“Brognola? Yes, he was very close to the Bolan case out there. Left word for him to call. Possibly he can fill us in on the Bolan M.O. in ways that others can’t. I thought it might be helpful.”
“Hell, yes,” Hannon quietly agreed.
“Who’s Brognola?” Wilson inquired.
“Justice Department,” Dunlap explained. “He has actually spoken with Bolan and … well, I guess he was even working with him toward the big Mafia bust out there!” He aimed a pencil toward a manila folder on the desk. “That Project Pointer report there tells all about it.”
“Doesn’t sound exactly kosher,” Wilson commented uneasily.
Dunlap shrugged. “Sometimes we have to go for the end, and not the means. I guess Brognola figured the Mafia was the greater enemy. That’s our big hangup right now, anyway, you know. Federally speaking.” He smiled. “Not to put down the local cops, you understand, but we’re not nearly as interested in everyday street crime as we are in the big underworld combines.”
“I hope you’re not speaking of the present case,” Hannon said heavily. “This is no everyday street crime staring at us. We have one goal, and that’s to prevent a hot war from erupting on our streets. Agreed?”
The federal agent showed his usual cheery smile and said, “I’m yours to command, Captain.” He got to his feet and headed for the door. “I’ll be upstairs. I want to stick close by in case Brognola calls. But yell if you need me.”
Hannon nodded his head and Dunlap went on out. Wilson said, “I get the feeling that guy knows more than he’s telling us. You get that feeling?”
“Hell, I’m sure of it,” Hannon replied dismally. He went over and closed the door, then returned to the desk and sat down with a heavy sigh. “The Justice Department would like to play footsy with Bolan, and that’s the whole truth of the matter. Maybe not the department per se, but someone up there with authority is trying to make intercessions with the police forces around the country. You don’t see the FBI getting all lathered up over Bolan, do you?”
“What do you mean, what kind of intercessions?”
“They’re suggesting it might be in the greater national interest if we just try to contain Bolan. Sort of turn our backs, you know, unless he really gets out of line.”
“And what does he have to do to really get out of line? I mean, sure, so far today all he’s done is gun down a couple of people who were peacefully passing the time of day around the old swimming hole. Where do we draw the line? When Miami Beach starts sliding into the Atlantic?”
The captain grimaced and reached for his pipe. The battered meerschaum in his hand was always a symbol of an inner agitation. “So far Bolan has reserved his gunsights for his natural enemy,” he explained. “He has never harmed a law officer or an innocent bystander. Someone in Washington seems to think he’s performing a national service.”
“Miami isn’t buying that crap, are we?”
“You better bet we’re not, son,” Hannon growled. “They’ll be no Mafia massacres in Miami. I have a request in to the chief now. I’ve asked for an additional fifty men, all motorized. The Executioner is going to strike out in this town, Bob. Or else.”
“Or else what?”
The captain shrugged. “Or else there’s going to be a massacre like we’ve never witnessed.” He pointed a quivering pipestem at the pile of papers atop his desk. “That intelligence data there points conclusively to one thing. A mob-up in Miami. The mob is here. And Bolan must know it.”
“What mob-up? You mean a convention? Like at Appalachian?”
“That is precisely what I mean.”
“Well, goddammit, let’s bust ’em!”
“We can’t bust ’em unless we can find ’em. And I have a feeling that Bolan has the edge in this footrace.”
“Oh, hell,” Wilson said miserably.
“Yeah, that’s what it’s going to be,” said the captain. “Just hell.”
Bolan checked into the Tidelands Plaza, a swank hostelry in the lower beach area, using the name Michael Blanski, and went directly to his room. There he unpacked a new suitcase, removed the tags from a recently purchased Palm Beach suit, and called for service from the valet shop. Next he called room service and put in an order, then carried a small spray-can into the bathroom and silverized the hair at his temples. He critically inspected the job, then added a touch of silver to the locks directly above his eyes. Satisfied, he capped the can and dropped it into the water tank of the toilet.
The door buzzer sounded. He donned his sunglasses and admitted the bellman who brought in a covered tray with bottle, mix, and ice. Bolan inspected the man closely, taking note of his dark hair and skin and slightly foreign manner. “That’s fast service,” he said gruffly, and handed the man a large bill. “Keep it,” he added grandly.
The bellman said, “Thank you, sir. I brought also the late newspaper, it is on the tray. You had something also for the valet shop, sir?”
Bolan took note of the stiffly constructed speech, the soft and barely noticeable improper stressing of syllables. He said, “Yeah,” and pointed to the suit on the bed. “Just get th’ wrinkles out so I’ll look irresistable to the girls, eh.”
The bellman smiled dutifully and crossed to the bed to pick up the suit. “Prettiest girls in the States right here at the Beach, sir,” he advised Bolan.
“Yeah, but they’re spookish. What’s the best way to get introduced in this town, eh?”
The bellman draped the suit over his arm. “There are ways, sir. I mean, channels.”
Bolan laughed. “Yeah, I’ll bet. How much?”
“The price for every taste, sir.” He was moving toward the door. “Fifty to a hundred and fifty. Even more for more expensive tastes. One simply makes the right contacts.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll think that over,” Bolan said.
“I wasn’t inferring, sir, that I—”
“Sure, sure,” Bolan said.
The man went out and pulled the door softly shut. Bolan grinned and went to the service tray, opened the bottle, and poured a water glass full of bourbon. He went to the bathroom, washed his mouth with the whiskey, and spat it out, then dumped the remainder of the glass and flushed it down the toilet. He returned to the tray and filled the glass with crushed ice, added some mix, and sipped it as he undressed. He could not allow his mind to become fogged with alcohol, but the scene also needed to be properly set.
His eye fell on the newspaper, precisely folded to afford a quick look at the page one feature story. His own face glared up at him from the newspaper. He set the glass down and picked up the paper. The headline above the story read, HAS THE EXECUTIONER COME TO TOWN? The picture was a pretty close artists’ sketch, close enough to make Bolan feel uneasy. The story was a rehash of the Executioner story, from Pittsfield to Palm Springs, coupled to some strong hints of the morning’s work at the Sandbank. He put the newspaper down and returned to the bathroom, shaved and showered, taking care to preserve the color added to his hair, and had just finished towelling dry when the bellman returned with his suit.
Bolan watched curiously as the man leaned into the closet to hang the suit. He was looking for the telltale bulge of concealed hardware, but found none. The man was a head shorter than Bolan, but thickly built and powerful looking. Bolan just did not read him as a bellman. He gave the man another tip and growled, “How’s th’ food around here?”
“Very good, sir. The Surfers’ Lounge offers very tasty short orders, and you may order from poolside. The dining room opens at six, but the kitchen is always open for room service. May I bring you a menu?”
“Naw, I’ll try the lounge,” Bolan replied. “It’s a bit early for stuffin’.” His face creased into a perplexed scowl, as though he were undecided about something.
The bellman hesitated with one hand on the doorknob and said, “Sir?”
“I, uh, got some friends here,” Bolan said hesitantly. “I missed a plane, got here late. I’m not sure, uh, how they registered. Know what I mean?”
A bland mask seemed to slide into place across the dark man’s face. He said, “No, sir.”
“Hell, Balderone made the arrangements, and I’m not sure how he gave out th’ names. Now you know?”
A muscle twitched in the bellman’s face. He said, “I believe you have found your channel, sir. What are you asking me to do?”
Bolan passed another bill into the man’s hand. “Get me my pals’ room numbers. Hell, I don’t know what names they’re using. Catch?”
The bellman seemed to have reached a decision about Bolan. He nodded his head and replied, “Discretion is the better part of valor, sir. I believe I can help you.”
“You talk like a teacher, not no bellboy,” Bolan commented harshly.
“I was a school teacher, sir … in Cuba. I will locate your friends for you … discreetly.”
“That’s th’ stuff.” Bolan spun around and stalked over to the room service tray. He lifted the bourbon and began pouring into his glass. He heard the door softly close. He smiled, again dumped the bourbon into the toilet, and got dressed. So the bellman was a Cuban exile, he was thinking. That could explain a lot of things. And yet … Bolan was not entirely sold and he was beginning to wonder about the wisdom of his maneuver when the buzzer sounded again. He cautiously answered the ring. The Cuban stood in the hallway and passed an envelope in to Bolan. He was wearing the same bland mask and inspecting Bolan’s face closely as he said, “I believe this is what you wanted, sir.”
Bolan quickly opened the envelope, glanced inside, then smiled and put another bill in the bellman’s hand. “Go liberate Cuba with that,” he said, and closed the door.
He scanned the list of names and room numbers—obtained, he was sure, from a girl-assignment roster, if it were valid. That was the big question. Was it a valid list? Well, he reasoned, one way or another that list was his ticket to an audience with Mafiosi. Trap or not, it was what he was here for.
He went to his suitcase and put on his shoulder harness, inspected the Luger and shoved in a fresh clip, then affixed the silencer. The list went into his coat pocket and the Luger into the side leather, two extra clips in the reserve pocket.
Chapter Nine
THE EXILES
The Tidewater Plaza was a large squared horseshoe, four stories high, with gardens, patios, and pools inside the horseshoe at ground level. All rooms boasted an outside exposure via glass doors opening onto private patios or balconies. The winter season boom had not fully descended upon the Plaza, and at this hour of the afternoon the main lobby was quiet, the lounge all but deserted. Outside, around the pool, no more than ten tables were occupied. Several shapely young women were cavorting in the water. A middle-aged woman who already bore evidence of having defected to a darker race lay on a sunning board and watched Bolan with frank interest as he crossed the patio. He winked at her and she winked back and sat up quickly. Bolan grinned and went on into the other wing of the building, then ascended the stairway to the third floor.
He briefly consulted his list and proceeded directly to the fourth door beyond the stairwell, gripped the Luger, and pushed the doorbuzzer. A deep voice beyond the door replied with a bored, “Yeah?”
Bolan buzzed again and said, “Ay, Al, come on, open up.”
The door cracked open, the chainlock remaining intact, to reveal an eye and a sliver of face. The surly voice demanded, “Who the hell is that?”
The Luger phutted into the crack and the face rapidly receded with a dying grunt, a glass hit the floor just inside and liquids sloshed through the crack, then a heavy weight clicked the door fully shut.
Bolan walked up the hallway and around the curve, then stopped to press another doorbuzzer. The door opened at the first summons and a disinterested man of about 25 said, “Oh, I thought you was room service.”
Bolan told him, “I was just over to Al’s,” and pushed on inside. A television was blaring unattended. On the balcony overlooking the pool, two other men sat at a small table, drinks and cards in front of them. “Hey, deal me in,” Bolan told the man who had opened the door.
The man was looking him over with casual interest. “I know th’ face,” he said, “but I can’t get th’ name. Let’s see now, don’t tell me, waitaminnit, we oughta hold these get-togethers more often, eh? Let’s see, uh, it’s …”
“Bolan.”
“Huh?”
Bolan’s hand and the Luger were sliding into view. The Mafioso reacted then, whirling toward an open closet, his hand scrabbling along an overhead shelf. The Luger whispered and its issue splatted into the base of the man’s skull, sending him spinning on into the closet.
The two men on the balcony, less than 20 feet away, were fighting clear of the table and trying to come to their feet, one of them tugging at something in the waistband of his trousers. The Luger arced into the new target area, phutted twice in rapid fire, and the tugger lurched onto the table, overturning it with a crash of glass and metal. The other man was making a dive for the balcony railing. The Luger’s silent chasers overtook him, doubled him into a convulsive knot poised for a frozen instant above the railing, and then he was over and gone. A horrified shriek immediately arose from the patio.
Bolan knelt into the closet and pinned a marksman’s medal to the seat of his first victim’s trousers, then quickly withdrew.
He went to the fourth floor and jogged on around the horseshoe bend, reaching his next stop in a matter of seconds. He did not bother with the buzzer but rapid-fired three rounds of his new clip into the door mechanism, following immediately with a crashing kick. The door bounded open and Bolan was inside before the vibrations of the assault had subsided. A nude man was on the dishevelled bed, on his back and raised to both elbows, glaring at the intruder in startled anger. A girl stood just outside the doorway to the balcony, her back to Bolan. She was nude also, but dangling a large towel in front of her from the shoulders and obviously trying to peer down onto the patio below without exposing herself. She jumped visibly upon noting Bolan’s presence and whirled about with a frightened scowl, the towel flying high and defeating its purpose. In a confused voice, she announced, “Somebody just fell off a balcony over there, I think.”
The outraged man on the bed was picking up on his delayed reflexes. He snarled, “You got no right bustin’ in here like that! You got a warrant? Lemme see your warrant!”
Bolan stepped to the foor of the bed, said, “Sure, Julio, here you go,” extended the Luger at arm’s length, and gave the Mafioso his last rites.
The girl stumbled into the room, the towel dropped and forgotten, and gave Bolan the silent horror treatment. He assured her, “I’m not going to hurt you. Get your clothes on and get out of here. Quick!”
She murmured, “Ohgodohgod,” and staggered on into the bathroom.
Bolan reached the hallway with his list in his hand. He consulted his wristwatch, wavered momentarily, then ran along to the stairway and headed for the floor above and his final call at Tidewater Plaza.
Lt. Wilson panted down the stone steps and flung himself into the waiting vehicle. The car was screeching forward before his door was fully closed. He glanced at the driver, then swiveled about to regard Captain Hannon who shared the rear seat with another member of the Dade Force. “I got no details,” Wilson puffed. “What’s up?”
Hannon replied, “Something’s going on down at the Tidewater Plaza. Sounds like a possible Bolan hit.”
Wilson nodded and settled into his seat, nervously dug for a cigarette, and commented, “Isn’t the Tidewater on that list of Mafia tie-ins?”
The captain’s reply was lost as the car squealed onto the beach drive, heeling and swaying in the abrupt turn as a marked patrol car leapt alongside then powered smoothly into the lead, beacon flashing and siren screaming. Hannon snapped, “Mike!” and extended a hand into the front seat. Wilson passed the radio microphone back and watched the captain through narrowed eyes as the leader of the Dade Force passed instructions into the command net. “No sire
ns! Marked cars form a perimeter of standard containment and hold all traffic. Dade Specials form on me, outside front, and await further.”
The clipped tones of the special dispatcher immediately began relaying the instructions and assigning stations. Hannon turned the microphone over to Wilson. “They’re sending a couple of boats down, also. If that character is in there, maybe our problem is smaller than we thought.”
“And what if he’s not?” Wilson muttered.
“Then we’re already treading deeper water than I enjoy. Tallahassee is in the act already, bunch from the attorney general’s office on the way down. And the governor’s office has been on the horn. Plus, Dunlap tells me that this Brognola fella is being flown here in a government jet.”
“Aw, piss,” Wilson commented dismally.
“Well, maybe we’ll have our turkey on ice by the time the congregation arrives,” Hannon said.
“I’ll buy that,” Wilson said. He took out his revolver and checked it, sighed, and added, “They say this guy has several faces. How do we know which one to look for?”
“Just look for a big graceful cat with graveyard eyes. All the pictures and sketches I’ve seen of this youngster have that one thing in common. Those eyes. You noticed?”
Wilson nodded, twirled the cylinder of his revolver and replaced it in the leather. “I noticed.”
“Just ahead, cap’n,” the driver advised.
“All right, let’s get set,” Hannon commanded, his voice tightening. “A lot of people have left this world with that vision carrying them out.”
“What vision?” asked the detective.
“Those eyes, Sergeant. Those graveyard eyes.”
The “big graceful cat” had stumbled into a full nest, obviously a honcho’s pad, in the fifth floor penthouse—and a firefight was in hot progress. Three semi-nude women were racing across the roof sundeck and screaming at the limit of their lungs; two others lay in petrified curls beside a shattered plate-glass window, another was having a loud nervous breakdown in one of the bedrooms, a blood-spattered companion pinning her to the bed beneath his lifeless bulk. Four men—two in bathing trunks, one in flowered shorts, one fully dressed—sprawled in various poses of death about the apartment.
Miami Massacre Page 7
