Acapulco Rampage

by Don Pendleton

  It was not plush, nor had it been advertised as such by the travel agent from whom Bolan rented it. “Budget villa” was the classification—and it fit. The stucco was cracking, the floors creaked, and the furniture was a bit tattered—but the place was clean, private, and entirely adequate for Bolan’s quiet needs.

  He had his weapons cache there as well as other necessities for survival in warfare, a varied wardrobe of clothing, miscellaneous gear for the tourist look, and a rented vehicle. He’d visited the place only twice during his stay in town; he hoped to tell it goodbye forever within a few hours, at most.

  He showered and shaved and selected a wardrobe befitting the moment—dark slacks and open-neck shirt with black cravat, soft shoes and subdued socks. Next, he strapped on the Beretta shoulder rig and tested the action, then drew on a light denim sport coat and inspected himself in the mirror.

  Finally, he dropped sunglasses into the coat pocket and went away from there.

  He sensed something “off key” at the Royal villa even as he made his approach, which was customarily a cautious one, no matter how routine the event.

  Royal’s car was not present, for one thing. For another, there were no lights except for a couple of patio lanterns on the ocean side.

  He went on by, and parked several hundred feet beyond the villa, near a public access to the beach. This was the quiet hour on the east bay, a time when most visitors were catching their breath from the daytime activities and preparing for the excitements of the evening. By eight o’clock, things would be humming again with fun and festivities. Right now, it was quiet, almost eerily so.

  Bolan went to the beach and walked along the high tide mark until he reached Royal’s, then made a quick pass over the wall and dropped into the shadows, senses and supersenses flaringly alert to the situation there. Both told him that something was definitely wrong. He moved on to the pool and showed himself in the patio light, lit a cigarette, waited, and felt the night.

  Someone was in the pool.

  He found the switch and turned on the underwater lights, then moved to the edge for a closer look.

  Yeah.

  The corpse wore white. He was on his back, eyes staring up at Bolan through eight feet of water.

  “That’s One,” Bolan muttered and went on to the house.

  True to the wriggly premonitions, he found Two curled on the floor in front of a couch in the game room. It was the one and only John Royal, hog tied and head shot.

  A marksman’s medal lay beside the body.

  Bolan picked up the medal and inspected it closely, then dropped it into his pocket.

  Royal’s body was still a bit warm. There were powder burns very evident on the shattered head. A big piece had done it, at very close range.

  He found the shell casing under the couch.

  A big piece, yeah.

  “I told you no promises, guy,” Bolan muttered angrily.

  He went to the cupboard where he’d stashed the .44 AutoMag—and, sure, it wasn’t there.

  How very neat.

  The bed where Martha Canada had lain still bore her imprint—but the lady wasn’t there.

  An over-the-shoulder bag containing cosmetics and miscellaneous junk hung from a peg in the powder room—but the Tampico Kids were not there.

  No one was there but Bolan and two men recently dead.

  He returned to the pool for another look at One. There were no visible wounds. Probably the poor guy had simply been held under until the inevitable occurred, then released to find his own level in the depths. A Mexican male, in servant’s white.

  It was not quite eight o’clock. Two hours earlier, Royal had declared that he’d “sent home” all his help.

  Where’d this guy come from?

  Bolan was trying to find a time logic.

  The drive to the airport had consumed some ten to fifteen minutes. Which meant that Royal and the girls could have arrived back at the villa at around 6:15 or 6:20.

  Everything must have been okay, at that moment. Apparently he’d decided to call his houseman back to duty, and there’d been time for the guy to get there and die with his boss.

  Why?

  Bolan strolled to the beach gate and stared onto the bay for a moment. Suddenly he knew what else was “not there.”

  One of the boats was missing. There had been two of them tied to the pier when Bolan and Royal left for the airport—a ChrisCraft cruiser and an outboard runabout. So now there was just the runabout.

  He went on to the pier, walking slowly and looking for signs. And he found one. A fresh cigar butt, well-chewed and still soggy, was wedged between the footboards of the pier, as though someone had stepped on it and smashed it through the crack. Bolan left it there and went back to the house, recalling other “signs” in the game room which merited closer attention.

  On a table near JR’s body was a large ceramic ashtray, clean except for a long cigar ash and a small pile of burnt paper matches—burnt almost to the very tip, each of them.

  He examined the body more closely, looking for burns.

  There were no burns. But he did strike some paydirt in Royal’s right fist. He had to pry the objects out of that death grip—and then he wasn’t sure of what he had.

  It was an empty match folder, with Cantina Lola imprinted on the flap.

  Also a miniature replica, about an inch long, of the famed underwater statue off Roqueta Island—The Virgin of Guadalupe.

  The matchbook, sure, that was easy. The burnt matches in the ashtray had been torn from that book. JR had known that his time had come. The empty matchbook was a message from a dead man.

  But what was the Virgin of Guadalupe?

  Bolan spent another ten minutes shaking out signs, and he found the biggy almost precisely where he’d started. The Royal villa was bugged—and damned cleverly, at that. He found the first wireless mike planted atop a bookcase in the game room. The rest came easy. Every room in the house was planted, even the bathrooms.

  He went outside to look for the transceiver. There had to be one, and close by. He found it atop the pool house, a cute little package of solid state technology about the size of a cigarette carton.

  It was a perfect setup. A boat could lay off out there in the middle of the bay and monitor that collector.

  And even the patio had ears. He found that one cleverly woven into the fabric of the umbrella which shaded the very table at which he and Royal had sat and talked, a few hours earlier.

  Spielke? Surely not. He would have known about the airport stunt in plenty of time to head it off.

  Who, then?

  Dark corners of the Bolan psyche were drawing in on the center. Who indeed? Who had the big stake in Acapulco?

  Bolan went away from there very quickly, then, and pulled a lot of gyrations with the vehicle to make certain that no one could possibly be on his tail, after which he went looking for a public telephone with combat stretch.

  He found one near a sidewalk beer garden on the Costera, and made his call. It took him awhile to get Spielke’s ear, and he wasted no time with preliminaries when he got it.

  “The deal is not sealed yet, Max. I have a question for you. John Royal. Did you burn him down?”

  The Man sounded very far away. “Johnny? Burned?”

  “All the way. Tell me a simple yes or no, and I’ll believe you. He wasn’t part of the deal, anyway. Did you or didn’t you?”

  “Course I didn’t!” the Man fumed. “I don’t even know what you’re—”

  “Know where all your boys are?”

  “They’re right here. We’ve been in a planning parley ever since you left. Nobody touches Johnny without my say-so. They all know it. I didn’t say so, Bolan. What happened? Where are you?”

  “Are those your bugs?”

  “What? What?”

  “Johnny’s villa is lousy with electronic ears. You didn’t know?”

  A very long silence ensued, which Bolan himself finally broke. “I guess you didn’t
. Who do you think does, Max?”

  The reply came as a mechanical monotone. “I don’t know. But I guess I better be finding out.”

  “It’s a new game, Max.”

  “I want no part of you, Bolan. Stay out of my hair.”

  “I’ll try. I’m still looking to seal that deal, guy. It’ll just take a bit longer, now. You still interested?”

  “More than ever. Listen. Keep me posted. Will you?”

  “Check your own joint,” Bolan suggested.

  “What?”

  “For ears.”

  “Oh. Hell.”

  The line went abruptly dead.

  Bolan grinned solemnly and returned to his vehicle.

  There was a new game in town, sure.

  The next move seemed to be Bolan’s. And it sure as hell did not involve a disengagement from Acapulco.

  Bolan felt it in his shivers.

  A hard war lay directly ahead.

  13: Clear Darkly

  The ticklish task had required considerable maneuvering and several frustrating misfires, but Bolan had finally achieved the “clear” connection. Even so, it was necessary that the language be severely shaded.

  The voice at the other end was that of Leo Turrin, the best kind of friend a man like Bolan could hope to find. Leo wore two hats, a white one and a black one—both with very high crowns. He was both a high-level federal cop and an almost-Capo with a powerful eastern family.

  “Okay, this is clear,” said the voice of friendship from far away. “Is it warm where you are?”

  There had been no contacts since Colorado.

  “Very,” Bolan replied. “It’s an international call, Sticker, so I don’t know how many ears it’s going through.”

  “Right, understood. How are things in Mexico?”

  “Very interesting. When did you hear my arrival?”

  “It came down a few hours ago, like little birds.”

  This could be highly important. Bolan asked, “Black birds?”

  “Oh, both colors. Everybody’s interested, Striker.”

  “That figures, but I’m just a bit surprised at the routes. I thought it was gift wrapped. Which flag flew first?”

  “The white one,” Turrin replied. “What time you got there, now?”

  “Quarter to nine.”

  “Okay, the white flag went up at about five, your time. Black one a little before six.”

  “You sure it came in that order?”

  “Positive. Is it that important?”

  “Could be,” Bolan told him. “Remember Butch Cassidy?”

  “Sure do. How’s it going with old Butch?”

  “Bad. His horse died this afternoon.”

  “Hey, that didn’t come,” Turrin said quickly. “Are you sure about your information?”

  “Very sure. I was there.”

  “Oh hell. Somebody might get unhappy about that. He was wired, you know, by big white daddy.”

  “Yeah, well, tell big daddy the wires had gotten frayed. I never agreed to those wires, you know. They were not cut casually, Sticker.”

  “If you say so, okay with me,” Turrin replied soberly. “I’ll pass it along. Uh, what’s happening now?”

  “Damned if I know. It’s why I called. Thought maybe you could tell me.”

  “No, hell, this is the first I’ve heard. The birds just dropped the spots, with no amplifying remarks. Come to think, that’s kind of strange in itself, isn’t it? Uh, we’re all wondering what it’s like, down there.”

  “Both sides are wondering, are they?”

  “Yeah. What’re you doing for excitement?”

  “The usual tourist stuff. Shopping and sightseeing. Oh, we had a big private yacht run aground down here. Belonged to a local named Spielke. You hear of Spielke?”

  “Oh sure. Damned thing just leaped out of the water, huh?”

  “Something like that. Funny, the guy had all sorts of miseries today. His executive jet did just the opposite. Sort of leaped into the ocean. Right in front of the guy’s house. You didn’t hear all that?”

  “Was this before or after Butch’s horse died?”

  “After. I think the horse race started the whole disaster kick. Spielke says to hell with it. He doesn’t want any more racing.”

  “Oh yeah?” Turrin commented interestedly. “That’s going to make someone very unhappy. Can you verify that?”

  “You can take it as gospel—and I think someone already is very unhappy. I need to know, Sticker. Who’s got ears on Spielke?”

  “God, I don’t know,” said the voice from Pittsfield. “I never heard of any.”

  “Black or white?”

  “You got it.”

  “Well tell me this. Who was riding with Butch Cassidy?”

  “Riding with him?” Turrin paused to think that one over. “Well, let’s see, you knew about the Rover boys. They been there a long time. I mean, you know, we discussed that way back—when? Motor town?”

  “Right,” Boland replied. “You saying they ride the international meets, too? Are they licensed for that?”

  “Well, no, not really. But I wouldn’t be surprised. Rules are made because you’re expected to break them, you know.”

  “You saying he has an escort, wherever he goes?”

  “No, I’m saying he might have.”

  “Could you find out?” Bolan pressed on.

  “I can try. Will you call me later?”

  “Let’s say exactly four hours later. Can you make that?”

  “I’ll make it,” Turrin assured him. “What else should we talk about?”

  “Do the Rover boys have a close thing going with Pancho Villa?”

  “You mean, with the Rover boys South? I, uh, in certain matters. Not these.”

  “I see,” said Bolan. “Okay, where does that leave me? Where’d the white flag come from?”

  “I’ll try to find out.”

  “Thanks. Also look at the ears on Spielke.”

  “Pretty big ones, are they?”

  “Oh, hell, monstrous. You could call him Dumbo and fly him anywhere.”

  Turrin chuckled. “I don’t get in on all the fun, you know. But I can check around. If the ears are there, I’ll find their daddy.”

  “We got a real attraction down here,” Bolan said chattily. “You ought to look into it. It’s called the Virgin of Guadalupe.”

  “Hell, that’s remarkable,” Turrin said. “How old is she?”

  “You do that with a capital V and a capital G. It’s a big statue, under the water.”

  “What the hell’s it doing under the water?”

  “Got to give the people in the glass bottom boats something to look at, dummy. Anyway, would you look into that for me? It could be very interesting.”

  “A statue, huh?”

  “Yeah. I think it has a hidden meaning.”

  “Uh huh. Okay. I’ll put it on my list of things to see. You have any good gossip for me? Something to make me popular?”

  “Blacks or whites?”

  “Either or both,” Turrin replied, chuckling.

  “There’s plenty, but I just don’t know how to put it delicately, Sticker. It maybe should save for later. Here’s one, though. You could tell big white daddy that the Central American horsemen went down with Butch—the first and second spots, that is.”

  “Oh. Really?”

  “Yeah. And, uh, tell him also that it’s very clean around here, from what I can see. I mean I see no movements, no pollution of any kind. Except in the mouth.”

  “Uh huh. All right. That about it?”

  “For now, yeah,” Bolan said.

  “Okay. We have a date for, uh, one o’clock, your time.”

  “Don’t fidget if I’m a bit late. I don’t know what I’ll be doing at precisely one o’clock. It’s a swinging town.”

  “Like that, huh? Okay. Watch your swinger, guy.”

  Bolan chuckled. “With both eyes,” he said, and broke the connection.

  Whe
n he went to the desk to settle the charges, the girl asked him, “Deed your connection make clear?”

  “Very clear,” he told her. “Yes, ma’am, it was very clear.”

  Very clear, yeah—but what exactly had it changed in the know and don’t-know departments?

  Trot them out and count them up, swinger.

  Okay. He knew that the FBI either might or might not have been keeping Cass Baby under close surveillance while out of the country.

  He knew that the New York boys might or might not be the ones wearing electronic ears in Mexico.

  He knew that “Bolan contact” reports had sped along both the federal and the underground alert systems, and that somehow the feds had known of Bolan’s Acapulco presence a full hour before the mob knew.

  Surprising? Sure. It was a land built for surprises.

  Finally, he knew that he was in a hell of a bad tactical position—the very worst, from Bolan’s disciplined combat point of view. He was shadow-boxing in the dark, and for a man with the whole world on his ass, that was—yeah, right—the very worst of all positions. Like wearing a blindfold and boxing gloves to an orgy. You could find a tangle, sure, but God only knew where you’d end up in the daisy chain.

  As both a lover and a fighter, Mack Bolan was a man who preferred to call his own shots.

  He’d have to be doing something about the tactical position, and very quickly.

  Or, maybe, lose it all to the phantoms of Acapulco.

  14: Virgin View

  Bolan left his car close to the Costera to invade the red light district on foot. It was an interesting and “atmospheric” section of Old Town, with its dives, brothels, strip joints, and after-hours clubs.

  Most of the brothels doubled as cantinas, and every cantina was a brothel. So, incidentally, were the dives and strip joints.

  It was a bit early yet, and the district was relatively calm. In a few hours, the whole place would be in high tempo, though not reaching a peak in certain quarters until three or four o’clock in the morning. Some places blasted on until eight and nine.

  Mexican authorities traditionally prohibit female tourists from entering such districts at any time of the day or night, for whatever reason. In Acapulco, it was a bit different. “Straight” couples were welcomed, even encouraged, and several of the clubs in this quarter of Acapulco had attained true “in-scene” status, especially for the after-hours crowd.