“Did they say any boys?”
“Yeah, that’s what they said.”
“By midnight?”
“Exactly boss, that’s exactly.”
“Awright, that’s great! That’s exactly what we’ll do!”
Meninghetti scowled. “We’ll do what?”
“We’ll all go out there. We’ll get this misunderstanding cleared up. We can make it by midnight.” The subcapo turned to Captain Hamilton. “Didn’t you say it’d stopped snowing?”
Hamilton nodded, obvious relief written all over his face. “But it’s still nasty as hell out there, Jake. It’s a freezing rain now, not too heavy, but the streets are getting hellish. You’d better get moving right away if you’re going to make it by midnight.”
Meninghetti growled, “Well now wait a minute, Jake. Are you going out there too?”
“Sure I am.”
“You’ll be walking right into it!” the caporegime replied despairingly.
“Maybe I will and maybe I won’t.” Vecci’s mind seemed to be made up. Even his good humor was returning. He winked at Pops Spanno and said, “Go out and tell the boys to get ready. We’re loadin’ up.”
“Loading up in what?” Captain Hamilton groaned.
“Stop worrying, we’re not riding in your bubble-gum machines, that’s for sure. I ain’t dumb enough to go rolling in there in police cars. Save about two out, and send the rest of them on, Ham.”
“What’re we saving two for?”
“Escorts, dammit. You ride the front one, and you move through this town damn quick, you hear?”
Hamilton protested, “Jesus Christ, I can’t go running off just—”
“The hell you can’t,” Vecci calmly told him. “The only thing can stop you is a bullet in the head.”
The Captain’s face turned a beefy red. He spun about and slammed out of the office.
Joliet Jake grinned and told Meninghetti, “Okay, Mario. Let’s get moving. Get those crew wagons around in front. I want ’em out there in five minutes and loadin’.”
The crew chiefs were scrambling to their feet. Meninghetti told them, “Come on outside, boys. We’ll run through this once over lightly, and let’s not make no mistakes.” As the men filed out, he turned to his boss and asked him, “Are you going to call ahead?”
“Sure I’m going to call ahead. You think I’m nuts or something? Damn right I’m calling ahead.”
“Are we going armed?”
“You kidding? You go with every damn arm you got!”
The caporegime frowned and followed his crewchiefs out of the office.
Joliet Jake was already on the phone and punching the number for Giovanni’s. It would not be proper to call Don Gio direct, not at a time like this, but Gio would get the word relayed to him. He’d better. There was only one way to straighten out a misunderstanding like this—well, two ways—and Jake knew exactly what they were. It would either take soft words or hot lead.
Either way, Jake sure wasn’t waiting until half his soldiers had gone over to the other side before he started working toward that understanding. Hell no. Joliet Jake hadn’t survived forty years on the streets on that kind of dumbness.
A taxicab was idling at the curb in front of Manny’s Posh. The meter was ticking and the cabbie was chatting amiably with his fare, a tall man in a gray suit and topcoat. A gray Homburg was worn square across the forehead, a leather patch covered one eye, and an unlit pipe was clamped loosely between his teeth. A small square briefcase sat on the seat beside him.
Another man in gray emerged from the club and stepped in front of the cab to peer agitatedly down the street.
The cabbie told his passenger, “Okay, he must be the one. That’s Captain Hamilton out of Central.”
The man with the eyepatch murmured his thanks and dropped a twenty dollar bill over the seat as he exited.
Hamilton had moved into the street and was waving down an approaching vehicle, a police cruiser. The cruiser pulled to the curb behind the taxi; Hamilton walked along the street side of the cab, moving with care on the freezing surface, and was intercepted beside the police car by the man with the eyepatch.
“Are these your vehicles, Captain?” the man snapped.
“Who wants to know?” Hamilton replied, eyeing the man warily.
The guy showed him a thin smile and said, “Tell you what, Captain. I won’t mention your name if you won’t ask mine.”
“Okay, what’s up?” Hamilton said, sighing.
“Jim has had about a dozen calls about this police parade you’ve got here. He says, for God’s sake, break it up.”
“You tell Jim I’ve been trying to do that for nearly half an hour. And you tell him, furthermore, that something’s going to have to be done about that crazy old man in there. I believe he still thinks he’s living in the 1950’s or something.”
“Jake can be hard to take sometimes. But so can a two block lineup of police cars. What’s the idea?”
“Aw, that old lunatic got this wild plan for planting torpedoes in police cars and running Bolan to ground. I think he wanted to show the youngbloods around here that the old men still have plenty of the oldtime muscle. Anyway, he thought he was going to personally capture Mack Bolan and proudly display his head on a warpole or something. But I’ve got him talked out of it. I was just coming out to send the cars away.”
“I recommend that you do so without further delay.”
“Yeah. Listen, can you get a message to Jim for me?”
“I’ll try.”
“Jake has gone plumb crazy. He thinks there’s a contract let on him or something, and he’s going out to Giovanni’s now for a showdown. He’s taking a big head party, and I’ve been elected to escort them out there. Tell Jim to for God’s sake do what he can to head this off. There’s no telling what might happen. All of us might be in for a whole lot of hell.”
“You’re not escorting him with all these cars, I hope.”
“No, he very kindly settled for a two-car escort. Look, I’ve got to get this moving, so …”
“By all means. Do me a favor first. Get me a ride to Central.”
“I’ll call in a car,” the Captain agreed. “Don’t forget that message.”
“Okay, and listen … a word of advice. If things do start going to hell—well, when it gets down to sheer survival remember that first and last you’re a cop. Get me?”
“Thanks, I’m learning that fast.”
Captain Hamilton leaned into the cruiser and reached for the radio microphone. The man with the eyepatch limped along the sidewalk and took a station at the curb where the taxi had been. Seconds later another cruiser pulled to the curb, the man got in, and the car sped away.
Minutes later the cruiser eased into the “officials” lane of the Central Police Station in Chicago’s loop area. The tall man in the gray suit stepped out, thanked the officers, and went quickly up the steps and inside the station. He was exhibiting a barely noticeable limp, the topcoat was draped neatly over one shoulder; he carried the briefcase in one hand, the unlighted pipe in the other. As he threaded his way through the confusion of uniformed policemen and newspapermen crowding the main lobby area, the man with the eyepatch could have been taken for a police official, a lawyer, or simply a businessman on an errand with the law.
The man was, in fact, none of these. He was the most wanted “criminal” in town at the moment—he was Mack Bolan, in another daring exhibition of “role camouflage.”
His uncovered eye scanned the building directory in a lightning sweep as he walked casually past and on to the back stairway, then he penetrated deeper, past the bull rooms and along teeming corridors, and into a quieter area of the building until he found the offices he sought.
The plaque on the door read, Department Liaison. He entered and walked through a deserted anteroom, inspecting plaques on the three doors opening from there and selecting the one marked, Mr. McCormick, State.
Bolan rapped with his knuckles and
went inside. A pudgy man of about fifty looked up from a solitaire layout on the desk, showed a visitor a sour smile, and said, “If it’s business, you’re too late. If it’s not, then you’re lost.”
“Are you Josh McCormick?” Bolan asked quietly.
“That’s me. Stuck in town on the worst night of the year. I guess you’re not lost, eh.”
“You do the liaison work between the department and the state prosecutor’s office.” It was a statement, not a question.
The man nodded his head, eyes narrowing in a late inspection of his guest. “I’m one of them,” he conceded.
Bolan set the briefcase on the corner of the desk, opened it, and withdrew the Stein notebook. “What stuck you, Mr. McCormick?” he asked in a cold voice. “The weather—or your moonlighting job?”
“What is this?” McCormick growled. “Who the hell are you?”
Bolan had turned the pages of the little book and found the notes he sought. He read aloud, in a voice fit for a funeral service, “McCormick, Josh L.—political appointee, special liaison team for the office of police superintendent, representing state prosecutor in policy matters affecting Chicago Police Department.” He glanced up from the reading and inquired, “Are you that Josh McCormick?”
“What’s that you’ve got there?” the man snarled. “What do you—?”
Bolan growled, “Shut up,” and showed him the Beretta Belle.
The guy turned pale and pressed his hands flat against the top of the desk. “What th’ hell is this?” he asked in a hushed voice.
The notes on McCormick were jotted neatly over six and one half pages of the Stein notes, detailing six years of his close association with known Mafia figures in and out of Chicago, and revealing various details of his treachery to the State of Illinois. He had intervened in scores of criminal cases involving the Chicago syndicate, either buying-off or “clouting” judges and jurists who were not already owned outright by the mob, and often with this influence extending clear into the state supreme court. He had been on the present job for only the past fifteen months, and now functioned chiefly as an informant for his Mafia connections in matters related to their legal wellbeing.
The guy was not a cop, nor an elected official, nor anything other than what the notes indicated. He was a political hack, a paid fink, bagman and clouter for the syndicate—and certainly, in Bolan’s mind, he had no more going for him than any fulltime Mafioso.
McCormick was breaking out in sweat above the brows and a film was forming over his eyes as he stared up the mouth of the Beretta. He whispered, “I don’t know what this is all about. I’ve done nothing. Is this a contract job? Money? If it’s a money job, I’ll double the contract, I’ll triple it. I’ll give you everything I’ve got.”
Bolan’s free hand had restored the notebook to its place in the briefcase, and the hand emerged with a marksman’s medal. He tossed it on the desk.
It hit the guy’s outstretched hand and his eyes focused there, and he gurgled, “Oh God no!”
Bolan told him, “You’ve already given everything you had, McCormick. And it’s not enough, not nearly enough.”
“I’m not Mafia! What does that book say, that I’m Mafia? I’m not, God believe it, I’m not!”
“Maybe you’re worse,” Bolan told him, remembering Leo Stein’s little lecture about the vehicle. “It’s people like you, McCormick, that make it all work for them.”
“I’m nobody, I’m just a tiny cog in a great big machine, Bolan. Hell, it’s not just crime, it’s politics, big politics. There’s a thousand like me, hell maybe ten thousand.” The guy was talking for his life, and Bolan didn’t even want his life, but he did nothing to discourage the talk.
“Maybe eighty thousand,” Bolan said, still remembering.
“I wouldn’t be s’prised. It’s not little people like me, Bolan. It’s the machine, the damned machine. You think I have any influence in this town? Me?” The guy laughed bitterly. “I’ve been in the circles for a long time, sure. I know a lot of people, in the courts and in the police establishment, sure—but do you think I could work anything on my own? They’d laugh me out of town. It’s not me, Bolan. It’s the system, it’s the God-damned system. A guy can’t live around here outside the system; not and make a go of anything.”
Bolan knew all about the system. And he knew how easy it was for straight people to get sucked into that mess, and turned into dirt, and remolded like so much clay into the image the system needed.
He told the frightened man, “I don’t especially want your life, McCormick. I want your office. I want you out.”
“Just give me the chance, you’ll see how fast I get out.”
“And never come back. You tell it to all your buddies in the system. Tell them that Bolan will be around for a long time, and that he’ll be looking into that system regularly.”
McCormick was still looking into the Beretta, but there was hope in the eyes now; he was beginning to breathe normally and to settle himself down. He said, “I can’t believe that you walked past a thousand cops just to tell me that.”
Bolan replied, “You’re right, I didn’t. Pick up the phone, McCormick. Call your boss in Springfield. I mean your official boss. And I expect you to be very convincing. You’ve just stumbled onto some solid information. All the celebrities of the Chicago underworld are meeting at Giovanni’s at this very moment. They might be talking up a street war. And you have a solid make that Bolan will be crashing this party. And wouldn’t it be a neat feat for the state prosecutor if he could very quietly coordinate an army of state and local cops into that little bash out there. That’s the idea—now you show me how well you can present it.”
McCormick was already placing the call. His hand was shaking but the voice was steady as he told Bolan, “Don’t worry, I’m an expert at this stuff, or should I remind you of that?”
Bolan could almost like the guy, even realizing what he was, but realizing also that there were many shades of gray between black and white. He listened critically to the excited two-way conversation, nodded his approval when it was all done, then he tied and gagged the guy and locked him in a closet of the anteroom. That done, Bolan got out of there.
He rounded the corner of the corridor then resumed his affected limping, leisurely making his way back into the swirling chaos that was normal routine for a big city police station—on through scared and snarling suspects, and weeping and angry wives and mothers and sisters.
With a careful disinterest, he pushed on past harried cops and cold-eyed lawyers and cloutmen and fixers of every ilk, through confused complainants and indignant witnesses, on beyond the drunks and the junkies and the frightened kids and the lost souls, on beyond the reporters and the social workers and the photographers, past rattling teletypes and shrilling telephones and back into the frigid but welcome sanity of the wild jungle outside.
And during that trip Bolan quit wondering why sometimes a cop or a lawyer or a judge went sour, or hard, or just plain bad; he had to wonder, instead, how any of them ever kept from it.
He had to wonder, also, if any of this war was really worth it. Was anything actually worth fighting for?
So what if, by some magic and with one mighty thrust of the sword, he should succeed in putting the Mafia down, once and for all, everywhere at once. Wouldn’t others arise to replace them, wouldn’t the clouters and the grafters and the pushers and the rotten core everywhere simply reassert itself? Wouldn’t the shit machine simply reassemble itself?
Hell, he couldn’t start thinking like that, he told himself. Doubt must not be allowed to creep in at a time like this. He made his way back to the war-wagon, inspected the heavy-weather tires and double checked the chains, then he stepped inside and changed back into his combat gear.
A very hot war awaited him.
Sure, there was more to life than just taking all you could milk out of it. With so many sucking leeches hanging on, life would sooner or later run out of the good milk, leaving nothing
but the bitter for everybody.
Yeah, Bolan had his reason for existence. Sometimes a guy simply felt a hand on his shoulder, and he knew that he was being turned around to look at something rotten, something sucking all the good out of life and leaving nothing but bitterness in its place. According to Stein’s notes, more than two-hundred-million bucks a year were being sucked out of the Chicago ghettoes by the system, and not a damn cent was finding its way back in.
So bigtime crime created—indirectly—smalltime crimes, juvenile delinquents, broken homes, junkies, and human misery of every description.
This was Bolan’s message from Central, as finally broken down and assimilated.
And yeah, that hand was still on his shoulder. Someone had to stop sucking and start putting back in. Sometimes a guy had to be willing to stop and look around him, and maybe volunteer for a transfusion to life.
The Executioner smiled grimly and eased his war-machine onto the icy street.
It was not a war-wagon, he was thinking.
It was a bloodmobile.
12: BATTLE SITE
Bolan’s battle plan was simple in conception but delicately complex in its execution. A lone man in a frontal assault could never hope to overcome the staggering array of forces pitted against him; Bolan held no illusions in this respect. He had known from the beginning that the one hope for success lay in his ability to exploit their weakest points, to incite confusion and fear, and to keep the enemy reeling and off balance long enough for the Executioner to take his toll of their leadership.
Jake Vecci, boss of the Loop, had emerged as Bolan’s bonus baby, the big wallop of the battle order. Greed and fear, the human factors that had combined to create the Cosa Nostra, were now being recombined in Chicago—in only the slightest variation of the original formula—to destroy it. Bolan was the chemist, Chicago was his laboratory, and the most primitive ills of mankind were his materials.
And yes, he just might shake this kingdom down, after all.
The nagging worry in Bolan’s mind at the moment, however, was that the larger enemy, the true rot that had drawn him magnetically to this troubled old city, actually lay outside the kingdom—that is, outside the family organization itself. Wherever Bolan had gone in the past to battle the syndicate, he had found a condition wherein the mob seemed to be both the cause and the effect of organized evil. This did not appear to be the case at Chicago.
Chicago Wipeout Page 11
