Executioner 030 - Cleveland Pipeline

by Pendleton, Don

  "Fix that fucking window!" he yelled at Bianchi. The houseman's face registered no emotion as he replied, "Sure, boss, we'll fix it."

  Sorenson was frozen to his chair, hardly breathing.

  Morello stormed around the room, overturning tables and hurling small objects against the walls. Bianchi moved not a muscle, nor did his eyes even follow the mad activities in there. When the fit had run its course, Morello returned to his chair and dropped into it with a satisfied grunt.

  "Clean up this shit!" he commanded the houseman.

  "We'll clean it up, boss," Bianchi assured him, but made no move from the door.

  "Get my piece!"

  "You want it now?"

  “I want it right now!"

  The house boss went out and returned a moment later bearing a bulky object wrapped in oilcloth. He placed it gently on the desk in front of the panting capo and went quietly back to his place at the door.

  Sorenson's eyes were fixed glazedly upon that object.

  Morello worked tenderly at the folds of oilcloth, slowly unveiling a submachine gun. A fine film of oil gleamed on the blue metal; wooden stock and pistol grip had obviously been lovingly worked to sheeny perfection.

  "What d'you think of this?" the boss asked Sorenson as he held it up for inspection.

  "Yes that's—that's a really fine weapon," the dazed man replied in a strangling voice.

  "Mint condition, ain't it? I bet I could get ten or twenty thousand dollars from a collector. She's a model 1921A Thompson. It was my papa's. He told me it once belonged to Charley Lucky. You heard of Luciano, right? He and my old man were like two fingers in the same glove."

  "It's living history," Sorenson muttered.

  "That's right." Morello was fiddling with the ammo drum. "Makes me feel good just to hold it. Sometimes its better'n a woman. Know what I mean?" He stood up to walk around and perch on the front edge of the desk, directly facing Sorenson. "Mack Bolan, eh?"

  The terrified man let out a shuddering sigh and said, "That's what he said."

  "Freddy."

  "Yessir?"

  "You'll have to call Gus and the other tigers. Tell them."

  "Yessir."

  "I want the ship moved."

  "Back down the river?"

  "No. Send it north."

  "Okay. Right away?"

  "Soon as they can. Take the girls off. Put everything away. Get those greenies ready to earn their pasta. How soon can they get steam up?"

  "Few hours. We'll have to order the tug. Maybe you should go too, boss."

  "Don't get silly, Freddy. When did Tony Morello ever run from a fight?" He patted the gun. "I got my Elliot Ness monster, ain’t I”. He chuckled at his joke and waved the muzzle of the weapon in Sorenson's face. "Get it, Mel old buddy? Loch Ness? Eliot Ness? He loved these things, too. Hell of a man, really, no matter what side. Knew a good piece when he saw one, say that. Freddy, you're going to have to tell Gus to safe the corporation."

  "Okay, I'll tell him, sure." The house boss was getting that frozen look, again.

  "I want plenty of heat. Tell Gus he has my okay to hire all the help he needs, I want full beef at every hot spot."

  "Yessir," Bianchi replied woodenly, "I'll tell him." "Mel old buddy?"

  "Yes, Mr. Morello?"

  "You're a fucking rat."

  "No sir, please—I knew you'd get the wrong idea. I didn't tell him a thing!"

  '"That's why you're alive and not dead?"

  Sorenson shrunk deeper into the chair, frozen with fear, no air whatever behind the gasping words: "I told him a fairy tale and he bought it—he bought it!"

  Morello laughed. "Mack Bolan bought a fairy tale. Hear that, Freddy? Mack Bolan bought a fairy tale!"

  The Thompson exploded in Morello's grasp, bucking and snorting in sustained fire, filling the room with its drumming tattoo of death.

  The man in the witness chair was literally blown away by the impact, chair and all dancing across the room under the propelling force of the unrelenting hail. Fragments of furniture and window glass shared the stormy atmosphere of that room with gunsmoke and crimson droplets as stark insanity had its way. It did not end until the magazine was empty.

  Then Morello chuckled and said, "Well, damn, Freddy. The safety doesn't work. I'll have to fix that safety."

  Bianchi had not moved a muscle. He replied, "Yessir, I'll take care of that."

  "This room is a damn mess, it's a disgrace. I want you to clean this shit up, Freddy."

  And Bianchi replied, "You know I will, sir. You know I always do. Do I have it all? Is there anything else?"

  "You can bring that guy Bolan in here."

  Bianchi had no reply to that. He'd carefully cultivated the habit of never promising anything to Tony Morello that he could not deliver. And he had no response whatever to that

  8 REACTION

  Ben Logan had just completed his usual solitary breakfast and was dawdling at the table with coffee and the morning paper when his housekeeper announced a visitor.

  "It's Mr. Christina, he says. And he says it's urgent."

  Logan's perplexed eyes regarded the woman around the newspaper. 'I don't know any . . ." Then the name registered. He put the newspaper down. "Is Mrs. Logan awake?"

  The housekeeper shook her head negatively. "I just looked in on her. She looks just fine."

  He said, "Put him in the library, Annie. I'll be along in a minute."

  She went away muttering under her breath.

  Logan went to his bathroom, brushed his teeth, smoothed his hair, and paused a moment to inspect the creeping gray in there, then went to his bedroom and put on a tie. He also put on a snubnosed .38 revolver, tucking it into his waistband, and buttoning the coat over it. Then he went back downstairs and into the library.

  The visitor was standing at the bookcase, idly scanning the volumes there. He was tall, athletic, casually dressed. Something in the way the head was carried, something else about the eyes sent a quick tremor along Logan's nervous system. He closed the door and came immediately to the point "What do you want?"

  The visitor was not all that anxious. "I like your library," he said casually. "You can know a man by his books. I like your books, Captain."

  "That's nice," Logan replied coldly. "I'm surprised you could read the titles. What the hell are you doing in my home?"

  The caller almost smiled at that. "I like to know a man before I condemn him," he said, in a not unfriendly tone of voice.

  Logan's backbone softened a bit. He sighed, took the pistol from his waistband, and tossed it onto the couch. "You're not one of them, then," he said quietly. "So ... the jig is up. I knew the day would have to come. I've wondered how I would take it."

  "How are you taking it?" the visitor asked softly.

  "In a word ... relief. Can we do this quietly? My wife is ill."

  "We can do it as quietly as you like," the tall man replied. "How ill is your wife?"

  "She's been dying slowly for ten years," Logan said, a bit confused by the personal approach to this most horrifying moment of his life. "Cancer."

  "That's hard," the visitor said. "Must be a hell of a fighter to last this long."

  "Yes. Thanks. She is. Gallant woman." Logan felt unreal. "I think she stayed alive mainly for the kids. Now they're grown and gone. I think she's stopped fighting. I don't blame her. Guess I stopped fighting, too. Why am I doing this? I'm not appealing for ... Let's get it over. Read me my rights."

  "I'm not a cop, Captain," the man said quietly. Logan felt his eyes twitching. "You're not a cop." "No."

  "Then what are you?”

  The man dipped into a pocket and tossed something toward Logan. It hit the floor at his feet and bounced. Metallic. He bent to pick up the object, inspected it, turned it over and over with his fingers, felt his throat becoming dry, gazed forlornly for a moment at the discarded revolver now so far away.

  "So the jig is really up," he said quietly.

  "Like I said, I like your book
s."

  "Is it okay if I sit down?"

  "Please do," Bolan said.

  Logan pointedly avoided the couch, dropping into an overstuffed chair near the desk. "I'm suddenly weak as a cat," he confessed. "This is a nightmare. Like getting caught screwing your wife's best friend. Or pissing on the rug."

  The tall man had not moved. Now he glided to the desk, raised a leg, perched there casually with one foot remaining on the floor, lit a cigarette, then told his host: "You're not the first. You won't be the last. And it's not too late for you, Logan. You can redeem it."

  Logan sighed. "Not quite. I've disgraced the service. I've disgraced my wife and myself. There's no redemption for that."

  "Does your wife know?"

  "God no! That's what it's all about. I couldn't let them—I couldn't—after all she's been through."

  "Maybe she'd understand better than you think. She's a fighter. Give her the credit. You're still a young, vital man. How long is it since you've had her loving touch?"

  Logan was gripped again by the unreality of the moment. The Executioner, God's sake, Mack Bolan himself was lounging casually in Ben Logan's library offering kind counsel and understanding to the enemy. And the man seemed sincere! Genuinely concerned! He heard his own hollow voice responding to that: "It would still hurt. You should see that film." Logan experienced a deep tremor. He shook himself and said, "God, I must have been bombed out of my skull. I don't even remember going there. I woke up with a naked girl on each side of me. Kids! Just kids—younger than my own!"

  "So what did they want from you?'

  Logan got up and went to the window. He could not look at the man as he told him, "My job is law enforcement. Does that answer your question?"

  Bolan told him, "Not entirely. I'm looking for specifics."

  "Then take a look at that damned Christina. The registry is Liberian, the crew is Italian, it hasn't left American waters in the past ten months, it's a floating arsenal and a whorehouse and a gambling ship and God knows what else."

  Bolan said, "That's interesting. What else is interesting?"

  Logan steeled himself to say, "There was a yachting accident on the lake last month. Put that accident in quotes, heavy quotes. Supposedly they developed a fire in the engine room. The boat exploded, burned, and sank. Six lives were lost—six human lives! My new 'friends' suggested that our investigation should not conflict with my own best interests. It went into the books as an accident."

  "Whose boat was it?" Bolan asked.

  "Belonged to a local industrialist, Jay Carmody."

  "What's his business?"

  "I ... really don't know," Logan replied. "He had many interests. Quite a respected man."

  "Was he a member of your country club?"

  "Yes he was. In fact, he was on the executive committee."

  "Was Carmody involved with the Christina?"

  "Not to my knowledge."

  "Is that country club clean?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, it's quite a collection of power, isn't it? The Cleveland Fifty?"

  "We have more than fifty members—and all of the Fifty are not members of our club. Look at me. I’m a member."

  The tall man grinned. "You're in about the same pay status as a colonel, right? That's about what?—twenty thousand a year, counting allowances?"

  "That's in the ballpark, yes," Logan replied. "You don't have to be filthy rich to join our club."

  "But you have to be very clean."

  Logan's eyes dropped. "On the public record, at least, yes.'

  "Would you like to get clean again?"

  "I have very soberly considered suicide, several times."

  "That would be the greatest insult you could hand your lady."

  "I know. It's why I'm still alive.”

  "Well . . ." The big man stood up and took a deep breath. "Stay hard a bit longer, Captain."

  "You're going to hit this town, aren't you.” Logan said.

  "It's already started," Bolan replied quietly.

  "If there's anything I can do .. ."

  "Just stay clear and keep clean. Can your lady travel?"

  "No. She's under constant sedation."

  The tall man frowned. "I recommend a move, anyway—in an ambulance, if nothing else. I'm leaning on the boys pretty hard. Morello is very unpredictable. I'd move."

  "Thanks," Logan said.

  The man smiled and went out.

  Logan felt giddy, unreal. But he also felt born again. For good or for bad, a new breeze was blowing through Cleveland.

  He heard the front door open and the murmur of voices as Annie let the man out. He went to the window for a parting look. Fine man. Fine. The news stories did not do him justice.

  A small car pulled up in front as Bolan descended the steps. Waiting for him, probably—someone picking him up. A young woman—vaguely familiar—bounded from the car, then did a double-take on the approaching man. Tires screeched from another car, somewhere up the street, accompanying the whine of high acceleration as that vehicle leapt into action.

  Logan perceived but a blur of motion, but it appeared that Bolan was throwing himself upon the young woman.

  Instantly the other car was abreast, speeding crazily and the unmistakable chatter of a machine gun tore finally the peace of that quiet neighbourhood.

  Logan instinctively hit the floor as his library window shattered and sizzling projectiles hurled themselves through the room.

  He did not feel fear. He felt only a terrible desolation. That fine new breeze had died at Ben Logan's doorstep—snuffed out in a hail of bullets.

  The giddiness was gone—replaced by the flowing fragment of a famous old sermon contained in one of the books which Bolan had been admiring such a short few minutes earlier.

  "Ask not for whom the bells toll ... no man is an island . . . the bells toll for thee ..."

  The entire world had just been diminished.

  9 SURRENDER

  A minicar pulled up directly in front of the house and Susan Landry popped out of it just as Bolan reached the sidewalk. She spotted him and froze at mid-stride, obviously startled and confused at finding him here.

  Before there was time to even react to that surprise confrontation, Bolan's "combat quick" was activated by a more pressing perception: a hard car leapt from the curb a half block downrange, an ominous black stub protruding from a rear window.

  He uttered a guttural cry of warning and launched himself at the girl. Obviously she misunderstood his intent—and even in that flaring moment of crisis Bolan found time to admire her reaction. That lovely face was constricted with fear; still, that voluptuous body girded itself for defence. She pivoted and twirled, evading his initial charge, then came around with a high karate kick—perfectly timed and executed. He deflected the kick with a forearm chop and moved straight into it, lifting her in both arms and propelling the both of them in a flying dive for cover. They hit the turf of Logan's lawn with the girl still securely in his grasp and rolling like crazy toward the safety of a foot-high brick decorative planter. She was kicking and raising hell when the hit car drew abreast and the chopper started blasting.

  And then she understood.

  The girl melted in his arms, allowing him to take over. He flung her facedown on the grass behind the small shelter and threw himself atop her. Chips of brick and mortar dust showered them as heavy steel-jacketed slugs swept past. She gave a sighing moan and made herself very small beneath Bolan's protection, skirt hiked to the waist, bare thighs trembling in the aftermath of high tensions.

  The end was as abrupt as the beginning. The vehicle screamed on along the street, gathering speed as it went, the sound of it quickly fading in the distance.

  "Are you okay?" Bolan asked the lady.

  She groaned, wriggled clear, sat up, and showed him a rueful grimace which may have been intended as a smile. "It's getting to be a habit, dammit," she said shakily.

  "A deadly habit," he assured her. He pulled her
to her feet and dusted her off.

  She said, "Hey, hey. I can flick my own Bic, thanks."

  He growled, "Flick it all the way to hell, then," and spun away to quit that place.

  Ben Logan appeared at that moment, the .38 in hand, a glowing look in the eyes. "It looked like they had you," he told Bolan.

  "Felt like it, too," Bolan admitted.

  "You're hit!" Logan discovered.

  He was, but barely. A hot slug had ripped through the shoulder of his coat, taking a trace of skin in passage and producing an ooze of blood.

  Landry had just noticed it, also. She said, "Bite my damn tongue. I'm sorry. Let me—"

  She was going for the wound. Bolan caught her hand and returned it to her, otherwise ignoring her and telling Captain Logan: "What I said before goes double now. Obviously they had you staked out. They were not there when I came but . . . or else they'd picked up on this lady and took this opportunity to go for the hit. You can't risk the doubt. Move it out."

  Logan nodded his understanding of that. "Thanks again. I’ll do that."

  The neighbours were beginning to venture out "There will be police. You'd better ..."

  Bolan was already moving.

  Landry cried, "Well, wait!"

  It was not a time for waiting. Bolan walked quickly to his vehicle which had been left at the curb several houses down. He got in and kicked the engine. The passenger door opened and Landry slid in beside him.

  "Flick my Bic?" she said, smiling.

  Bolan showed her a sour grin, said, "Bite your tongue!" and put that place behind them.

  The girl was a wild card in Bolan's Cleveland deck. She fit nowhere, belonged nowhere, yet she'd told Bolan in their first meeting that they were competitors. Competing for what? For an ideal, she'd told him—which could mean anything or nothing.

  Sorenson characterized her as an obnoxious snooper.

  Twice, now, Tony Morello's crazies had attempted to snuff her. Why had she gone to Logan's home? Why had she become so flustered upon encountering Bolan there?

  And why was she so damned hostile to a man who twice had delivered her from violent death?