"What goes with Michael Andrews?"
"Anything, and nothing," Leo answered. "He's the mouthpiece for the conference there in Arkansas. Statistically he's number four in order of succession to the chairmanship, but two of those ahead of him are in their seventies, with one foot in the grave and one on a banana peel. A miracle or two could put him at the helm inside a year."
"What kind of weight would he be carrying?"
"That's difficult to say. The conference is regional, of course, but you can buy a lot of juleps with the yearly net."
"They're heavy into agribusiness?"
"Bet your life, but that's not half of it. There's light and heavy industry, recording studios — including most of Nashville, by the way — and half a dozen other areas, from chemicals and oil to shipping. If it operates in Dixie, chances are the SBC has interests in the deal. A bold new farmers' union definitely would not make the bankers' day."
"Agreed. But it's a giant step from being pissed to paying terrorists and hit men."
"Granted. No one here believes the conference as a whole is compromised. Selected members have been linked to Freeman and the Vanguard — Andrews among them, by the way — but others wouldn't let the bastard have the time of day."
"What kind of leverage does that give us?"
"Well, it's touchy. Proof of Andrews's link with Freeman could produce some major heat inside the conference, but you never know who might get burned. If Justice wound up tied to the exposure, there'd be hell to pay."
"All right, forget it. I've got other plans for Freeman and the Vanguard."
"I was waiting for that."
"Can you build me a jacket?"
"Of course, within reason."
"Of course. What I need is a background like Ritter's... or worse, if you can. Make it rabid, but leave in the greed."
"Prison time?" Leo asked, taking notes.
"Might as well. Make it federal, and move it out west. I don't want any cellmates to show up on This Is Your Life."
"We can swing it, I think. There's an offshoot of Rockwell's old bunch in L.A. that the Bureau keeps tabs on. They're mostly informants these days, taking notes on one another, with two or three head cases thrown in for flavor. They'll cover your action if someone inquires, and I'll rig something up in the files."
They discussed Bolan's cover in detail, agreeing on fine points and working the bugs out. Before they were finished, the soldier was certain his legend would stand up to a casual scrutiny, possibly even to in-depth feelers. If he had to stay under too long, though, there were risks he could not anticipate, could not provide for until they arose. Every time he went under, the risks were unique, with the bottom line always the same. Life or death.
He was counting on speed, but he could not predict what could happen — assuming in the first place, that he got past the Vanguard's security screens. It would not be easy, but Bolan was skilled at role camouflage, with years of experience under his belt in presenting an image for others to swallow. In Nam, in his war with the Mafia, during his later campaigns against terrorists, Bolan had proved that skilled men and women, professional killers, could be deceived by appropriate means. The eyes were inclined to observe what the mind had been trained to expect, and Bolan had sharpened his skills to a fine cutting edge in the course of his war without end.
"Listen, Sarge..." Leo's voice sounded distant, distracted. "I know there's a personal angle on this, but be careful, okay? We've got martyrs we haven't used yet, and I don't need another one."
"Martyrdom isn't my style."
"Pull the other one, will you? I know how you live: on the edge, all the way."
"It's a living," the warrior replied.
"Maybe so, but it could be the other thing, too."
"Not to worry."
"Who, me? Hell, I grow these gray hairs for a hobby, you know that."
"Okay."
"Once you're in there, I can't do a whole lot to help you, all right? Hal would choke if he knew you were pulling this."
"Maybe we shouldn't disturb him."
"Oh, sure. I can hear it all now. 'By the way, Hal, I don't know how to break this to you, but...' He'd have my butt, I guarantee you that."
"I'll leave it up to your discretion then."
"Terrific. Dump it all on little Lenny Justice."
"Hey, you knew it was a dirty job..."
"Before I took it. Yeah, I know. So spare me, will you?"
"Roger."
"Listen, guy... I know it goes against the grain and all, but if you wouldn't mind too much, a little caution in the clinches, okay?"
"My pleasure."
"Bullshit. If you need me, I'll be standing by to help you all I can. Which won't be much."
"I'll see you, Leo."
"Yeah. I hope so."
Bolan cradled the receiver, backtracked to his rented Chevrolet. Little Rock was an easy thirty miles away, and he was in a hurry now. He had so much to do.
Like infiltrating Freeman's Vanguard, the Teutonic Knights or both. Establishing a contact in the upper echelons as soon as possible. Investigating Michael Andrews on the side, and running down connections between the Southern Bankers' Conference and the racist underground in Little Rock and Chatham County.
In the process, he would have to think a bit about the missing Gerry Axelrod, whose fallen empire had become such fertile soil for hate and violence. If the missing fascist's heir was following in his footsteps, there would doubtless be a price tag on the mayhem the farmers' union had experienced. Proving that, with enough evidence to lay before the conference board, was half of Bolan's present battle. Failing that, it might not be enough to simply ice the local führer and his second-in-command. While there was money to be made from bigotry, another greedy redneck would be standing by to fill the leader's empty shoes, and yet another after that.
This time, it might not be enough to simply cut off the serpent's head, as in other antiterrorist campaigns. The Executioner might be required to run his adversaries down, destroy them root and branch, before their special brand of poison could take root, give rise to twisted growths of hatred, inhumanity and bloodshed.
First, however, Bolan had to win the confidence of savages, become accepted as a member of the fold.
It should be simple.
Just like falling in an open grave.
4
It was a thirty-minute drive from Parrish to Little Rock, and Bolan held the rented Chevy at a steady sixty miles an hour as he crossed the line from Chatham County, homing on the capital. He kept an eye out for highway patrolmen in the rearview mirror, letting his mind free-float, drifting from one aspect of his latest campaign to the next, randomly selecting problems for consideration, either solving them or shelving them for later and moving on.
It was the kind of dusk that falls only in Dixie: sultry, sullen, painting angry bruise-tones on the sky. Full dark within another hour. He had just time enough to reach his destination, settle in and turn himself into a piece of furniture before the nightly rituals began.
He had spent the early afternoon touring Parrish, memorizing streets and landmarks, charting country roads that led away from town through gently rolling hills and swampy flats. When he was finished, Bolan felt that he could navigate the town and the surrounding countryside by night or day, without a map or guide. If it became urgent to move from A to B without delay, he had no fear of driving into dead-end alleys, getting lost on shortcuts leading nowhere. He did not know the area like a native, by any means, but well enough.
That done, he had consulted Wilson Brown again, this time by telephone. The ex-lieutenant and onetime football pro had been surprised to hear from him again so soon, but he had been accommodating, answering the soldier's questions when he could, referring Bolan to another likely source when he couldn't. By the time he said goodbye to Brown, Bolan knew the name and address of a hangout in Little Rock favored by the rougher members of the Vanguard and the Teutonic Knights. He also knew the business addresse
s of both organizations, along with the home addresses of their leaders. The information ought to be enough. For now.
His destination was a down-and-dirty honky-tonk establishment that had been christened the Blackboard, for reasons no one living could remember. Bolan thought a visit might prove educational, and if he played his meager cards correctly it might open up an avenue of entry to the Vanguard, the Teutonic Knights or both.
The latter phase of Bolan's plan might prove a little sticky in the clinches, so to smooth the way, he had enlisted Wilson Brown. The big man had heard him out and had agreed to help without hesitation, despite the glaring risks.
"We'll be there," Wilson had promised, and the soldier had never doubted for an instant that the hulking pro would keep his word. He would be there on schedule, ready for the worst, and he would do his part because it mattered to him. The pursuit of justice in the murder of his son would not allow the man to do a job halfway. It would be all or nothing, damn the cost. Bolan thought the trick might be to make him disengage once battle had been joined. He hoped Brown would not forget himself and turn a manufactured incident into a holy war before the time was ripe.
In Little Rock he found the Blackboard easily. He made a drive-by, checking out the neighborhood, the parking lot and access from the rear. He planned no major operations at the bar, but he had not survived this long, against the odds, by leaving anything to chance.
He parked the Chevrolet and locked it, scanned the darkened parking lot before sauntering toward the bar. The suit he had worn to the funeral had been replaced by denim jeans and work shirt, heavy boots with steel-capped toes. He was unarmed, his paramilitary hardware locked in the rental's trunk, away from prying eyes and sticky fingers.
The interior of the saloon was loud and smoky. Country and western music twanged from a jukebox in the corner, Johnny Paycheck mourning love gone wrong. A few states farther west, the Blackboard would have been a cowboy bar, but here in Arkansas it drew the patronage of cabbies and mechanics, factory workers and hardscrabble farmers. The spotty crowd was mostly male and uniformly white, the scattered females sporting heavy makeup and hairdos five or ten years out of style.
You did not need a scorecard to identify the players in the Blackboard. The beefy barman wore a vest that had been fashioned from the Stars and Bars, the battle flag of the Confederacy, and bumper stickers bearing pointed messages were plastered on the wall behind the bar. Support Your Local Police; Get U.S. Out of the UN; Sure, I'll Give up My Gun... When They Pry My Cold, Dead Fingers from the Grips; Kill 'Em All, and Let God Sort 'Em Out. A sticker fastened to the register proclaimed: I Am a Secret Member of the KKK. Mounted on a plaque above the rows of whiskey bottles, the rubber likeness of a black man's head stared down with marble eyes at the patrons of the bar. The plaque bore an inscription, but Bolan had to squint to make it out: A Nigger Tried, A Nigger Died.
Tried what? the soldier wondered. Voting? Drinking at the Blackboard? Organizing farmers to resist a land grab by the big conglomerates? It was not worth his time to try to penetrate the minds that had devised the grinning "trophy." Later, if those sick minds needed airing out, he had the tools in hand... or rather, in his car. For now, he was a mere outsider, studying the layout, trying to belong.
He ordered beer and took it to a table near the door, examining his fellow patrons as he put the suds away. Gruff men with callused hands washed none too recently, their names stitched on the breasts of uniforms and coveralls. At the Blackboard short hair was definitely in, as was hair oil, slick and shiny. The skin of many of the drinkers had been darkened by prolonged exposure to the sun until their pigment fairly matched the dark complexion of the trophy on the wall. Strong forearms, here and there exposed by rolled-up sleeves, were thick with hair and decorated with tattoos.
He drank and eavesdropped on the conversation of his nearest neighbors, seated at the bar. They aired complaints about their jobs, told jokes involving sex and race.
Bolan drained his beer and flagged the barmaid for another, watching her retreat in the direction of the bar. He had a firm fix on the label of her tight designer jeans when another supple body intervened and blocked his field of vision.
"Buy you a drink, stranger?"
Tracking upward from curvaceous hips, lingering appreciatively on a well-filled tank top, Bolan settled on a pretty face that would have benefited from removal of half its makeup. Honey-colored hair had been trimmed to shoulder length, and framed the smiling face with what appeared to be natural curls.
"I think that's supposed to be my line," he replied.
"Well, fine. I thought you'd never ask."
The shapely new arrival settled in an empty chair at Bolan's table, making certain that her knee made contact with his own in the process.
"I'm Vicky. Who are you?"
"I'm Mike. Mike Bowers."
Bolan paid the barmaid for his beer when she returned and ordered a Scotch and soda for the lady. He had not been looking for companionship, but if the opportunity arose to gather information on his quarry, he could not afford to turn away.
"I haven't seen you here before," she said. "I would have noticed."
"I just got in town this afternoon," he told her.
"Transfer?"
"Mmm?"
"Your job?"
He shook his head. "No job. I'm looking, but it isn't an emergency. Not yet."
"You don't look like a family man to me."
"You've got good eyes."
"I don't waste time on family men."
"Me neither."
Vicky laughed at that and sipped her drink, pronounced it satisfactory. "They water down the whiskey, lots of times. I guess they're feeling generous tonight."
"My lucky day."
"Could be."
He glanced around the smoky room. "You come here often?"
"Often as I can. Sometimes I get burned out on nothing but the same old faces, if you follow me."
"I know exactly what you mean."
"I'll bet you do, at that."
He nodded toward the rubber trophy on the wall. "Another satisfied customer?"
Vicky's smile turned brittle. "Only coon you'll ever see in here's the rubber kind. The Blackboard's strictly out of bounds to shines. You got a problem with that?"
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
"All right. I knew we'd get on fine."
"Fact is," he told her, "I've been hearing tales about the Blackboard."
"How you spelling that?"
He smiled. "I'm told this is the place to make connections if a man is interested in standing for his race."
Vicky's smile slipped a notch. "That's not for me to say."
"I was told to ask for Mason Ritter."
"You one of those Kluxers?"
"Let's just say I'm shopping."
"Mason isn't here tonight. Not yet, anyway. If it's night-riding you're interested in. I might be able to help you out." That so?"
"I'm always in the market for a wizard under the sheets."
"That's pretty near the best offer I've had all day."
"Pretty near?" She pretended to pout as he ordered more drinks. "Now you're making me jealous."
"No call."
"It's too noisy in here. Why don't you and me go for a ride?"
"In a bit," Bolan said, stalling. "No point rushing things."
"Damn, you're a strange one."
"How's that?"
Most fellows would've had me in the parking lot by now, or tried to, anyway. You're not as sudden."
"Were you going somewhere?"
"Might."
"Then I'll doubtless hate myself in the morning for missing my chance."
"Smooth talk."
"I'm trying."
"You've had practice. I can tell."
"Not lately."
"Oh? Why's that?"
"I've been away."
"Like out of state or something?"
"Something."
"Somewhere without gir
ls?"
"I didn't notice any."
Vicky frowned. "Have you been doing time?"
"Let's just say I was a prisoner of conscience."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"My conscience didn't bother me when others thought it should have."
She laughed. "That's pretty good." She sobered, adding, "I don't have a thing against a fellow who's done time, as long as he comes out the same way he went in. You follow? I mean, sometimes boys who go in feeling macho come out acting sweet, you know?"
"I haven't got a sweet bone in my body," he assured her.
"I believe that I could find one if I tried."
"That sounds like fun."
"Your place or mine?"
Before he had a chance to answer, angry voices sounded from the corner near the jukebox. Bolan turned in time to see two patrons squaring off, fists raised. The taller of the two was red in the face from drink or anger or both, and weaving on his feet. His shorter adversary had a cooler head, or maybe just a better tolerance for alcohol; before the burly barkeep made his way across the room, the little guy had landed half a dozen blows that left his opposition stretched out on the floor, blood streaming from his nose.
The barman waved a sawed-off pool cue in the winner's face and ordered him outside. Two spectators from ringside scooped up the loser and half carried, half dragged him in the direction of the door.
"Nice crowd."
"You meet a better class of gents inside the walls?"
"Not necessarily."
"What were you in for, anyway?"
"You sure you want to know?"
"I'm asking."
"Well, let's say I had a difference of opinion with some fellows of the African persuasion. They were looking for a fight, and I was handy."
"So you beat them up?"
"I shot them."
"Shot them?"
"Three. I would've got the fourth, but he was clocking better time then Jesse Owens."
"Who?"
"Forget it."
"Did you kill them?"
Bolan shook his head. "My aim was off. One of them limps a bit these days; another sings soprano."
The Fiery Cross Page 4