The Killing Urge

by Don Pendleton

  He slid open the door of a glass-fronted refrigerator case and grabbed a sandwich encased in plastic wrap and as many cans of Coke as he could carry. Then he walked past the counter and headed for the door.

  "Hey, young fella..." the old storekeeper called to him.

  "Back in a minute," he said as he hurried through the door, letting it close behind him.

  Then he picked up the pace, noticing how the glow of the slowly rising sun lent the landscape a stark beauty. He opened the passenger door and dropped his handfuls of food into the seat, then went around to the gas pump.

  "Hold on there," came the old man's voice.

  Damn. The son of a bitch had followed him outside. Chasen hastily pulled the nozzle from the tank as the old man rushed up and pointed his pipe at him.

  "You haven't paid for any of that stuff you took," he accused.

  Chasen turned to him. "I told you I'd be right back."

  "Look," the storekeeper said, angry now. "it's laying in your car. You'd better pay me right now, or I'm calling the cops."

  Chasen jerked toward him. His hands tightened involuntarily on the nozzle control, and gasoline shot out of the nozzle to drench the old man.

  "Hey!" the man yelled and jumped back, his pipe falling to the ground.

  It all happened in an instant. The pipe bounced off the old man's shoe, embers spilling, immediately igniting the gas dripping from his body.

  The old man went up like a match, blazing brightly, nearly blinding Chasen, who stood watching in rapt fascination as the man spun away from the pumps, his hands covering his face, his screams shrill and loud, so incredibly loud.

  Dropping the nozzle, Chasen jumped into the car, gas still running out across the concrete drive. As he turned on the ignition, he watched the old fellow in the rearview mirror still moving in circles, screaming, his body already a blackened twig.

  Chasen pulled out quickly. The incinerated man finally fell to the ground, the stream of gas from the nozzle inching ever nearer to him. While the fugitive accelerated away down the service road, the line of fire ran from the dying man back to the nozzle, then to the tanks, setting off a monstrous explosion. The gas pumps shot into the morning sky like Saturn rockets, the entire station a huge orange ball of fire. Chasen steered the stolen Toyota up the ramp to the interstate.

  He looked at his watch. He still had a long way to go, a lot of driving to do. Why couldn't the old guy have left him alone, instead of making all that trouble over a few bucks worth of gas and groceries. It wasn't Chasen's fault. The old man had brought an accident upon himself because of his greed. His damned filthy greed.

  Chasen picked up the sandwich, bringing it to his mouth and ripping at the plastic with his teeth until it opened. He stuffed an entire half sandwich into his mouth, slowly chewing on the big wad. Food, that was what he had needed. He'd be fine after he ate. If only the lines dividing the highway lanes would stop wriggling like snakes.

  * * *

  "I don't like this whole deal," Tony Ferrari said as he drove north on Lincoln Boulevard. The Oklahoma state capitol building stood right in the middle of the street several blocks distant, with a large oil derrick pumping away right on its front lawn. "I mean, why do we have to keep putting Rocco off about how this is goin' down?"

  Vic D'matto sat beside Tony, watching the mixed bag of whores who were plying their trade up and down the streets, all of them dressed to the teeth in the middle of a dull afternoon. "We're saying nothing because that's the way the old man wants it," he returned. He could tell from the number of girls on the street that they were all free-lancers. Somebody needed to get in here and organize them.

  "I heard that," Ferrari said. "I been hearin' that since we left Joliet, but that don't mean nothin' to me, you know?"

  "You may be my brother-in-law, Tony," D'matto said with a sigh, "but you're just a punk. You need to develop a little respect. The old man's been good to us, you know? What the shit does it matter — if he asks us to keep our mouths shut, we keep our fucking mouths shut, that's all."

  "But don't you wonder..."

  "No, I don't wonder." Angry now, Vic turned to face the younger man. "In our business it doesn't pay to wonder. You do your job, you look straight ahead, and you don't wonder about anything. You just do what you're told. Period."

  "Okay, okay! Don't get all hot and bothered." Ferrari flicked a fingernail across the bottom of his front teeth. "I just don't know what the hell we tell Rocco when he keeps askin'."

  "We tell him to ask his old man, that's what," Vic said. His eyes dropped to the small suitcase at his feet. He wouldn't admit it to Ferrari, but he wondered, too. There was something about the whole setup that had smelled from minute one. The old man was a thinker, a planner, and this deal had to be part of some big plan that Vic hadn't been able to figure out yet. He just hoped that he wasn't an expendable part of that plan.

  "Well, I'll just be happy to get this deal out of the way so we can get back to the south side." Ferrari turned the rented car into the parking lot of the Best Western motel just a block from the capitol. "Being out here in the sticks ain't exactly my idea of a good time."

  "Mine, either, pal." Vic picked up the suitcase and set it in his lap. "By tomorrow at this time, we'll be home laughing about this whole deal over a couple of cold ones."

  Ferrari pulled into the slot in front of number 146 and killed the engine. "Hey, lookit," he said. "What's that damn cart doin' in front of our place?"

  "Let's find out," Vic said as he got out of the car. The maid's supply wagon was sitting in front of their door, but no maid was in sight.

  He turned to Tony and put a finger to his lips, then got out his key and slowly walked up to the door. His ear to the wood he listened intently. He heard Rocco counting inside, and rolled his eyes in Ferrari's direction.

  The key fit easily into the lock, the door opening as he turned it. Rocco, dressed in Jockey shorts, had just finished doing push-ups and was standing before a petite Hispanic maid, posing.

  "Get a load of this," Rocco said, flexing his arms above his head. "You ever seen muscles like these?"

  "No, señor" the woman said nervously.

  "How about this?" Rocco turned his back to her and pulled his arms in front of him, rippling his back musculature. "Ain't they the best muscles you ever seen?"

  "Si, señor. The best."

  "Hey, Roc," D'matto said. "What's going on here anyway?"

  "I was just showin' the lady my muscles, that's all," Rocco answered. The woman took the opportunity to hurry past D'matto toward the door. "Nothin' wrong with that."

  D'matto grabbed the woman by the arm as she went past. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled a fifty-dollar bill and stuffed it in the front apron pocket of her starched white uniform. "You didn't see anything," he told her, pointing to his lips. "You won't say anything about us."

  The woman's dark eyes were frightened as she pulled away from D'matto. "No, señor. No. Excuse me, por favor. Excuse me."

  She hurried out, and Ferrari closed the door behind her.

  "What am I gonna do with you, Roc?" D'matto asked in exasperation. "Your pop sent us out here to look after you, and as soon as we turn our back, you're putting it out for some broad who doesn't even speak good English."

  "Aw, I didn't do no harm," Rocco said, sitting on the bed.

  "What do you mean, no harm?" Vic groaned. "You're running around in your goddamn underwear, and that broad doesn't know what's going on. What if she started screaming?"

  Rocco waved off his concern and began to put on his pants. "You're worse than some old woman," he said. "I didn't mean no harm."

  "All right." Vic gave him a light slap on the back. "All forgotten."

  Rocco stood and zipped up his pants. "Did you get the stuff?"

  "Yeah," D'matto said, hefting the heavy suitcase up on the bed and snapping it open. "They may be hayseeds in this lousy town, but they sure do like their guns." He turned the suitcase upside down on the bed, dumping
three Ingram MAC-10s and a number of fully loaded clips onto the mattress. "If these don't take care of Joey Giancarlo, the bastard's Superman."

  Rocco's eyes lit up like a kid's at Christmas as he picked up one of the miniautomatics and held it out, tracking an invisible assailant across the room. "We can kick up some hell with one of these. When do we do it?"

  "Tonight looks good," D'matto answered. "Tony and I drove past Old Sam's place earlier. Practically the whole neighborhood's deserted. It'll be easy in and easy out. A piece of cake."

  "Yeah," Rocco grinned. "Well, I got the itch for it. Every night in that stinkin' cell I thought about Old Sam and what I'd do to him when I got out. I just wish Pop had told me more about it."

  "Probably nothin' to tell," Ferrari said too quickly.

  Rocco looked at him for a long moment. "I ain't that dumb, Tony," he said. "If there was nothin' to tell, he woulda told me. He was holdin' somethin' back and I can't figger out why."

  "Don't worry about it," D'matto said. "We've all got our jobs to do. Ben Villani... he's a smart old bastard. He knows what he's doing."

  Rocco tracked the empty gun to D'matto, stopping with it pointed to the man's head. He dropped the hammer to click loudly on the empty chamber. "Sure, Vic," he said quietly. "Whatever you say."

  * * *

  "That the smallest you got?" the clerk at the convenience store asked Bolan as he dropped the twenty-dollar bill and the small plastic container of aspirin tablets on the countertop.

  "Yeah." Bolan leaned his head back and massaged his neck muscles. "Sorry."

  "Everybody's the same,'* the man said, ringing up the sale and setting the twenty on top of the drawer as he made the change. "They pay for everything with twenties, then run us out of smaller bills when we really need them."

  Bolan glanced down at the stack of Oklahoma City papers on the counter. The lead story was another report on the growing problem of stolen automobiles, adding official speculation to the accounts that the increase could be the result of a theft ring that had recently moved into the area. There were still no leads in the case. Bolan picked up a paper. "Take this out of it, too."

  The man glared at him, sorting through the change until he'd paid for the paper, then slamming the cash register drawer shut. "Have a nice day," he said venomously.

  "Same to you." Bolan picked up his aspirin and wandered back out to the rented Cougar he and Meredith had picked up at the airport. He paused for a moment to admire the spectacular Oklahoma sunset that streaked the cerulean sky. The weather had turned cool here, but it was nothing like the cold of Colorado. He was comfortable in his sport jacket.

  He opened the door on the passenger side. "How about you driving? I want to rest my eyes for a few minutes."

  "Sure," Joan said, moving around to the driver's side as Bolan slid into her vacated spot. He glanced at the paper for a second before tossing it into the back seat.

  Instead of the jeans and sweatshirts she usually wore on tough assignments, Meredith was wearing a simple print dress that was very becoming. Bolan wondered if the change had anything to do with the fact that she'd heard him talk about Angela Giancarlo and didn't want to walk into a situation with the woman on less than equal terms. Interesting.

  "Which way?" she asked as she backed out of the parking slot, a pickup truck hurrying to take her place.

  "South," Bolan said. He was fighting with the box of headache pills to get it open. "We're only a couple miles from their neighborhood."

  The box came open with a jerk, spilling its contents all over Bolan and the floor and the seats. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then calmly picked up the pills and put them back in the package, keeping out three for himself.

  "Do you have anything to take those with?" she asked as she pulled into the southbound lane of Western Avenue, passing a line of tract housing and cheap apartments.

  He shook his head. "I'll just chew 'em." He popped the pills into his mouth, biting down. The bitter taste was a jaw clencher, but he didn't mind. He felt like punishing himself.

  Meredith shook her head and looked at him. "I've never seen you like this before."

  Bolan laid his head back on the seat. "I haven't had a headache in twenty years," he said. "Not one."

  "Why now?"

  "Tension, I think. You don't know what we're getting ready to walk into."

  "You're not real fond of the Giancarlos," she commented with a half smile.

  "I feel like I'm protecting Lucifer, himself... take a right here." He closed his eyes, massaging his neck again, a little of the tension beginning to drain out of him. "For years I've honed myself to a fine edge when it comes to slime like Old Sam. I'm of two minds whether I'm really serving the people of this country by keeping him alive. It doesn't add up. Good simply can't come out of so much bad."

  "But he is helping law enforcement a great deal," she replied. "Already his depositions have resulted in hundreds of indictments."

  "I've heard all that before. It doesn't make my headache go away. I knew I was risking just this kind of compromise when I let Hal bring me out of hiding. Now it's all coming home to roost."

  "If you don't like it," she told him, "just take a walk. You've done plenty, Mack. Nobody's going to fault you if you beg off now."

  "I can't," he said. "That's just the trouble. I've wanted to bolt and run fifty times since we left Denver, but the damn thing keeps dragging me back. I've got to put it all together. One trouble with the world today is that nobody's willing to follow through with what they start. I'm not going to walk out on this one. Two of my people were butchered up in Seattle. I'm going to make sure they didn't die for nothing."

  "How's your headache?"

  "Better," he said. "Turn left here. After I have a talk with Old Sam, it'll be better still."

  "You think he's involved in this himself?" she asked.

  "Let me tell you something." He watched the street signs as they drove through the neighborhood. "The old men who run the families, they've got nothing else to do but sit and plot. That's their game: sit and plot. They watch everything around them with eagle eyes, protecting their territory, protecting their position. If someone gets too smart or comes along too fast in the organization, he's removed permanently. Organized crime isn't a democracy, it's a brutal, feudal society. At the heart of its operation is the cruelty of its leaders. The fact that Old Sam has been family head for so long tells you all you need to know about his conniving viciousness. Certainly he's capable of being mixed up in this. The son of a bitch is capable of anything."

  She turned and looked at him, her face tense. "This really means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

  "Crime tends to be the business that brings law breakers and law enforcers together," he answered, beginning to feel a lot better now that he was getting his feelings out. "The victims simply become the tools of the trade. In a lot of ways, the good guys and bad guys are simply different sides of the same coin. Each exists to complement the other — just business. The heart goes. The anger goes. Well, lady, the anger never goes with me. Crime isn't a business to me, it's the darkness trying to extinguish the light of civilization. And I've dedicated my life to doing what I can to stop it. It's my reason for breathing, which is why I don't mind living out of a suitcase. A home would be a burden to me — just somewhere they could catch me sitting down."

  They drove in silence for a while. Joan had never before heard Bolan speak with such passionate conviction. She didn't know what to say in response. Then Bolan pointed out where to turn into Giancarlo's street.

  Joan noticed the vacant houses as they drove along. She looked at Bolan quizzically.

  "I know," he said. "Tough to defend."

  "What kind of reception are we going to get?" she asked, pulling into the driveway.

  "Figure it out," he said. "We hate each other. They know how I feel about them, and I've punched out Joey. There's no love lost one way or the other."

  "Not even with Angela?" she asked. She look
ed over at him as she stopped the car.

  He returned her knowing gaze with his inscrutable one. "Jury's still out on her," he said. "She didn't ask to be born."

  "Right." Meredith opened her door, getting out and bringing a large purse with her. Bolan climbed out on the other side.

  As they approached the front door Bolan tensed, not knowing what to expect. The windows and doors were still boarded up from the last time he'd been here. "Hold on to your hat. The road's going to get rough."

  They stepped up on the threshold. The door opened, and there stood Joey Giancarlo, looking at them. He was wearing a suit, and had a large adhesive bandage on his right temple, where Bolan had hit him.

  Joey grinned and opened the screen door for them. "Belasko!" He sounded delighted. "Good to see you!"

  Meredith shared a look with Bolan. "Can I let go of my hat now?" she asked.

  He shrugged and followed her into the house.

  Joan noticed it seemed a comfortable place, not overpowering like Ottoni's. Just to the left of the front door, were stairs to the second floor. A small hallway led into a den. On the right of the entrance were formal living and dining rooms. The kitchen was at the back of the house.

  Joey escorted them back toward the den, speaking over his shoulder as he walked. "You really handled those punks up in Denver. I heard there were lots of them. Guess you really made me take back what I said about you guys."

  "Ottoni's dead, though," Bolan returned.

  Joey waved a dismissing hand. "Stinking mouthpiece," he said. "Never had an ounce of guts." He turned and gave Meredith the once-over. "Quite a partner you've got yourself this time, Belasko. You must have got a promotion."

  "This is Joan Meredith/* Bolan said. Addressing Joan, he nodded in Joey's direction. "Joseph Giancarlo, the essence of subtlety."

  "Charmed," she said, holding back a grin.