“What do you mean?”
“There were no personal complications between you?”
She smiled wryly at the zapote and gave a rather bitter little reply to that accusation. “My own father thinks the same way.”
“It’s a natural assumption,” Bolan said lightly. “Most of the world thinks that way.”
“Well, think again,” she said. “Is he really dead?”
Bolan nodded his head. “Does the thought tear you up?”
“Later, maybe. Right now I’m just sort of numb. But listen, I—why should I care what you think? Who are you?”
He smiled and said, “Later. First, I need a perspective on your relationship to the deceased.”
“Strictly business,” she muttered. “I respected him, I liked him—at first—but there was absolutely nothing else between us.” She lifted those great eyes to search his. “Is he really dead?”
Bolan sighed and handed her the telephone. “Call your hotel. Ask for Cassiopea. But don’t identify yourself.”
“What will that prove, if he isn’t there?”
Bolan said, “Just do it. If I’ve read the Man correctly, you could be in for a revealing surprise.”
“Who is this man you keep talking about?”
“Just do it. Make the call, dammit.”
She did, and her gaze lurched at Bolan as she replied to some information from her hotel switchboard. “Of course he’s registered,” she said angrily.
“Find out if you are,” Bolan suggested.
Her eyes flashed. “Let me speak to Miss Canada, then—Miss Martha Canada.”
Bolan muttered, “Get ready for a shock.”
She whispered, “Thank you,” into the telephone, hung up, and said to Bolan, “Well, that is very weird. They say that neither of us is registered there.”
“The Man works very fast his wonders to perform,” Bolan soberly told her. “You want to know who he is? He’s the sultan of Acapulco and points south. He runs a very tight ship, and right now, I’m afraid, Martha Canada is a glaringly loose end in his scorched earth cover-up. Are you convinced?”
The girl bit her lip as she dug into the purse for a small memo book. She riffled the pages, found the information she sought, and again worked the telephone.
“Play it cool,” Bolan advised. “Tell nobody where you are.”
Her eyes signaled that understanding and remained fixed on Bolan’s cold gaze while she awaited the connection.
“Yes, buenas tardes—do you speak English?”
That wide-eyed gaze maintained penetrating contact with Bolan.
“Yes, thank you. I am Martha Canada. I am Mr. Cassiopea’s secretary. I was told I could reach him at this number. Yes, thank you.”
She covered the transmitter and reported to Bolan, “It’s a man with a Mexican accent. He’s gone to ask someone.”
“Oh, yes—who is this again, please? John Royal! Oh. I’m sorry to disturb you—I didn’t know. Mr. Cassiopea left this number in case of—is he there?”
She signaled Bolan with her fingers and angled the receiver outward for his monitoring. He leaned forward, his face touching hers, to listen to a very familiar voice.
“… and don’t ask any questions, Miss, just listen and take it for gospel. Don’t go to your hotel—don’t go near it. They’re probably waiting for you there. Don’t ask who they are and don’t doubt for a minute that there’s nothing left for you in this town, so do as I say. Don’t go to the cops, and for God’s sake not to the American consulate. Just get out of the country as fast as you can shake it.”
“Mr. Royal, I—”
“Wait, better not try the airport. They could be looking for you there, too. Take a bus to Mexico City and work out something from there. If it was me, lady, I’d hire a cab to Mexico City. Listen, don’t call here again and don’t—”
“Mr. Royal! Where is Mr. Cassiopea?”
“Don’t you have it yet, lady? I never heard of the guy—and, if you’re smart, neither did you.”
Royal hung up.
Bolan took the phone from a dazed young lady as he told her, “The town is shaking with scorched earth.”
“But why?” she whispered. “It’s crazy.”
He pressed a marksman’s medal into her hand. “Because of this,” he said quietly. “And because of the Acapulco Conference.”
“What is this?” she asked, inspecting the bull’s-eye cross with troubled eyes.
“It’s my signature,” he told her. “My name is Bolan.”
“Far out!” she gasped, and fainted dead away.
He lifted that technically nude body in gentle arms and carried her to the bed. His hands tingled from the touch of her, and transmitted shock waves in reverberating patterns from his skull to his feet.
“You’re quite a scorcher, yourself,” he told the unconscious beauty, then went to the bathroom to wet a towel.
No, dammit, it was no time for fun and games, love and laughter.
The Executioner had come to Acapulco for an all-consuming purpose.
He had come to shake their Mexican house down.
4: The Smell
Acapulco is one of those rare constellations of the North American scene, a truly international resort city. It is Las Vegas set to water, minus the casinos—Miami Beach shrunk to country club size to combine free spirit with clannish intimacy—Cannes without a film festival.
And more, of course. Acapulco is perpetual Carnival with elbow room—in two parts. Part One is sunshine, sand, and water—sightseeing and deep sea fishing, waterskis and parachute rides over the bay, shopping and munching or just people-watching at the zocalo—and the standard costume is bikini and/or beach togs, with the accent always on ease and comfort.
Part Two is welcome siesta and colorful sunsets, gourmet dining under the stars and/or in swank surroundings, cocktails in bunches and spectacular entertainment—house parties, yacht parties, beach parties, discotheques, stripjoints, wherever the mood or opportunity inclines—and the dress here is theatrical bordering on the bizarre. Part Two chic for the ladies indulges and encourages their fondest fantasies. As one noted observer has stated, the selection of evening attire is not so much a question of what to wear as who to be. From hot pants to gypsy skirts, sequined slacks to denim jeans, kaftans to braless peek-a-boo—the look is entirely up to the lady, limited only by imagination and courage.
For the men, the costume is comfort. Ties and stiff collars are an unspoken taboo. Comfortable slacks, soft shoes, and fancy shirts are prevalent, with here and there a billowing smock or belted kaftan, a shoulder bag, even a headband and, more and more, free-swinging lockets or charms around the neck on sturdy chains.
Carnival, yeah, but not the hysterical flesh traps of Rio or New Orleans. The Carnival of Acapulco is a perpetual life-style (for the fortunate ones), and it is a thing primarily of the spirit.
There are, also, two Acapulcos. One hovers at the water line or perches on spectacular overlooks, rising high into the azure sky or sprawling along terraced hillsides. The other packs itself onto the narrow strip of earth between the bay and the steep mountains rising to encircle it, and it is here that the quarter-million or so natives live their lives and conduct their daily affairs.
The bay is semicircular—formed, actually, by a pair of peninsulas jutting generally southward into the Pacific in a sort of pincers movement. The west peninsula is “old town,” the original settlement. Near its base is situated the zocalo, or town square, and the principal business district. The older and cheaper hotels are here, as is most of the color and the old world charm of this very colorful city. Towards the southern end of this peninsula are the bullring and jai alai amphitheater, the “morning beaches,” beautiful Roqueta Island.
At the top of old town, on the Pacific side, soars famed La Quebrada, the cliff from which daredevil divers perform for the tourists.
On the bay side are the yacht club, Honda and Manzanillo Beaches, then circling northeasterly to the
top of the bay and Hornos, the “afternoon beach,” La Condesa Beach—the swingers’ haven (gays to the east, please), and the beginning of high-rise luxury hotels.
Bolan’s hotel occupied a hillside overlooking the bay from the east peninsula. Southward from there lay the little companion bay, Puerto Marques, and its Pichelingue Beach, site of the plush villas of the Acapulco elite. On the Pacific side, south, is Revolcadero Beach and its impressive great pyramid hotel, the Princess.
Bolan had selected Las Brisas not only for the relative seclusion and privacy but also because of its geographic place. The east bay was the haunt of the international jet set, and it was here that Bolan’s business was. Movie and TV personalities as well as various world celebrities were as common here as stars in a cloudless night. It was in this atmosphere of glamour and wealth that the new Mafia was establishing franchises and founding empires. It was here that the New Mafia, La Nuova Cosa Nostra, was being forged.
The Acapulco Conference was not so much an event as a continually revolving door, through which big time hoods or their emissaries from throughout the world scurried to make bids and seal deals which would guarantee their places in the new empire.
Max Spielke—known variously as the Sultan, the Man, and Capo Mexicano—was hosting the affair. That latter “title” was an honorary one. Spielke was Jewish, not Italian. He was nevertheless the boss of underground Mexico, and all knew it, the Italians as well as the others.
Acapulco had obviously been regarded as an ideal setting for this new approach to criminal congress, successor to the aborted and disastrous Montreal Meet which had herded them all together in one time and place, ripe for the pickings by an audacious interloper like Mack the Bastard Bolan. Acapulco was a back door to the continent, and it was a constantly swinging one, admitting without fanfare the great and illustrious of the world as well as their antitypes.
Bolan himself had experienced no difficulty whatever in entering the country. He’d picked up a tourist card along with his plane ticket at the airline office in the U.S. Personal identification was never a problem. It was easily and cheaply available almost anywhere—birth certificate, passport, driver’s license, credit cards; if it could be printed or manufactured, it could be bought.
Probably none of those attending the Acapulco Conference were required to worry about such matters, however. They were not fugitives, like Bolan. Even if their movements were being watched by various governments, there would be nothing particularly ominous or even suspicious about a brief vacation to the golden city.
There were other favorable conditions, as well. The official tenor of the Mexican government had recently been toward a leadership role in the Third World of developing nations. Diplomatic and business channels had been widening rapidly in directions pointedly away from the American continent—and a whole new playground was emerging for the Mafia money men who were constantly alert to new and better laundry facilities for their black bucks.
Also, official Mexico had long been the golden land of mordida—the payoff, the kickback. Officials on the take were a rule rather than an exception, and no one seemed to expect them to behave much differently. The mafiosi must have felt right at home in such an environment. Certainly they would know how to exploit the situation to the best possible results.
Bolan and the Canadian cops had shown them in Montreal the folly of mobbing up in an open convention atmosphere. So this time they were trying Acapulco and a revolving door conference, stealthy meetings in small groups, using the beautiful people themselves as their covers.
But Mack Bolan had been with them all the way. Very little of importance happened in the world of Mafia without his knowledge. He was known primarily by his thundering effect, but intelligence was his really strong suit. Without it, there could be no thunder. It was as much a defensive as an offensive weapon; without it, he would have perished long ago.
He’d been onto Cassiopea, of course, since before the Detroit death watch and the first faint rumbles of Montreal—even while the federal strike forces were still whispering the guy’s code name.
Spielke was not that familiar an item. The Mexican arm of the mob had until very recently functioned mostly as a sort of vacation Mafia, almost as a consular function administered for the benefit of vacationing or low-lying hoods. The Man was the one with the contacts, the mordida master and jet-set manipulator. Bolan had rarely heard the guy’s name in any other context. He owned a huge yacht, one of the most impressive villas in the area, and was generally regarded as among the wealthiest and most influential men on the Mexican Pacific coast.
Acapulco was his turf, though, and all who ventured there were warned of the fact. Nothing moved through that underworld area without paying a tax to the Man, none entered without his prior consent, no “business” was transacted except at his pleasure. So it was a tight area—and a quiet one, mob-wise. Bolan’s jungle telegraph had brought him very little news of Mexico, until very recently. Suddenly Acapulco appeared as a major port for heroin and cocaine movements. Then there were rumbles about the international traffic in top-grade party girls, with Acapulco centering as the route of entry into the jet set and all that implied.
Finally, via a watchful eye on Cass Baby, Bolan got wind of La Nuova Cosa Nostra and the Acapulco Conference. He’d been watching them at close range for more than a week now, and this first rumble of thunder was no more than the opening gun of a meticulously planned war.
As to just how deeply involved in all this was the stunning young woman now lying rather nakedly upon his bed, Bolan could not even hazard a guess. He definitely had mixed feelings about the lady, not the least of which were centered upon his own responses to her.
He had approached her with two minds—one very genuinely concerned about her safety, the other curious about the “girlie” angle of the Acapulco scene and wondering whether Martha Canada might shed a bit of light in that dark corner. Logic told him that the lady could not travel with wolves and not carry their odor. And yet …
She was stirring and beginning to fight the cold towel. He tossed it aside and asked her, “Okay now?”
Her eyes recoiled from his close gaze. “What—what happened?” she inquired in a choked voice.
He showed her half a smile. “An accumulation of things, I guess. You passed out on me.”
Awareness abruptly returned, then, and the lady was not enjoying any of it. Her gaze bounced around the room as she asked him, “Why did you bring me here?”
“Not what you’re thinking, I’ll bet,” he assured her. “You’re here, Marty, because I couldn’t think of another safe port for you. You know who I am, don’t you.”
“I know what you are,” she said dully. “The name was loud and clear.”
If you want honesty, you catch them at the borderline of consciousness. The lady did not take to the likes of a Mack Bolan. He accepted that judgment without a flicker of protest, and consigned it to his mental file.
“Then you probably understand that I’m the one who hit Cass Baby. I also took out his companions of the moment—the drug king of Central America and his Honduran lieutenant. They were having a parley on JR’s patio, setting up some new distribution routes, no doubt, for the Kingdom of Misery. But that’s not all; it’s just the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?” she muttered.
“The new world. It’s a Mafia world, lady, and they intend to carve it up right here in Acapulco. They have a lot of tools, and they’re going to work on the weaknesses of the old world. That translates to sex, drugs, greed, the lusting for power, simple egomania, fear, poverty, resignation. You name it, they know all the symptoms and they know just where to make the cut.”
She whispered, “You’ve been seeing too many macho movies.”
“Baloney,” he replied mildly. “Hollywood doesn’t have the guts, the understanding, or the ability to tell it like it really is down here in the slime pits. I’ve been living here for a long time. Where’ve you been living?”
>
She twitched at that, and turned her face to the wall.
Bolan bored on. “Cass’s chief preoccupation for the past few months has been with the flesh lines. He’s been introducing into the new world a steady stream of attractive young ladies with ready bottoms, willing eyes, and charm school manners—entirely captivating young ladies who can be very nice to tired old political hacks, over the-hill generals, and anyone in need with something to trade. That’s just the one side of it. The other side involves extortion, blackmail, grand larceny on a cosmic scale, treason. On which side did you fit, Marty?”
“Go to hell,” the girl muttered.
“And then of course there’s an occasional murder or minor atrocity—a torture-slaying here and there—a young girl who couldn’t quite hack it on the flesh lines sent to oblivion in the slave markets.”
She was slowly coming off the wall. “You don’t really believe all that stuff.”
“I have to believe it. I’ve seen it.”
“From what I hear, you’ve done it,” she snapped.
He shrugged. “I’ve never killed a civilized man. And I’ve never misused a woman, of any type. Not yet.”
“That’s a threat, isn’t it.”
“It’s just a fact,” he replied, showing her some teeth.
Bolan left the bed and went to the closet for his clothing. He started his packing, and told the girl: “I’ll be leaving. The soft watch is over and I’ll be going to my hard base. The rent is paid up here through the end of the week. Stay, if you’d like. I suggest that you do.”
She was sitting up, now, giving him the curious eye. “That’s it?”
“It is,” he said. “Take care. I hope you get back home in one piece.”
“You really think I’m in danger?”
“You heard the king of the silver screen, didn’t you? Of course you’re in danger. The Man is on a panic run. Too much is at stake here to have it toppled by a mere killing or two.”
“I guess I just don’t understand the logic.”
Bolan went on with his packing as he explained the logic to the lady. “If I’m walking along the street out here and two cars come together, and one of the cars catches fire, and I dash over and pull the victims from the burning car, and they’re already dead—do you know what’s going to happen to me?”
Acapulco Rampage Page 3