest of God knew what.
It was a bum go. A traffic light two blocks up the street had been deactivated and a couple of uniformed cops were trying to move the traffic, which was pressing in from four directions.
Bolan had seen enough. He was scouting, not sightseeing, and the results were in. He peeled off at the first cross street and headed back east only to run smack into the high school. A drive there curved along a low hill to move him northward and bring him to high ground at the east edge of the village center. Another east-west roadway presented itself there, flanked by a volunteer fire station and an art gallery. Foot traffic here was thinner but buses were parked all along the roadway and a steady stream of vehicles told the tale of another choked throughway.
He pulled onto the parking apron at the fire station, inspiring a harried looking guy in civilian dress to rush over and bang on his window. “You can’t park here!” the guy yelled. “You’re blocking the fire station!”
Bolan opened the window and told that guy, “Who’s parking? Anyway, you better pray you don’t get a fire call. A Sherman tank couldn’t get through this town right now.”
The guy grinned at him. Bolan had obviously touched a sympathetic nerve. “That’s what I been trying to tell the council. We got no fire lanes. The whole damn town could burn down and we’d have to sit here and watch it. But I still can’t let you park here, good buddy.”
Bolan replied, “I’m trying to get back to the Ramada. How would you do that?”
The guy pointed east as he said, “Just get in line. It’ll thin out when you get past the fairgrounds. Do you know where you’re at right now?”
Bolan smiled and shook his head.
“Well this’s old 46—the old highway. Most of these people are headed to the fairground parking. That’s just at the bottom of the hill. You go on past there to just where you start uphill again. Take that right, there. It’ll pull you right up into the Ramada the back way. Hey! Just get in behind the choo-choo! That’s where he’s going.”
The guy spun away, stepped into the street, and held up a hand to halt the eastward flow, then hand-signalled Bolan into the line behind a sightseeing “train”—a rubbertired street vehicle disguised as a locomotive and pulling several open cars loaded with passengers.
Bolan tossed the guy a restrained salute and took his place in the outward flow. Several hundred yards and ten minutes later he was past the bottleneck and moving slowly, but continuously, in the wake of the mock train.
It was a few minutes past two o’clock when he pulled up at the Ramada Inn. The congestion here was little better than elsewhere, but he found a place to leave the big rig while he went inside for a quick look.
He’d changed into a $500 set of threads, provided by the finest of Mafia tailors—but he would have felt just as comfortable here in dungarees. It was sheer country charm, yeah—and there was nothing snythetic about it. The good atmosphere was created by heavy wood and native stone, open-beam ceilings, spacious comfort, and a down-home feeling.
Two little girls were playing jacks just inside the lobby. The desk clerks wore Levis; one was neatly bearded. A dozen or so guests idled there in pleasant conversation. The lounge was dark like most bars, but relieved somewhat by plenty of glass at the far wall. A small bandstand and dance floor were now barren, as was most of the lounge. Inviting sofa tables were sprea
d through several rooms and there was a standard bar with padded stools. A young couple sat at a window table with beers; several guys at the bar were having a good time with the bartender and one of the waitresses.
Homey, yeah—friendly.
He went on to the dining room for a quick look. It was huge, comfortably rustic with a stone fireplace set dead in the center of the big room and large enough to garage a Volkswagen. The dining room was loaded—pretty waitresses scurrying, smug diners stuffing themselves—a sort of merry feeling. Homey and friendly, sure.
It was no place for the likes of Mack Bolan. But, then, he could not always choose his own hellgrounds. And it had been a long time since there’d been any place he could call home.
But he liked this place … and he regretted what had come here. Though Bolan was a New Englander, he knew that this was where America was coming from. This was the heartland. All the more reason, then, perhaps …
He returned to the lobby and caught the eye of the bearded clerk. “Are you full?” he asked the guy.
A sympathetic smile. “Unless you’re reserved, sir—”
“I’m not,” Bolan told him. “Is Mr. Tucker registered?”
“Tucker?” The clerk raised an eyebrow. “Roger Tucker?”
“That’s the one.”
“Oh, well, if you’re with—”
“I’m not,” Bolan said. “We have an appointment.”
“He’ll be in around three, sir. Did you want to go to the hospitality room?”
Not exactly. “I think we’re meeting in the bar,” Bolan said.
“Oh. Well, he maintains—well no, okay. Mr. Tucker has one of our fireplace suites but if you’re meeting him in the lounge …”
Bolan did not have to struggle to feign indecision. “Well who’s in the suite now?”
“His secretary is there, sir.”
“Uh huh. Okay—well, okay—what’s the number?”
The guy gave him the room number and directions. Bolan thanked him and wandered away.
The Toonerville choo-choo was loading outside for the return trip to Nashville. He watched that activity for a moment while weighing a decision then went on to the room.
A pretty blonde woman of perhaps twenty-five answered the knock at the hospitality suite. Not exactly Bolan’s type but very attractive if a guy didn’t look too deeply into the eyes. She wore silk lounging pajamas with a deep plunge clear to the navel and an expectant look that quickly faded as the caller asked her, “Is he here yet?”
“He who?” she inquired warily.
Bolan ignored that. “You must be Jackie. I’m Frank. He said I should introduce myself.” The woman threw the door open and turned her back on the visitor. He stepped inside and closed the door. She was obviously very miffed.
He said, apologetically, “If I’m intruding on something …”
She turned a resigned grimace toward him as she replied to that. “Business always intrudes, doesn’t it? It’s okay. I’m getting used to it. Help yourself at the bar.”
It was a nice layout. A fire laid in the fireplace but not yet lit. Plenty of stretch, with comfort if not luxury. Adjoining bedroom, the door standing ajar.
He moved to the open bedroom door for a casual check of the interior.
“The bar’s over here,” the lady said, eyeing him curiously. “What’d you say your name is?”
“Frank.” He went to the bar and mixed a weak whiskey and water. The girl dropped into a chair and watched him with growing interest. He looked at his watch and said, “Well …”
“You’re early,” she said. “What time did he tell you?”
“Three o’clock.”
“It figures.”
“What figures?”
She sighed. “He always schedules me along with everyone else. I’m supposed to sit here and vegetate while he—are you down from Chicago?”
Bolan nodded. “How long since you were there?”
“Too long.”
He grinned and shook his head. “Nah. You’re better off here. He tells me you’re getting to be quite the painter.”
She laughed drily at that. “Tell the teacher, will you? Frank who?” She was giving him a closer inspection, now.
He said, “Frank Lambert.”
“Changed from what?”
Bolan chuckled. “My momma’s name is Lambretta.”
She said, “I haven’t seen you around.”
“Haven’t been around,” he explained. “Just got in.”
“I mean around Chicago.”
“Not long there, either. I’m really by way of L.A.”
“Oh. I like L.A.” She was buying him. “Level with me?”
He said, “Sure. It’s a great town.”
“I don’t mean that. What’s happening, Frank? I mean, what is really happening around here?”
He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Ask the man.”
“Ask the Sphinx!” she spat. “I’m asking you. What do you do? You’re a contractor, aren’t you?” It was not a question.
He told her, “Sure. I’ll build anything. What do you need?”
“Wise guy,” she said, but not with anger.
“If you know,” he said, “why ask?”
“I know things are heating up, here. I just want to know how hot and where. I don’t want to get caught in the middle of another stupid war.”
“You’re cool here,” he told her.
“With guys like you coming around all the time?” She shook the pretty head. “We came here for the cool. It was nice, while it lasted. Why can’t he leave well enough alone?”
Bolan said, “Doesn’t work that way, Jackie. You should know that. Heat follows heat.”
She said, “Go sing it on a mountain, Lambretta. Heat isn’t happy where it’s cool—that’s all. Nothing followed him here. He brought it all with him—coal by coal. He’s just building another Chicago down here. Isn’t he? Isn’t that what he’s doing?”
Bolan-Lambretta muttered, “You better ask the man.”
“I ask him nothing,” she replied bitterly.
She flounced into the bedroom and slammed the door.
Which was fine with Bolan. He began a discreet shakedown of the outer room, but it had revealed no secrets when the girl reappeared moments later. She had changed into a skirt and blouse, purse over the shoulder, broad-brimmed straw hat in hand.
“Leaving?” Bolan asked her.
“Watch me,” she said quietly.
“What do I tell Carmine?”
“Tell him he knows where to find me,” she told the supposed visitor from Chicago.
Bolan blocked her forward progress with an arm across the soft chest. “Tell me so we’ll all know,” he said softly.
“Go to hell,” she said, matching his tone.
“I need to know where you’re going, Jackie.”
“Why?”
He said, “Maybe it’s a personal interest.”
“Meaning exactly what?”
“Meaning maybe life or death,” he said, with a sober wink.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“My line of work, kid, is always serious. But it can be fun, too, if certain people are willing.”
“What makes you think I might be willing?”
“I never schedule a lady with my business appointments, Jackie.”
“Go to hell you bastard you,” she whispered. “Where the hell did you get—you’re crazy, do you know that? Carmine would skin you alive and hang your hide out to dry.”
He said, “Maybe it would be worth it. Would it?”
She said, “I guess you’ll never know.”
He sighed heavily and told her, “Not if I don’t know where it is.”
An undecided smile was working at those pouting lips. She said, “It would serve him—okay, I’m on 135 north. Left side, you’ll see it. The sign reads Buttons and Bows.”
“What kind of sign?”
“People around here name their houses. T
hat’s the name of mine. Just turn down the lane where you see the sign.”
He said, “Okay. I’ll find you.”
She said, “I take it that he won’t, then.”
He told her, “Things are a bit hectic, right now. Maybe he won’t be able to.”
“And that’s why you will.”
“Uh huh.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Something is really wrong, isn’t it?”
He said, “I guess it is.”
“And you have a personal interest?”
“Uh huh.”
“Are you the cure or the kill?” she asked soberly.
“Both,” he replied. “Does that worry you?”
“Not a damn bit.” She went on to the door, then turned back for a parting shot. “It’s worth it, Lambrttta. But bring plenty of balls with you. You’re going to need them.”
“They follow me everywhere,” he quietly assured her.
“We’ll see about that,” she said, departing with soft laughter.
“Like hell we will,” Bolan muttered to the empty room.
He gave the lady plenty of time then took his own departure. The time was thirty minutes past the hour of two—and he was playing the ear.
It was no place for a Shootout, no.
But if he could just get an eyeball on the guy.…
Something caught his attention through the swinging door of the lounge as he strode past, rooting him momentarily in his tracks, then drawing him magnetically back for another look.
But, yeah, the first look was look enough.
At a table, by the window, sat a lady with an exotic drink. She wore a sexy silk chemise and was displaying leg enough to root any man to his tracks.
She was, yeah, a lady fed.
With a dumb name like April Rose.
CHAPTER 8
MESSAGES
Bolan slid in beside the lady and quietly asked, “Taking the scenic route to Indy?”
April Rose showed him a sober smile as she replied, “Sorry, soldier, you were countermanded. Has your man shown up yet?”
He said, “Not yet. But I’m expecting his forward scouts at any moment. So let’s make this quick. What countermand?”
Monday’s Mob Page 6