That big pistol was still looking at him. “Who’s here?”
“Just me.”
“No house servants?”
JR shook his head and managed a wry smile. “I was planning on leaving town.”
“See to the lady,” that cold voice commanded.
The guy stepped around Royal and went into the house. Sure, he had to check it out for himself.
The blonde was just lying there, eyes open, terrified, breathing like the approach of orgasm, maybe just too damned exhausted to move.
JR carried her to a longue. “I guess I know who you are, too,” he told her. “Hang tight. I’ll get you a jolt of tequila.”
She clung to him, shaking away the offer, and managed a few breathless, urgent words. “Mr. Royal!—that man!—do you know who he is? That’s Mack Bolan!”
“I know, I know,” JR replied soothingly.
“He’ll kill you! He’s already—”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said, pushing her firmly back onto the longue.
“He knew this was your house! He came here deliberately!”
“It isn’t my house, lady,” JR said quietly. “And Mack Bolan can’t kill me. I beat him to the job—long time ago. Now you just lie back there and cool it. I’ll get something to warm your innards.”
But he did not.
Bolan came through the doorway at that moment and said, “Royal!”
“Yeah?”
“My name is Bolan.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
The guy just stood there for a long, ripe moment—then he sheathed his weapon and said, “I need your help.”
“You’ve got it,” JR replied immediately.
Who ever said, he wondered, that you only live once. Already, John Royal was living twice.
8: The Sell
The distraught beauty from Detroit was bedded down in a guest room, sleeping off a powerful tranquilizer. Bolan and his host were seated outside—in the sun, where the waning rays could lift some of the moisture from Bolan’s soggy clothing, while he belted coffee and devoured a tray of sandwiches.
“The lady doesn’t like me very much,” Bolan told the actor. “I’m not especially overjoyed with her company, either. I want you to keep her here until the hell subsides. It won’t be long.”
“It’s probably the last place they’d look for her,” Royal agreed. “But I can do more for you than that. Can’t I?”
“Can you?”
“Sure. I know a lot of the secrets around this town. More than they think I do, anyway. They treat me like the village idiot. I’m not that, Bolan.”
“I know you’re not,” Bolan told him.
The faint praise seemed to spark a desire to give something in return. The actor toyed with his cigarette as he said, “I, uh, the lady—I don’t believe she dislikes you. She’s just overwrought.”
“It has been a rough afternoon,” Bolan conceded.
“She’s pretty clean, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. Look, they use everybody they can, however they can. I came into it with eyes wide open. I was broke, a has-been.” His eyes lost contact with Bolan’s. “I guess, uh, with show people—we, uh, what the hell, for most of us, it’s why we go into show business. We want to be loved, see. Not just by somebody but by everybody. Once you’ve had it, Bolan, it’s a tough thing to give up. It’s hard, going back to nowhere. The mob can make it very comfortable for people like me. But, see, I knew what they were doing to me. People like that lady in there, though …”
The actor shook his head and took a long pull on his cigarette.
“Naw, not them. I mean, not really. They see the glamour, sure, the constant flow of money, the excitement and all. But they never see the real shit. Know what I mean? They never really see it. Or if they do, they don’t know what it is.”
“How were they using Martha Canada?”
“Not they—him. Cass. He was a little strange you know. Did you know that?”
“Know what?” Bolan asked mildly.
“The guy was gay.”
“No, I didn’t know that. Does it matter?”
The actor shrugged. “Only so far as the lady is concerned. He was a closet queer. Know what I mean? Lived in constant fear that his bosses would find out. Very discreet, yeah. You’d never tumble, just to look at the guy, would you. The only reason I know is because he came to me to supply him. Imagine that.”
“Why’d he come to you for that?”
Royal chuckled solemnly. “Well, I am a whoremaster, I guess. That’s the practical effect, anyway. Naw—Cass didn’t want just anything that came in off the street. He wanted introductions to cute Hollywood boys. We have plenty of those, you know.”
Bolan shrugged. “To each his own. So what about Marty?”
“Window dressing, I’m sure. Part of the cover, that’s all.”
“He didn’t use her in the recruitment of girls? Or in the placement?”
“Definitely not for placement, no. Cass had nothing to do with that side. As for the recruitment, I’d have to say probably not. He had the babe long before he drew this flesh assignment.”
“You’d never met her before today?”
“Naw. He flashed her at us from time to time. But she wasn’t in the know, and he didn’t want to expose her to any of this. I think he was really trying to keep her out front, visibly clean, dumb and happy.”
“Okay,” Bolan said, accepting it.
“I’m not really a whoremaster, either, Bolan.”
“So what are you, Royal?”
“Same as her, mostly. I mean I’ve never been a procurer. Window dressing, like her, that’s been most of it. I do have contacts. And while I’m not as pretty as she is, I’ve got the glamorous name to hide a lot of shit behind.” He grinned. “And I had this reputation, you know, for the girls. It all just sort of came together, in pieces. First thing I know, I’m the ringmaster and Acapulco is a staging area for the flesh routes. But, hey, this isn’t two-dollar stuff they move through here. I’m just showcasing talent, get right down to it—providing the introductions and making people happy. I never saw any money exchanging hands—and I doubt that the girls ever did. But they live in luxury, have whatever they want, and get a pretty exciting life out of it.”
“For a while,” Bolan said quietly.
“Well, yeah—until the bloom of youth and beauty begins to fade. But, hell, that’s the story in a lot of legitimate careers. Look at Hollywood, God’s sake. But look, I mean, this thing I’ve been into, it’s no white slavery bit.”
“Except,” Bolan said, prodding the guy a little.
“Well, yeah, there are those exceptions. That’s the part gives me nightmares and cold sweats. As long as the girls play the game the way it’s written out for them, well, I guess they have it pretty high.”
“And if they don’t?”
Royal sighed. “Tampico.”
“What about Tampico?” Bolan asked, though he already knew.
“It’s Algiers West.”
“I see.”
“They don’t end well, Bolan.”
“So they don’t.”
“Six of them are headed there tonight.”
“By what route?”
“Company plane—a Lear jet. Comes in from Tampico every day at six. Courier run. Turns right around and goes back to Tampico.”
“Courier plane, huh?”
“Yeah. It’s part of the network. I don’t know what the connections are, beyond Tampico. But there’s a couple of VIPs arriving on today’s flight. Mob guys.”
“You’re telling me this for a reason.”
“Yeah.”
“What is it?”
The actor took in a deep breath and let it escape with a loud sigh. “I’d like to spring those girls, that’s why. So should you. You put them there.”
“I see. The result of a sloppy afternoon, eh?”
“Right. Max is a very tidy man.” Ro
yal made another of those sad chuckles. “It’s kind of weird, you know. Max has no reverence for anything, especially not for human life or happiness. I mean none. But I stood there and watched the guy cry big horse turds over that goddam fucking yacht. Can you beat that? He weeps for his fucking yacht.”
Bolan sighed and said, “Yeah, I can beat it. I met a man once who wept for his soul.”
“What does that mean?”
“Figure it out.”
“Maybe I already did.” The actor took a long look at his wristwatch. “It’s nearly five thirty, Bolan.”
“So it is.”
“Will you go to the airport with me?”
“Yeah, I’ll go. First, I need your telephone.”
Royal’s gaze flicked to the instrument. “It’s all yours.”
Bolan picked it up and dialed a local number from memory. He got a connection on the first ring. A Spanish-accented voice announced, “Spielke villa.”
“Mr. Spielke, please. Mack Bolan calling.”
“Momento.”
Another voice came on almost immediately. It was a hard, no-nonsense tone. “Who’d you say is calling?”
“The name is Bolan. I’m not waiting forever, so trot the man out right quick.”
“If this is a gag …”
“It’s no gag. Get him.”
“Hold on.”
The actor’s eyes were round balls of disbelief. He gasped, “You’re the crustiest damn—”
Bolan shut him down with a wave of the hand as another instrument clicked into that connection. “This is Spielke.”
“I sent you a yacht. Did you get it?”
“You rotten son of a bitch!” The voice was cold with controlled fury. “What did you hope to prove by an insane stunt like that?”
“It proved I could do it. Are you a believer, Spielke?”
“I’d like to talk that over with you, Bolan. Face to face.”
“You’ll get your chance. I didn’t call to taunt you, guy. I want to sell you something.”
“What is this?”
“Call it a hard sell.”
“So what are you selling?”
“I find the yacht market very boring. Think I’ll sell houses.”
There was a long silence on the line as the Man thought that one over. “Just what is it you’re saying?”
“I have the fanciest villa in town wired for doomsday. If you want to buy it, I could take off the wires.”
“You’re a lunatic!”
“Maybe. But I’m pretty good with wires. If you’re not a believer yet, I can show you another trick.”
“I don’t think I’m following you, mister.”
“I guess you’re not. But you’ll learn as we go along. I’m taking your empire apart, Spielke. I’ll send you another piece of it within the hour. You’ll be watching for it, won’t you.”
“Wait a minute here! Let’s understand—”
“No, let’s not waste each other’s time. I can see you’re not ready for a hard sell. I’ll send you another item of belief, then we’ll talk again.”
Bolan hung up and got to his feet.
He said to the actor, “Okay, let’s go to the airport.”
“Well wait. What was all that? Hell, I wish I could have seen his face. What did you mean?”
A faint smile pulled at Bolan’s lips. “Well, I sent him a yacht.”
“Yeah? So?”
“Now I think I’ll send him an airplane.”
“My God!” Royal exploded. “You’re really serious, aren’t you!”
“I have never,” the big guy replied solemnly, “been more serious about anything.”
Royal could believe that.
Yeah. JR was a believer, for sure.
9: The Fly In
By choice, Bolan really did not go in for cute stuff. He much preferred a militarily precise combat order and a straightforward execution of the war, but there did exist those certain situations, from time to time, which seemed to call for a bit of stunting.
Case in point: Acapulco.
There was no mob here, as such. Most of what was here was one man of vast wealth and impressive connections. Maximillian Spielke, and an idea—La Nuovo Cosa Nostra. The man was a naturalized Mexican citizen, respected in his community and seemingly securely affixed within the power structure of the country. The idea was a phantom network of power and ambition that encompassed the globe.
Spielke himself did not hold the patent on the idea; he was merely the executor. Acapulco was not intended to one day become the capital city of the New Mafia; it was more a Potsdam or a Malta, the place where the idea would take flesh and form.
And, speaking of flesh, Acapulco was also the injection point for a dissemination of secret agents to police the new order, a Mata Hari corps which would infiltrate every level of world politics and commerce via the monied jet set. Many of these girls, Bolan knew, were unwitting accomplices to the conspiracy—until it became too late to extricate themselves under any conditions save death or total degradation.
And then there was the matter of narcotics. That scenario, as Bolan knew it, read something like this: The market for illegal drugs was becoming hotter with each passing year, not cooler by any stretch of wishful thinking—despite the almost frantic attempts at control by concerned nations.
What was happening, now, in the U.S. and other Western countries was very similar, both in national mood and in governmental actions, to the situation existing during the prohibition years in America. The people were determined to have the stuff and the governments were reaching that point where they were beginning to admit that they really could not control the situation. Alternatives to total prohibition were being sought. Many American states were already well down the road toward a decriminalization for the use of marijuana. Soon, went the reasoning, the dam against the harder stuff would also begin to crack, if only as a “law and order” measure.
But—one may ask—hadn’t the repeal of prohibition in America wrecked the mobs which had prospered and fattened in the bootlegging rackets?
Indeed not. Those with vision and business sense had merely moved with their ill-gotten wealth into the legal trade. They already owned much of the production capability and had undisputed control over the distribution networks. They became even fatter, and used this new legitimate base as a springboard to sustain and cover other developing rackets.
Bolan did not have the full narcotics picture for the New Mafia, but he did know that their thoughts were running along those lines—and he did know that they were moving vigorously to consolidate their already powerful grip on the international traffic in narcotics.
And the question was definitely on the agenda for the Acapulco conferences. Bolan suspected an attempt toward formation of a narcotics cartel, similar to that forged by the oil producing nations.
There were indications, also, of actual movements of the stuff through the port of Acapulco. Those indications were nothing more than whispers and conjectures, however. Bolan had found no actual evidence of a thriving narcotics market here.
By and large, then, what he had in Acapulco was a phantom by the nostrils.
There was no “mob” to be attacked here.
He had to attack a man—and he had to do that in such a way that the phantom would die with the man.
And, yeah, Mack Bolan had met a man once who wept for his soul … and nothing else. Not for the world or its problems. Not for his brothers and sisters, parents or children. Not for staggered institutions and the decline of human dignity, not for the loss of freedoms or the lack of justice … not even for the loss of love and true respect.
There were people who wept only for their own miserable souls.
Bolan knew, now, that Max Spielke could weep for something. And the Executioner intended to introduce that guy to his own soul. He was going to show him something worth weeping for.
As they drove to the airport, he asked the actor, “How’s the security at that joint on th
e hill?”
“It’s something fierce,” Royal replied. “He’s brought in his army from the Costa Chica. They’re swarming all over the place.”
“Yeah, I have their number,” Bolan said. “But how good are they?”
Royal shrugged. “All I know is what I hear. I’ve only encountered them twice. They look damned efficient to me. And I hear that they’re crack troops. Modern equipment, fantastic discipline. I overheard Max remark, once, that he could subdue small nations with that force. Maybe he was just blowing, but it’s not like Max to blow hard. I’ll tell you something about that guy. He’s a mean son of a bitch. And he always knows exactly where he’s at and what he’s doing. Frankly, I’m scared to death of the guy. He gives me certain leeway—because I think he really likes me, or at least he likes having me around. But he’s mean as a snake.” The actor sighed and took his eyes off the road momentarily for a quick glance at the strong profile of the man beside him. “He won’t be easy to take down. I don’t know just what you have in mind, but …”
“Fun and games won’t do it, eh?” Bolan said quietly.
“I’m not trying to tell you …”
“It’s okay,” Bolan said. “You’ve put your life on the line. You know that. You have a right to speak your mind.”
“My life. Big deal,” Royal said bitterly.
“I can’t promise you that I’m going to pull this off. I don’t want you laboring under any false assumption that you’ve switched to the stronger side. There’s—”
“Hey! If that’s what you think—”
“I didn’t say I thought it, guy. I’m just saying that you shouldn’t. I operate most of the time on the short end of the odds. Because of that, I may seem a bit reckless sometimes. And maybe I am. But I’m never playing games. It’s important that you know that. I get the idea you’re stringing me along, you’re going to be in a very dangerous position. Otherwise, I’ll protect you all I can. But I can’t even promise that.”
“Did I ask for promises?” Royal huffed.
“Okay. Just so you know. What about the joint on the hill? Is there any type of electronic security?”
“Not that I know of,” the actor replied thoughtfully. “They have two-way radios. And people all over everywhere. But if you mean electric eyes and stuff like—I don’t think so. But listen, I can give you a layout of that joint, room by room and—”
Acapulco Rampage Page 6