* * *
Benito Villani sat patiently in the back seat of his black limo, parked on Jefferson Street in Joliet, Illinois. Through its dark-tinted windows he watched the sunrise. Patience, he mused, is the virtue of the old, who finally realize, at the point where ailments and pains don't go away, that all people are waiting patiently for death. Despite what Mother Church had told him all his life, he knew immortality was achieved not through death, but through children who carry on the family name — an investment in the future that Old Sam Giancarlo had tried to take away from him. Instead he would take it away from Old Sam Giancarlo.
Vic D'matto turned around in the front seat to look at him. "Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Villani?" he asked.
The old man shook his head. "Thank you, no, Vic," he replied, taking for granted D'matto's loyalty, and that of his brother-in-law Tony who sat beside him up front. They were just soldiers, owing their allegiance to him. Another thing age had taught Villani was that everyone serves some master, and that the reward comes through the service itself. People crave direction.
He and Giancarlo had been sworn enemies for more than fifty years, and he couldn't remember a time when either of them wasn't preoccupied with plotting the destruction of the other. Now, as they aged, their war seemed to have moved to a metaphysical plane — they were fighting for their very souls, using the lives of their children as the bargaining chits. Giancarlo's betrayal of all the ideals of cosa nostra was merely his grand gesture in the battle for the hereafter, his subsequent "retirement" being his claim of success. But it wasn't over, not yet. Though two of Villani's sons lay dead, Rocco still lived to carry out the blood oath of revenge.
"I think they're comin'," Tony Ferrari said. Villani sat up a little straighter to look down the all-but-deserted roadway five miles from the prison.
He heard the heavy rumble first, then seconds later the lumbering garage truck came into view in the distance. "Get ready for them," he said quietly, and D'matto and Ferrari obediently climbed out of the car, moving to the front of it.
The garbage truck drove toward them, its grinding sound signifying the end of pastoral morning and the coming of the human beasts to the quiet world. The truck rumbled closer, whining and rattling to a stop close to the limousine.
Two men in filthy overalls jumped out of the truck and ran around to its rear. They were Villani's people; he ran the Illinois garbage racket. A minute later they reappeared lugging a large, gray plastic garbage can between them. After setting it down, they slit the black plastic garbage bag inside the can with a small knife. Rocco climbed out of the confining container and took a deep breath, then raised his fists in triumph. Vic paid off the garbage collectors and sent them on their way.
Rocco grinned broadly as he hurried around to the limousine's back door, pulling it open. "Hey, Pop!" he cried, climbing into the car. A rush of smelly air entered with him and Ben pulled out a handkerchief and put it to his nose.
"You smell rotten," he commented.
"Yeah, gross huh?" Rocco removed two cotton wads from his nose. "Thought I'd go nuts in there for a while. Man, am I glad to see you!"
Villani eyed his son carefully. "You look healthy and well fed."
"Yeah, sure," Rocco said. "They looked out for me in there. They knew whose boy I was."
D'matto and Ferrari had climbed back in the limo, and D'matto started it up.
"How long before they miss you?" Villani asked.
"Not for a couple hours yet." Rocco looked out the window at the scenery sliding past. "Where are we going?"
"Not far," the old man answered. "Joliet District airport." He reached down to the floor and pulled up a small suitcase, handing it to Rocco. "Here, put these on."
Rocco stripped off his prison shirt, opening the power window to throw it out, and pulled a dress shirt out of the suitcase. "How come you waited so long to spring me, Pop?" he asked as he buttoned the pale blue shirt.
"I didn't have a good enough reason," Villani replied, reaching into the suitcase to pick out a tie that matched the shirt. He handed it to Rocco. "And I hoped I could fix it some other way."
"You couldn't?"
The old man shook his head, watching Rocco trying to wriggle out of his prison jeans, almost wishing that it had been Rocco who died instead of his brothers. They were so much smarter, so much better managers. "There's too many indictments comin' down," he said. "I couldn't make no headway."
Rocco threw the jeans out the window and reversed his comical gyrations while trying to get into a pair of dress pants. "But I heard you were takin' care of Giancario and his people."
"His people," Ben said, "but not him. I've saved him for you."
Rocco's eyes lit up as he began to fumble with his tie. "You're gonna let me kill Old Sam?"
"Yeah," Villani said. "You gonna kill Old Sam and that son of his, Joey, too."
"All right!" Rocco cheered, then leaned toward the front seat. "You hear that, Vic?"
"Yeah, I heard," Vic said. "We're goin' with you, me and Tony."
Rocco's face darkened and he sat back. Ben shook his head as he watched realization sink in. "But, Pop," Rocco asked, "how'd you figure out where they were hidin'?"
"Don't you worry about that," Villani told him. "What you gotta worry about is what the hell you're gonna do when the job's done. Now straighten your tie, it's crooked."
"Just like the rest of me, huh?" Rocco grinned, pulling in his chin to look down at the tie. "Okay, what am I gonna do after?"
"Once we kill Old Sam," Villani said, "I figure we'll send you away for a while... maybe to Rio, who knows? Then, with the Giancarlos out of the way, the government ain't got no witnesses or no indictments. We're back in business good, then. That's when I start the wheels turnin' to get the charges against you thrown out and get you back home."
"Rio sounds good. I hear the broads are real sweet on American boys."
"You leave them foreign broads alone," Villani warned. "They just give you diseases."
"Pop, any broad sounds good to me right now."
The old man waved off the suggestion. "Broads is all you ever think about. Wait till things settle down, son, then we'll find you a nice Italian Catholic girl, like your mama. Right now you got business to think about."
"Here we are," Vic called to them as they approached a small municipal airport for private and charter planes. He drove the limo toward a Lear jet out on the flight line as Rocco slipped into the suit coat that went with the pants.
"How do I look, Pop?" he asked.
"Like a gorilla in a suit," Villani said with a smile. The car pulled to a stop by the jet, and stairs were immediately lowered from its cabin.
As Rocco closed the suitcase, Ben fished around in his pocket, coming out with a piece of paper, which he handed to his son. "Here's the address, and the address of somebody down there who'll get you some hardware."
Rocco opened the door. "Oklahoma City?" he said, incredulous, as he got out.
"I want you to do it tomorrow night."
Rocco leaned back in through the car door. "Why not tonight? We'll already be down..."
"I got my reasons, okay?" Villani replied. "And, Rocco..."
"Yeah, Pop?"
"Make sure you do Joey right. I want you to put the gun to his head and do him yourself."
Rocco nodded solemnly. "The vendetta ends here, my father. I pledge my life to that."
"Good boy," Villani said, nodding. "Good boy."
9
The ever-present pollution hung low that morning, thanks to a high-pressure area that had made its way over the Rockies and was hanging over Denver's large industrial belt. The mile-high cityscape had become wide open country as Bolan and Carver closed on Ottoni's lakefront property, the Air Force jeep he had requisitioned at Lowry Air Base coming in handy on the rugged terrain. Somehow it seemed fitting that Ottoni should live here on his government paycheck, where more people, per capita, worked for the state and federal governments than anywhere else
in the country.
The jeep had no top. Bolan found the frigid air cleansing and refreshing after a sleepless night, the visit to the dying Carol Niven in a Seattle hospital, and hours of traveling. It reminded him that being alive was a good thing. Roy Carver didn't seem to feel the same way.
"God, it's cold!" the man said, hugging himself. "Why did I let you talk me into this?"
"You didn't," Bolan returned. "I made you."
Bolan loved Colorado, a Spanish word meaning "red," named after the Rio Grande. He had an affinity for its wide open, rugged freedom and unequaled beauty. If he ever retired and settled down, it would be here. If he lived that long.
Bolan geared down to second as Bear Creek Canyon Road ascended steeply. The countryside stretched out around them, browns and purples dominating the landscape, all of it forming a background for the magnificence of Mount Evans, which towered nearly fifteen thousand feet high.
They crested the hill. Less than a mile away Big Bear Lake and the expensive houses around it came into view. Ottoni was a lawyer, and apparently a successful one. He had been Old Sam's consigliere for a good many years, handling family business along with his own criminal practice. The work had apparently paid off, for the exclusive community right on the lake was obviously one only the very wealthy could afford.
Bolan saw at once why Ottoni had opted for staying here instead of taking to the mattresses. The entire neighborhood was surrounded by a high brick wall with only one guarded entrance. He pulled up to the guardhouse beside the automatic gate, where a middle-aged man in a uniform was coming out and looking over him and his jeep.
The man examined Bolan's identification, then went back in the guardhouse and raised the barrier. Bolan pulled up closer to the gate, and asked, "Is there someone on duty all night?"
"Yes, sir," the guard answered.
"Tell him to keep his eyes open tonight," Bolan said, and drove into the small, exclusive development.
Ottoni's house was only a block from the gate, a huge boxy structure that looked more like a penitentiary than a home. Perhaps Ottoni's former life had influenced his taste in architecture. His property was surrounded by a six-foot wall with a security gate. The man certainly believed in protection.
Bolan hit the horn. In a minute Benny Young poked his head out the front then, recognizing Bolan, he went inside to release the gate lock. Seconds later the gate swung open. By the time Bolan had parked the jeep behind several other cars in the driveway at the back, Young and Joan Meredith were hurrying out the back door to greet him. They were followed, slowly, by an older man, who must once have been thickset and muscular but was now gone to fat — Ottoni.
Meredith, strain showing in her face, moved right up and into Bolan's arms, hugging him quickly then pulling away. "I just got a call from Seattle," she said, tears welling up in her eyes. "Carol died a few minutes ago."
Bolan nodded and looked at Carver, both men knowing that it was for the best. "They'll hit here next," he said. "This time we'll be ready for them."
Ottoni walked up to Bolan and gave him the onceover. Bolan returned his stare. The Mafia lawyer had small, narrow eyes and large jowls, his mouth set in a permanent frown. His silk suit had wide lapels and he wore about three pounds of gold jewelry. "So you're the big deal from the Justice Department," he drawled. "I want to register a complaint. When I signed on for this bargain, I was promised protection. Four lousy plainclothes agents aren't going to keep out Villani's people if they know where I am."
"They why didn't you let us move you?" Bolan asked.
"I got a business here with people who don't know who I am. I got a life here. I got a house with every security device available." He pointed a stubby finger at Bolan's face. "The deal was, you creeps would protect me — not move me, not hide me — protect me. Protect me where I stand, where I live."
"So that's what we intend to do," Bolan said.
"Not with four lousy agents!" The man waved a hand at Benny Young. "Hell, this one's so green he needs someone to wipe his nose. How are people like this going to protect me?"
"You wouldn't let us ask for any help from the local authorities," Meredith reminded him.
"Of course I wouldn't," the man replied. "All I need is for the local cops to know who I am. They'd have me run out of here in two weeks. You people are supposed to protect me, not anybody else."
"The Justice Department feels that four agents for one man are sufficient," Bolan said firmly, holding the man's eyes with his own. Then he shrugged. "You don't want us, we'll go. You want to complain, do it to someone who gives a damn. And I'll tell you something else, I'm not your boy to shove around or give orders to. Don't get in my way."
The man backed up a step. The fear edging over his face explained everything to Bolan. The man was a coward, used to intimidating people in social settings, but unaccustomed to confrontations where people tried to intimidate him. He had lived soft, on the periphery of criminal circles, never learning how to survive on the street. He was pushing so hard because he was scared to death.
"No need to get touchy," Ottoni said quietly. He turned and walked back toward the house. Bolan was satisfied that the emotional hell Ottoni was living in right now was more than adequate compensation for the harm he had done in the past.
Carver retrieved their overnight bags from the back of the jeep, while Bolan looked around to take stock of the house and grounds in relation to the lake. The water was calm, reflecting the beauty of the mountains around it. It also might provide a measure of protection from the rear. From what he'd seen of their antagonists, they weren't clever enough to consider the subtlety of approaching from the back. It made defenses much easier.
The backyard was small. A cement patio with grill was bordered by a small area of grass. The main feature at the back of the property was the small pier and speedboat tied up there. As they walked to the house, Joan Meredith moved up next to Bolan.
"It's a hell of a deal," she said. "I hear it was pretty rough up in Seattle."
"They're animals," the Executioner replied, "but they're not very smart. If we don't blow it somehow, I think we can take them tonight."
"You sure they're coming?" she asked as they reached the sliding patio door and moved into the spacious kitchen.
"Positive, but I couldn't tell you why. For some reason, they're saving Old Sam for last."
"They're not Mafia, are they?"
Bolan shook his head. "Let's get into that in a minute, with the others."
The living area of the house was huge. The living room was sunken with a wet bar at one end. Above the bar, another story higher, was a railing of carved wood, beyond which stretched a well-stocked library.
Joan and Benny had piled up furniture around all the windows, leaving shooting space over the top. They had secured the front door with a homemade iron brace that rested in slots hammered directly into the wall. It looked as good as he could have wanted, Meredith having done her usual thorough job.
"Listen, everybody," Bolan announced to Benny and Carver, who entered the living room just behind him and Joan. "I want to bring all of you up-to-date on the information we have so far. You, too, Ottoni. Then let's break down into specific jobs."
They all sat on a large, circular sectional couch upholstered in the ugliest shade of orange Bolan had ever seen. He looked at their somber, expectant faces, acknowledging the look and the mind-set of soldiers in combat situations.
"We've begun to put some of the pieces together." He looked at each of them in turn. "We even have some identification, thanks to Carol Niven. So far, it looks like the murders were committed by a vicious mercenary band of four men, led by a Terry Burnett. Three nights ago, Burnett was seen entering a bus station in Charlotte, North Carolina, where he retrieved a small valise from a locker. Within minutes, one of the men who was with him was found dead in a street nearby with his throat cut. Burnett is wanted by the Charlotte police for that murder. The man Carol killed in Seattle was called Cleavon Brown, a
one-time Black Panther with a long police record, who seemed to thrive on petty burglaries and strong-arm assaults. He was a known associate of Burnett, as is another man we suspect of being involved — John Coolie Powell."
"I thought Villani was behind this," Ottoni said.
"We were hoping that you could help us with that one," Bolan said. "We don't know who else besides Villani would be out to get you. There is one other possibility, though. Burnett had taken out an ad in a mercenary magazine, trying to hire himself out..."
"Villani doesn't work that way." Ottoni sat up straight and shook his head. "He believes in family. He'd never go to outsiders."
"How about the leak?" Benny Young asked.
"A man named Ken Chasen is our Justice Department leak. His contact from... whoever, was a woman he called Yvette." Bolan looked at Ottoni. "Do those names mean anything to you?"
"Not a damned thing," Ottoni answered, his face showing his confusion.
Bolan sighed. "There was a fourth man with Burnett, but we don't have anything on him yet. Now, for some reason Burnett seems to have decided to leave Giancarlo for last. That means he'll hit here next. He's lost one man, which leaves three, unless they find a replacement. Each time they've hit at sundown or later with shotguns. They appear to enjoy the killing. Obviously they work for someone, but we haven't been able to trace them to Villani. When they come, I'd love to get one alive, but that's probably asking too much. The important thing here is that we stop them. Remember, after what happened in Seattle, they may be expecting us. For now I think we should leave one person on watch while the rest of us try to get some sleep, so we can be prepared to go all night tonight if we have to."
"I'll take the watch," Benny volunteered. "I couldn't sleep now anyway."
Bolan nodded. He didn't feel sleepy, either, but after being up all night he knew he needed the rest. "Okay, people," he said. "Let's get to it."
His eyes followed Ottoni, who had gone to the bar and was mixing himself an enormous drink. The man was incredibly nervous — or could it be a pretense? He was a lawyer; Bolan knew some members of the legal profession who could put on a better show in the courtroom than an actor onstage.
The Killing Urge Page 11
