Nightmare in New York te-7

by Don Pendleton

  A muscle twitched in his jaw and he muttered, "Pure war, Rachel, is pure hell. How are youmaking out?"

  Then he closed the trunk and returned the dress cart to the apartment. Moments later he was behind the wheel of the blue Chevrolet and tooling out of the garage. The attendant looked up and nodded at him as he passed, and Bolan waved.

  He pulled out into the street. He took out Chianti's business card for another look at the address engraved thereon, then he grunted and swung north toward the Triborough Bridge. He did not know the Bronx too well, but he would find Sam the Bomber Chianti, and he would deliver this hot shipment of rapidly cooling cargo.

  Corpses were something that Sam the Bomber would understand. He had trafficked in them for almost as long as Mack Bolan had been alive.

  Sam was going to discover, though, that the supply was beginning to greatly exceed the demand.

  And he was going to discover that damned quick.

  Chapter Four

  Engineers

  Sam the Bomber began his climb to underworld prominence in the early 1940's, in a nation at war and suffering the inconvenience of a rationing of vital commodities — things such as butter, meat, gasoline, tires, sugar, coffee, and many luxury items. Commodity rationing was one of the minor hardships of a world at war, to be sure, but many Americans could not accept even this small sacrifice to national survival. Instead, they made rich men out of petty crooks by satisfying their selfish appetites with black market purchases of stolen commodities and/or stolen or counterfeit ration coupons. So proliferate were these black markets in wartime scarcities that rival marketeers in some areas of the nation engaged one another in territorial contests and gang wars to equal the bloody battles of the prohibition era. The American Mafia, ever alert to the smell of quick money, lost no time in dominating this lucrative side-effect of the war, and neighborhood punks like Sam Chianti found readymade careers awaiting them in this "little world war" of black market racketeering.

  Chianti pulled his first muscle job at the age of sixteen, when he threw a fire bomb into an automobile repair garage belonging to one Adolph Bruhman, a small time Bronx businessman who refused to honor black market gasoline coupons for unlimited sales to customers of Freddie Gambella, then an obscure underling in the Mavnarola Family. That fire bomb killed Bruhman, three employees, and two customers — and endeared the precocious hoodlum to Gambella, who was already busily establishing himself in the line of succession to Mavnarola's crown. Little Sammy Chianti, seventh grade dropout and neighborhood terrorist, became known as Sam the Bomber and participated in another fifty-six slayings before attaining legal age. He was adjudged sub-intelligent and unfit for military service by his local draft board in 1944 and again in 1946, but he was intelligent enough to repeatedly break virtually every law of his society over a period of some thirty years without once being convicted of a major crime. And he possessed intelligence enough to remain alive and viable in the ever-shifting structure and fortunes of the New York underworld and, moreover, to establish himself as a respected and honored member of that structure. Perhaps the patronage of Freddie Gambella contributed to this "success" story — but the fact remains that Sam the Bomber had been a professional killer for thirty years and had never spent a night in jail.

  Now forty-six years of age, Chianti had long ago come to the realization that he "had it made." No longer required to directly participate in the mob's muscle departments, Sam the Bomber sat in a swank office in the front of his Bronx home, a restored two-story brownstone in a modest neighborhood of identical restorations, pushing buttons that sent extortion, hard persuasion, and frequently death into the midst of his community. Sam was "a contractor's contractor," a muscle>-and-gun business built and preserved by rockbed reliability and guaranteed results. Though without official rank in the organization, he enjoyed the friendship and camaraderie of various chieftains, lieutenants, and enforcers of all the five families of New York — plus a reputation which was respected throughout the sprawling syndicate. Freddie Gambella was the godfather of Sam's two kids, and their wives had been close pals since Sam's marriage in 1951. So who needed formal rank when self-evident rank was draped all over him? Sam had no ambitions to ever become a Capo;it was more than enough that Capossought his advice and accepted his hospitality and kept making him richer and richer.

  Sure, Sam the Bomber had it made. So why, he was wondering on that cold December day in the Bronx, had he felt compelled to get out there on the streets again, after all these years of "softing it," and make a total ass of himself? Overanxiety, he supposed. Bolan was a big fish. A hundred grand worth of fish, not to mention the immeasurable value in prestige for the contractor who landed him. It had been a natural thing, Sam decided, for him to go out personally on a job like that one. After all, the biggest guns in the syndicate had been blasting at that guy for months now. Boys like the Talifero brothers, Quick Tony Lavagni, Sam's old buddy Danno Giliamo, Nick Trigger, and a host of others — most of them dead now.

  Sam was certain that he was the luckiest man alive to even bealive. Not many had stood eye to eye with that Bolan bastard, and fumbled, and came away to tell about it — or try to live it down — no, not many. The guy was no punk, he was no ordinary street pigeon, hell no. Sam had gone up against some pretty tough numbers in his time, some pretty damn deadlynumbers — but he had never faced such cold and awful deadliness in his whole life as he faced that terrible Saturday out at Kennedy. Hell no. That son of a bitch could stare down a pissed-off rattler, Jesus he had never seen such eyes in his whole lif e. No wonder Sam got rattled.

  But Sam was more than just rattled, and he recognized that. He'd been a long time off the streets, his kids were in the fanciest boarding schools in the East, and his old lady hadn't touched a duty dish or a Monday wash in all the years they'd been married. Everybody had known that Sam Chianti had it made. Sam had known it too. Until Saturday. Yeah, Sam had gotten more than a rattling. Everything he had was a result of his reputation with a contract, and Sam had suddenly been made to feel very insecure. Word was out an hour after it happened, all over town, Sam the Bomber had personally muffed a contract. It might seem like a small thing to some people, but when a guy lived off a reputation, then the first tiny crack in that reputation could be like the crack in a dam, the whole thing could fall to hell in an awful hurry.

  It was funny, he was thinking, he hadn't been a damn bit afraid of Bolan, not a damn bit, even knowing what the bastard had been doing all this time to the biggest guns hi the business. Sam the Bomber had been bigger than Mack the bastard Bolan, he'd been ten feet bigger and he hadn't been afraid of that jerk. Now he was. He had to face it. He was afraid.

  He stared at his reflection in the glossy surface of the huge mahogany desk and admitted it to himself, straight out. If something didn't happen pretty fast, if his crews couldn't get a line on the bastard pretty soon… Well, Sam hated to face such an eventuality. He didn't have to face it. He'd built a business and a gilt-edge reputation on finding people and doing things for them. He had his contacts, Sam had thirty damn years of contacts, know-how and people spread everywhere in this town, every borough, every precinct — sooner or later he would find this bastard Bolan. Sooner, he fervently hoped.

  Hell, maybe the guy was dead. He'd been bleeding like a stuck pig, Jesus how much blood could a guy lose and still keep going? Maybe the cops had him on ice in some morgue all this time, keeping the secret and just waiting for the organization to do something dumb. Maybe…

  Chianti picked up a pencil and hurled it across the office. Maybe shitlYou didn't close contracts on may-be's. At that moment the telephone rang. He stared at it and let it sound twice more, then he grabbed it up and gave a guarded, "Yeah?"

  "Sam, this is Fred," came a troubled voice.

  The boss, his buddy, godfather to his kids, Sam this is Fred, in a tone of voice that might as well have said Sam you shithead what the fuck are you doing about this fucking contract you shithead you.

 
He swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat and said, "Glad you called, Freddie. Listen, I think I got that man you wanted."

  Another Sam, over in Jersey, had gone through some embarassing shit just recently over a tapped phone, this Sam wasn't having any of that. "Three of my engineers are out now interviewing a likely candidate."

  "Yeah?" asked Sam this is Fred.

  "Yeah. They made a contact over at East Side this morning. My representative there phoned about an hour ago, maybe an hour-and-a-half, to say they'd come across something interesting. I think maybe we got your man."

  "Well I hope so, Sam," was the drawling response. "My board of directors are getting pretty damned edgy over this thing. They seem to think that three days is plenty enough time to at least make a contact. You know what I mean, Sam. They get nervous when these things just drag on and no word ever comes back."

  "They'll be getting some word pretty damn quick," Chianti assured his Capo. "I'll lay my whole reputation on that, Freddie."

  "It's already there, Sam."

  Chianti swallowed again and said, "Yeah, I guess it is."

  "By the way, our attorneys say you can rest easy about those engineers that, uh, you know got detained on that legal matter the other day. He says they'll be back to work tomorrow."

  "Oh great, I'm glad to hear that." Bullshit, who gave a damn about the dumb pricks who had no better sense than to get theirselves arrested like a bunch of punks. They should've known better than…

  "Well, we'll be waiting to hear about this latest contact, Sam. With the greatest interest. Don't let us down, eh?"

  "You know I won't, Freddie," Chianti told the Capo.

  "Give my regards to Theresa. Oh yeah, Marie wants to know about the card game tonight. You know, consideiring the business pressures and all, what d'you think? Should we call it off?"

  "I guess we better, Freddie. I got too much on my mind."

  "Yeah, well, we'll try to make it for next Tuesday then."

  "Sure, things ought to be more relaxed by then."

  "I guess they'll have to be, Sam. See you."

  Chianti whispered, "See you," to a dead line and woodenly returned the instrument to its base. Okay, sure, he'd known it, that was how things went. From one tiny crack to a goddamned flood. Now Freddie was calling off the damned ritual card game, that tore it all, Sam the Bomber could damn well see the handwriting on the wall now. Jesus he hadto get Bolan, there wasn't no other way, Sam's whole life hung on it.

  He nervously lit a cigar and, immersed in his thoughts, forgot to keep it going. It went out and he lit it again. It went out again and he heaved it across the room. Then Angelo Totti, the big bodyguard, rapped lightly on the door and poked his head inside and said, "You got a minute, boss?"

  The boss's response was uncharacteristically petulant. "Hell that's all I have got. What the hell is it now, Angelo?"

  The big man came into the room, swinging a set of car keys in front of his face. "There's a kid out here, brought these keys in, says they're yours."

  Chianti squinted at the keys, then held out his hand for them. Totti surrendered them and watched interestedly as Chianti examined them. "These go to one of our leased cars," Chianti decided. "What kid did you say?"

  "This kid outside here," the bodyguard replied, jerking a thumb at the door. "Neighborhood punk, I seen 'im around before. He got one of your cards too, and something in a little brown envelope. Says he's gotta give it to you personal."

  Chianti got to his feet and went to the door. A boy of about fifteen was leaning against the wall of the outer office, whistling softly under his breath and ogling the swank decor.

  Chianti barked at him, "Where'd you get these keys, kid?"

  "Guy outside," the boy replied with obvious nervousness. "Guy in a blue Chivvy. He parked the car out there and gave me the keys. Told me to bring 'em in." He glanced at a business card in his hand. "Are you Mr. Chianti?"

  "Course I'm Mr. Chianti," the contractor growled. He crossed to the door and peered out through the glass porthole. Sure as hell, the car was parked over there across the street.

  "Well I got this for you too." The boy was extending a brown envelope.

  Chianti reached for it and the boy jerked it back. "The guy told me to collect twenty bucks."

  "What the hell for?"

  "He just told me to make you give me twenty bucks."

  The thing was becoming humorous to the contractor's contractor. He pulled a bill out of his wallet and said, "Okay, I'll tell you what we'll do. I'll lay the twenty bucks on this table here. You put the envelope down there. Then if you can pick up the twenty without getting your arm broke, then it's yours."

  The boy dropped the envelope and snatched the money in one lightning motion, jerked the door open, and was gone. Chianti was laughing and Totti said, "You want me to get it back, boss?"

  "Naw, Jesus the kid has guts, let him have it." He picked up the small envelope and said, "Now I wonder what… ?"

  The envelope came open and a small metallic object fell into Chianti's palm. His eyes raised in bafflement to his bodyguard's face and he grunted, "A marksman's medal. Now what the hell… ?" Then the bafflement turned to something else and the color left his face.

  In an awed voice, Totti declared, "That's Bolan's calling card. They say he leaves those things on — "

  "I know what it is!" Chianti screeched.

  The bodyguard strode to the door and threw it open.

  Chianti yelled, "Shut that goddamn door!" and ran into his office.

  Totti did as he was told and followed his boss inside. Sam the Bomber was standing carefully at the wall near the front window and peering through a slit in the Venetian blind.

  In a half-stifled voice he said, "I don't see nothing.

  Look… go back and get Ernie and Nate. Then go out there and check that car out. No. You stay with me. Give Ernie the keys. Tell 'im to be careful."

  Totti jerked his head in an understanding nod and hurried out.

  This had to be the living end, the contractor's contractor was thinking. The son of a bitch had come to them. Sam almost had to admire that. He also had to fear it. And why not? There was something very bizarre and downright spooky about a fox that whistled at hounds. A fox, especially, with a six-figure bounty on his pelt.

  Bolan was watching from a rooftop several doors down and across the street from the Chianti residence. The neighborhood told Bolan quite a bit about his prey. Sam the Bomber had grown up in this district, and he had seldom ventured more than fifty miles in any direction out of it. Here he was a big fish in a small pond, a local boy made good, and here he felt secure in a familiar environment which he had learned to manipulate to his own advantage. Yes, this told Bolan quite a bit about Sam Chianti.

  He grinned when he saw the boy come flying out the front door with a scrap of green clutched in his hand. Bolan had been right about that item, also. Tomorrow Sam might drown the boy's father in the East River and terrorize his mother into white slavery, but today he would play the benign neighborhood patriarch and let the kid con him out of some pocket change because it was good for the image. Yeah, Bolan had known a hundred Sam the Bombers.

  Now Bolan lay on the back side of the peaked roof and watched two nervous soldiers come slowly out of the house, peer up and down the street, and cross over to the blue Chevrolet. They walked around it, stared through the windows, and walked around it again. Then the heavy one stood in the street and nervously scanned the neighborhood while the other one, a tall skinny guy raised the hood and peered at the engine. Bolan smiled. They were looking for a bomb. The skinny one slipped under the car on his back and emerged a couple of minutes later at the rear. He got up and brushed off his clothes, then sent a hand signal to someone watching from inside the house.

  The chubby one stepped up to the vehicle and opened the door on the passenger's side. He leaned inside, jerked quickly back out, said something to the skinny soldier, and snatched open the rear door to scoop something off the
seat.

  They had found the wheelman's revolver. Now they stood in a tight huddle and the skinny one was jerking his head in some emphatic argument, then he took something from the other man — the pistol, Bolan supposed — and ran across to the house and went inside. A moment later he re-emerged with another guy in tow, a huge mart with shoulders like a lumberjack and overdeveloped pectoral muscles which caused his arms to swing like an ape as he walked.

  The chubby one, meanwhile, had gone to the rear of the vehicle and was just standing there contemplating the trunk door. He said something to the other two as they approached. The musclebound newcomer leaned into the passenger compartment and the skinny guy went to the rear and fitted the key into the trunk door.

  Bolan's angle of vision was from above and to the rear of the vehicle. He could not see the men's faces as that trunk lid raised, but he had no trouble seeing the overall reaction to their discovery there. Both of them stiffened and staggered back a step or two, with all the precision of carefully rehearsed choreography, and one of them let out a loud yelp.

  The big guy leapt clear of the passenger compartment, hardware now visible in his hand, and moved with surprising agility to join the other two. He saw, and also reacted violently, lunging immediately forward to get both big paws inside there for a tactile verification of what his eyes were telling him. Then he straightened up and turned a frozen stare toward the Chianti residence. A door cracked open over there and a peevish voice called out, "Well what the hell is it?"

  The heavyweight yelled back, "It's them three engineers from Brooklyn, or what's left of 'em."

  The door at the house immediately clicked shut That decided Bolan's course of action. He grimaced and eased the Beretta up, clamping down on the peak of the roof with his armpit, letting his elbow find comfortable support on the opposite downslope. He had already calculated the firing range at roughly twenty yards. Ordinarily this would be an ideal range for the Beretta — he had worked it in with consistent two-inch groupings at twenty-five yards, pretty accurate for a handgun — but now he had to calculate the effect of the silencer on muzzle velocity and track deviation. And he definitely wanted that silencer in operation, especially now that Sam the Bomber was obviously not going to expose himself. Bolan had not really counted on getting Chianti this time, anyway. It would be enough, for now, to rattle his teeth a bit. And whispering death, Bolan had found, had a peculiar psychological effect on Mafia hardmen.