3
Grounds for Deception
Arnie "The Farmer" Castiglione reigned over the entire Eastern Seaboard underground from south of New Jersey to Savannah, his empire embracing docks and fields, feeder cattle and packing houses, politics and labor, gambling and prostitution, and virtually all human endeavors which lent themselves to unscrupulous exploitation and manipulation. All this was ruled from the baronial estate known as Castle Farms in a lush Virginia valley not far from Washington.
Castiglione had suffered a painful thigh wound in the battles of the Miami convention — actually, he had been shot in the buttock while scrambling up a wall to safety — and his mood had been something less than jovial during the following weeks. The wound was not healing properly. Soreness remained. He was required to sit on pillows and to inhibit his usual restless activeness. Every twinge of physical discomfort the Farmer experienced was accompanied by the pained growl, "That fuckin' Bolan!" — or, "Kill 'im, I'll kill 'im!"
Arnie had grown up in the concrete jungle of New York and had never realized there was a land out there beyond the pavements until he was nearly 12 years old. Now he prided himself as owner of vast unspoiled acreages, a country gentleman and horse breeder. He rode in parades and horse shows, and his Appaloosa stock was considered among the finest in Virginia. He had found acceptance and respect in the genteel society of rural Virginia, and had served on various public commissions and was active in several philanthropic foundations. This was the image most highly prized by this self-educated product of East Harlem, and it was an image that had cracked and all but dissolved in the aftermath of Miami. Castiglione was one of the unfortunates who had been "busted" by the Dade County Force, fingerprinted and jailed and released on bail and still awaiting a court appearance on a variety of charges. Worst of an, his theretofore secret connections with the Mafia were being written about in newspapers and magazines around the country, and a Virginia crime commission had announced their interest in the Castiglione empire.
Yes, Arne the Farmer had deep and lasting reasons for hating the guts of Mack the Bastard Bolan, any one of which could produce heat enough to roast the Executioner's carcass over an open flame. Arnie would gladly instrument the body to get a recording of every shrieking nerve down to the final death pulse, to keep and treasure forever and to entertain himself in moments of boredom. This very idea seemed right at the surface of Arnie's mind as he told Tony Lavagni, "I don't want this boy to die easy and alone somewhere, Tony. A quick kill is not my idea of justice, not where this boy is concerned. I want him dying slow and knowing it, and feeling it, and twitching around for a long time. You know what I mean, Tony?"
Lavagni assured his boss that he did know, and added, "That makes our boy Brown here a special case, Mr. Castiglione. So far we been lucky just to get a shot at the guy, but Wils here can walk right up to 'im, see, sort of get him off guard. We're thinking of a Judas kiss, Mr. Castiglione."
The Farmer winced and moved his wound into a more comfortable area of the pillow. "You've said that three times already," he reminded his Washington Caporegime. "I don't like that expression, Tony. I don't want you to say it again. Okay?"
"Sure. Sure, Mr. Castiglione."
"Okay." His gaze traveled to the huge black man. "This Bolan has had his face fixed. How do you figure to recognize him? How do you figure to make it like buddy-buddy with a guy you haven't seen since his face was fixed?"
Brown paused a moment before replying. He had developed an instant hate for the Capo. This cat didn't like being close to black men — a thick atmosphere of repulsion hung in the air between them. Brown squeezed his knuckles and said, "I'll have to play it cool, that's all. I've seen his pictures, I know about what he looks like now. If I can just get close to him; I figure he'll come to me."
"What makes you think that?"
Brown shrugged massive shoulders. "It just figures, man. This cat's all alone with the whole country after him. Can't trust nobody, can't lay his head nowhere and close both eyes at the same time. He needs a friend. I'm a friend. If he sees me, he'll come to me."
Castiglione was thinking it over. Silence enveloped the big open-beamed room of the fabulous ranchhouse. Brown's gaze shifted to the window, and he watched the horses moving lazily about the rich pasture. Those horses had it better, he was thinking, than most black men he knew. Then Castiglione broke the silence. He said, "Okay, but we have to work this thing out. You know, plan it — and I mean carefully. This Bolan is no punk, I guess we found that out for sure at Miami Beach."
Brown said, "I'll want a firm understanding about the reward money."
Castiglione replied, "How much you figure it's worth?"
"What is this, man?" the Negro said in an angered tone. "You cats already decided how much it's worth. You've spread the word all over the country, a hundred thou for Bolan. Now Tony tells me you added another..."
The Farmer said, "You won't deserve all of that. A contractor handles everything himself, like any businessman. He handles his own expenses, pays his own help. What's left is his profit. You understand profit. In this case, I'm the contractor. I'm hiring you. Now how much do you figure your part is worth?"
"Forget it," Brown snapped. He stood up and said, "Get me out of here, Tony."
Lavagni was staring steadfastly at the floor, unmoving. Castiglione sighed and said, "Sit down. It hurts my ass to look up. I see you don't like to negotiate. Take a lesson from a pro, Wils. Always negotiate, don't just rush off mad because the other guy says something you don't like to hear."
The black man replied, "Allright, I'm negotiating. I want the whole bundle, I want it all."
"You won't deserve all of it. We're going to back you, put up all the expenses, and that includes an army of rodmen. We're going to plan your moves, spot you, and work the setups. All that means time and effort and money. But we're fair, Wils. We'll split the purse evenly."
Brown smiled, sat down, and said, "Evenly means half for me and half for your backing, and it means half the total purse."
"I didn't say that," the Farmer smoothly replied.
"No, man, I said that. It's that or nothing."
Castiglione was smiling, but only with his lips. "You could get too damn big for your britches. They could turn to iron, and wouldn't that make for hard swimming in Chesapeake Bay."
The big Negro again got to his feet. "I been shit on by experts, man. I got over bein' scared a long time ago. Nowadays I just get mad and glad. Mad, I don't get Bolan for you. Glad, I'll give 'im to you in a gift-wrap."
Castiglione winced and shifted positions again. "That fuckin' Bolan!" he muttered. Then, "Okay, big man. We'll make you glad. You just make me glad."
"Half of the pot, net, for me."
"Yeah, yeah, you've made your deal." The Capo's gaze shifted to Tony Lavagni, who had been tensely silent and all but invisible during the discussion. "You got those planes pretty well nailed down now? You're sure of that?"
"Yessir," Lavagni replied. "There was only three possible ways out, by air I mean. Chicago, Atlanta, or Paris."
"You already said that."
"Yessir. I'd say Atlanta looks best, Chicago next. Paris would be a long shot. That plane was leaving when the boys got up there."
"Just the same we'll cover all three, and play heavy on th' long shot. This bastard always seems to..." He reached for a cigar, groaned, savagely bit off the end, and clamped the cigar between his teeth, lit it, and leaned forward carefully to favor his wounded backside. "You know who we got in Paris. You handle it, be sure that plane is met, but don't mention my name in no transatlantic telephone calls. Understand?"
"Sure, Mr. Castiglione."
"Chi and Atlanta will be a snap. I'll put out the word myself from here. You get your boy here set up with a passport and..." He eyed the big Negro in a disapproving inspection and continued. "Get him to a fast tailor, make 'im look like a traveling buyer... uh, pick out something he knows a little about, something that would make sense him going
to Europe in case it turns that way. Get him credentials and all th' crap, but don't use any of my connections, you know what I mean. And tell Paris to cool it. If they spot Bolan, just stick with 'im and let us know right away. Tell 'em anything you have'ta, tell 'em the contract isn't payable outside the country, just don't let 'em louse this up. I want a sure thing this time. I'll tell Chi and Atlanta the same thing. You just get this boy of yours ready to travel. You still with me, Tony?"
"Yessir, I'm still with you, Mr. Castiglione," Lavagni assured him.
The Farmer dismissed them.
They let themselves out of the house and went directly to their car. As they were moving along the graveled drive, Brown chuckled and observed, "I never seen you so courteous and polite, man."
Lavagni growled something inarticulate, then replied, "Maybe you better try some of the same, Wils. Arnie Farmer is nobody to cross. He likes to be treated with respect, and you better watch the way you talk to him. Especially until he's well and back on his feet again. You put him over a barrel, you know that, Wils — and he don't like that a little bit."
Brown heaved a contented sigh. "He don't scare me none. I'll say this, though. I'm glad I'm not Mack Bolan. Man, I never saw so much hate, and I'm an expert on hate."
"You ever been to Atlanta, Wils? Or Paris?"
"Sure man, I been everywhere there is to go. And it's the same stinkin' world every place, huh."
Lavagni nodded his head. "I guess so. This Bolan's going to find that out too, Wils. There ain't no place he can go where we can't get at him. It might be Atlanta, it might be Chi, it might be Paris. But it won't matter, it's all the same. He's going to find that out."
"I bet he already knows it," Brown said, sighing. "He's been everywhere too, man. Everywhere but dead. Wonder what it's like there."
"Where?" Lavagni asked, throwing the black man a quick glance.
"Th' land of the dead, man. I wonder what it's like."
Lavagni chuckled and said, "When you're kissing Bolan, ask 'im. He's dead already and just won't admit it?"
Brown slumped into the seat and gazed out the window at the fields blurring by. "Well, we'll just have to make it official, won't we," he said softly.
"Just kiss 'im, Wils," Lavagni said in a solemn voice. "That's the closest thing to a last rite he'll ever get."
"I'll kiss him with an amen then," the huge Negro muttered.
* * *
Bolan was at the self-serve coffee bar helping himself to an early morning refresher when the stewardess came in and told him, "Orly Airport in about twenty minutes, Mr. Ruggi."
He said, "Thanks," and wondered what else she had on her mind. She had not walked all the way back there simply to tell him that.
"Are you traveling with Mr. Martin?" she asked casually, confirming Bolan's assessment of her motives.
"No," he replied. "I'd never heard of the guy. Who is he?"
"Come on, you're kidding," the girl said. "You're his double, aren't you."
"Double for what?"
"Come on now, Mr. Ruggi."
Bolan relented and grinned. The girl was standard overseas-airline sleek, chic, leggy, with jet black hair, smooth skin — pretty, interesting enough for any man, the Gil Martins included. "How do you know he's not my double?" he asked, using a teasing tone.
She was not to be teased. Eyeing him thoughtfully, she raised a hand and fingered his sideburns. Bolan caught the hand and held it — this was getting out of control. "We don't really look that much alike," he said gruffly.
"Side by side, no," she replied, laughing softly to gloss the moment of tension. "But..."
Bolan said, "Drop it, please. It's not what you think."
"No, it's not," she replied, still speculatively eyeing him. "I had it all wrong. He's the ringer. I should have known, he's too blah. You bring him along to run interference for you, don't you."
The ex-GI from Pittsfield had not been trained for jet-set maneuverings; the man of him, however, knew that he was being rushed. The whole thing seemed entirely out of character for an airlines stewardess, in Bolan's view at any rate, and he was having trouble reading the signs. He gave her back her hand, forced a laugh, and said, "You're wrong all the way. Seriously. Would you like to see my passport?"
She shook her head, apparently deciding to ignore his protestations, and said, "Are yon staying in Paris long?"
"Couple days, maybe."
Her eyes gleamed with sudden mischief. "Your double is going on to Rome, or so his ticket says."
Bolan said, "Frankly, I don't give a damn where he's going. How can I convince you"
"Orly is my turnaround port," she said quickly. "I'll be there until Friday."
Okay, he thought, so the signs were becoming infinitely more readable. "That's nice," Bolan replied.
"I usually stay at the Pension de St. Germain when I'm laying over."
"Why?"
The girl seemed flustered by the direct question. "Well it's cheap and it's clean. And I like the St. Germain area, I guess you're a Right Banker, though — Champs Elysees or bust." She showed him a rueful smile. "On airline pay, it's the pensions or bust for darned sure."
"What's a pension?" Bolan asked, though he already knew.
"It's a boarding house."
Bolan said, "Oh."
"Not exactly," she quickly added. "They're family type hotels. You get room and three meals for about 30 francs a day, and that's where all the action is, you know, Left Bank."
Yes, Bolan knew. "Thirty francs a day is cheap?"
She wrinkled her nose. "That's only about five dollars."
The game could go on indefinitely. Bolan decided to end it. "Yeah, that's cheap," he agreed. "Okay, maybe I'll try your Left Bank."
"Pension de St. Germain," she reminded him.
"Okay."
"I'm Nancy Walker."
Bolan smiled. "Sounds like a brand of whiskey."
"No, wine," she flashed back, vamping him with an ultra-feminine smile, "Heady, romantic, nice to the taste and absolutely no hangover."
She left him standing there, open-mouthed and re-fleeting that the Gil Martins of the world certainly had it made. He finished his coffee and returned to his seat, arriving there as the seat belt announcement was being delivered.
Bolan buckled in and watched the man across the aisle. Yes, he decided, there were certain superficial similarities — he could see how the stewardess could have been misled into her erroneous conclusion. Martin was a surly type. He had spent the entire trip absorbed in a paperback book, sporadically dozing, awakening, and grimly returning to the reading, then dozing again — totally anti-social and ignoring repeated approaches by the stewardess and the passenger alongside him.
Bolan suddenly grinned to himself, a vision forming in his mind. Maybe, for a short while, Gil Martin, who the hell ever he was, would know how it felt to not have it made. If Bolan could be mistaken for Martin, then why couldn't Martin be mistaken for Bolan? If the French gendarmes were waiting down there at Orly, with copies of those composite photos of Bolan's new face to guide them, there could be a real comic opera down at the customs gate.
Things could be swiftly set straight, of course, with no more damage than the ruffling of a celebrity's tail-feathers, but the diversion could be enough to get the Executioner into Paris. It was something worth hoping for.
Bolan's fingers toyed with his false plumage and his mind toyed with this new hope. It would be nice, he reflected, for a while to simply have it made, to play and laugh and luxuriate in relaxed human companionship. Not that much hope, buddy, he chided himself. That's Paris down there, not Oz or Wonderland. Your hands are alive to kill, not to lovingly stroke a pulsing female form. You're the Executioner, damn you, not the playboy of the western world. Yeah, but it would be nice. For a while. The Executioner in Paris, gay Paris.
Bolan abruptly flung the idea from his mind. That was hell down there, not Paris. Only the strong and the resolute walked through hell. He meant to make that w
alk. And exit standing. A war awaited him, commanded him.
Goodbye, Paris. Hello, Hell.
4
Engagement at Orly
After a brief delay in the holding pattern and an instrument landing through a dense ground fog, they were down, and off, and streaming inside the terminal building, Bolan keeping Gil Martin in sight, sleepy-eyed inspectors amiably waving them on through Passport Control with not even a glance at the precious documents. Bolan could hardly believe it, then he did not believe it at all. An inspector stuck out a hand as Bolan drew abreast and said softly, "Vetre passeport, s'il vous plait."
Bolan sighed and produced the little folder. "Okay," he said in as bored a reply as he could manage, "Le voici." He had not used his French for some years, except in the rather limited and infrequent brushes with French-speaking Indo-Chinese, but he was happy to be able to handle the small formalities with as little fuss as possible.
Gil Martin had been stopped also, Bolan noted with some satisfaction, and was not faring quite so well; he obviously handled French not at all, and an English-speaking inspector was being dispatched to the scene.
Bolan's inspector was smiling at him and comparing his face with the image on the passport. Bolan fingered the growth at his face and lightly commented, "La moustache, les pattes; c'est un difference, eh?"
The inspector chuckled and replied, "Vive le difference, Monsieur Ruggi. Combien de temps comptezvous rester?"
He wanted to know how long Bolan would be in France. "A few days," Bolan told him. "Quelques jours."
The inspector smiled again and returned the passport. "Bon visite, Monsieur."
Bolan thanked him and went on toward the customs section. A porter intercepted him and tried to take his bags, insisting that he could smooth his way and save him money. Bolan declined, kept his bags, and selected a fast-moving line. The inspection seemed to be little more than a formality, with most of the delay being caused by the confusion of the passengers rather than by the officials. Bolan lit a cigarette and casually looked back for a progress check on Gil Martin. The look-alike had finally cleared Passport Control and was hurrying into the customs area, following closely on the heels of a porter who was carrying an overnighter and a matching larger bag. To an untrained eye, this was the status on Gil Martin; to Bolan's eyes, much more was developing. Martin was quietly and inconspicuously being surrounded by a crew of plainclothes cops who, even without Martin's knowledge, were maneuvering him toward one of the private inspection rooms. At the last minute, Martin seemed to realize what was happening. He balked at the doorway and raised his voice in an angry argument but was pushed on through, the door closing behind him and sealing in the heated discussion.
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