"Just for fun, not for frolic," the lady elaborated.
Reynolds continued, "Apparently he'd made some connection between Sciaparelli and Bluebird. He kept asking Jenny about family connections and business interests. Last Tuesday, he went out to her house and busted in on Sciaparelli. Jenny says they had a long talk, and Shorty went away very happy."
"Shakedown, maybe?"
"Yeah, maybe. It sort of points that way. I don't see how he could have scored any other connection."
Bolan draped a towel about his shoulders and turned to the cowboy with a troubled face. "Was Shorty an ex-cop, too?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah. I thought I told you that. We served together. But then I went to 'Nam, and he didn't. When I got back, he was driving truck. That left only Billy Bob."
"Who is Billy Bob?"
"The third leg of the three musketeers. We went through school together, the three of us—played ball together, went on the Cobb force together. I guess Billy Bob was the only true cop, though. He's still with the force."
"Still friends?"
"Sure. We bowled together, my last home stand. That's rare, though. He moonlights another job, and I'm on the road most of the time. But we're still close. Why? Are you thinking, maybe, of a connection?"
Bolan shrugged. "Something to keep in mind, maybe. An eye or an ear on the inside never hurts. For now, I'd say let's keep the club as exclusive as possible. I already have a contact?'
The lady said, "Hey, guys."
Bolan grinned at her. "Yeah?"
"I just wanted to make sure I'm still here." "Did you have something to say?"
"I have plenty to say," the lady assured him. "Try it, then."
"I've decided that Suzy will just have to lie in her own bed. I'm not sharing it with her any longer. I want to sing, Sergeant."
Bolan pulled up a chair, took both her hands, and told her, "It will have to be the prettiest sounds I've heard all day."
12: Keys
Jennifer Rossiter was the key to the Sciaparelli question, of course, and Bolan had known that all along. He had suspected also that she would come to him in her own time—and she had not disappointed him in that expectation.
Suzy was an older sister—but not that much older, and there was a considerable age difference between herself and her husband. After four years of marriage, though, she apparently remained "deeply fascinated" by the guy. Jennifer simply would not believe that her sister was "in love" with Sciaparelli.
"He's a pig," she said witheringly.
Fascination was a word that she could better accept for her sister, and it was just the opposite of her own reaction to the man. She was thoroughly repelled by him.
Suzy had been "behaving neurotically" for the past couple of years—"torn between the louse and sanity." There were moments when she seemed to despise her husband, but she flew into a defensive rage any time Jennifer suggested a termination of the marriage. For the past year, Jennifer had been living with the Sciaparelli’s.
Why?
"Just to keep Suzy sane. I thought I could give her something he couldn't—tears and sympathy, if nothing else. But I'm sick of it. Believe me, after two days of house arrest, I am sick to death of it."
From Jennifer's own observations and from her awareness of household routines and influences, as well as from conversations with her sister, the young lady knew quite a lot about Charles Sciaparelli.
As she unloaded it on Bolan—at times in response to direct questions but generally as a torrential release—he was pleased to discover that most of the keys were there.
Coupled to his own understanding of the complex interactions within the world of Mafia, and that coupled again to a simple extension of logic, Bolan was able to draw a rather accurate three-dimensional picture of the Georgia empire as well as the forces behind it.
When she had finally wrung herself dry on the subject, Bolan asked the lady, "Why were you under house arrest?"
"I thought that was obvious. He wanted me to tell him about Shorty. All I gave him was name, rank, and serial number. He kept hinting that there was some dark plot, that someone was out to get him, and that I was mixed up in it, knowingly or unknowingly. I thought he was just trying to trap me into saying something dumb about Shorty. I actually did not know what was going on. So I told him nothing. So he said I could just stay in my room until I decided to cooperate. So I took off my clothes and dared any of them to walk through that door again."
Bolan chuckled. "Did it work?"
"Most of the time."
"And, when it didn't?"
She raised those lovely arms and dropped them. "I just kept my eyes closed and my mouth screaming until they left."
"You didn't scream when I came in."
"It was dumb I got tired of it."
"You say they locked you up two days ago?" "Yes. This would have been the third day." Bolan looked at Reynolds. "Where was Shorty two days ago, cowboy?"
"With me on the flip-flop from Detroit. We just got back yesterday."
Okay. That figured. The guy was on the road when Ship, or someone, decided to take him.
"Ship put Jenny on ice," Bolan muttered.
She said, "What?"
"I don't believe he meant to hurt you. Just the opposite. I believe he was protecting you."
The lady was giving him a troubled look. Reynolds said, "He was trying to keep her out of play. Shorty was already a marked man."
"He marked himself," Bolan growled. "He tried the wrong combination. He caught somebody by the short hairs."
"Sciaparelli, sure."
"Maybe. Maybe not. What kind of shakedown could the guy hope to pull off? Look who he was tackling. He must have known he couldn't hope to hack something like that. Could an ex-cop be that naive?"
"So what do you think?" the cowboy mused.
"I don't know. It'll have to roll around inside the skull for a while until something settles into place. I'm getting a feeling, though. I believe Ship was expecting somebody down from New York before I ever touched him. I believe he was dreading it. I stared the guy down this morning when I took Jenny out of there. He really shouldn't have backed off that way, considering the circumstances. It was the act of a threatened man—a vulnerable man. It sure wasn't ..."
Something was shuttling back and forth across Bolan's inner vision—some picture, fighting for resolution.
"What's wrong?" Reynolds asked.
"Nothing's wrong. It's getting right, now. Jenny?"
"Yes, sir," she replied soberly.
"Was it your idea that you move in with your sister and her husband?"
"Gosh, no. I told you. I did it for Suzy's sake." "She asked you."
She drove me crazy for a week. I finally gave in.
"Where's your family?"
"My mother died two years ago." "Your father?"
"When I was a little girl. I barely remember him."
"So you're all alone in the world." "Except for Suzy."
"Except for Suzy," Bolan echoed.
The shuttling loom had found its resolution. Bolan said, quietly, "Jenny—who is Henry?" "Henry Jackson? He's an adorable old black man. He's my—my."
"Your what?"
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"It's important. Who is Henry?"
"Well, I don't know what to call it. I never thought about it. He's just Henry. Can a man be a housekeeper? Do girls have butlers? He's been with the family for years. I inherited him."
"Which family?"
"My family. After my mother died, he was the only family I had, except Suzy, and she was all knotted up with Charles. I was still in school. Henry stayed on and took care of things for me. Why? Has something happened to Henry?"
"Let's hope not. So he's your man, not Ship's."
"Right. He came along with me when I moved in a year ago. Charles took over the employer responsibilities. But he mainly took care of Suzy and me. Charles already had his own gun-toting foot men. What is this all abo
ut? Could Henry be in danger in that house? My God, Suzy's there. She wouldn't let—"
"I think it's okay," Bolan said quickly, heading off an emotional tizzy. "If Henry took my advice, and I'm sure he did, then he's long gone from Paces Ferry Road
. Where do you think he would go?"
She blinked at that. "I have no idea. Back to my place, maybe."
"You still have a place?"
"Sure. In Decatur. What is this?"
"Keys, sweetie, just keys. Relax. Henry has been with the family a long time, eh."
"Since right after my father died."
"Your mother worked."
"No. She was not very wealthy. I guess my father left us in pretty good shape financially The house was paid for. There was always plenty of money. What kind of keys?"
"To the past, maybe," Bolan muttered.
He got up and strapped on the gun-leather. "I'll have to ask you two to stay buried a while longer. If I'm not back within a couple of hours, stop expecting me. You'll have to play it by ear from there."
"Hey, hold it!" Reynolds growled. "If it's all that tight, I want a piece of it."
"You already have a piece, and I'm going to need you for more urgent things; so save it. Jenny—I'd like to use your hot rod."
"Take it," she said quietly. "And bring it back—with you in it."
He grinned and told her, "I intend to."
"Just give me a hint," the cowboy worriedly insisted. "Maybe it's better than I'm thinking."
"Maybe it's not," Bolan replied grimly. "Stay with the odds, guy." He pulled him to the door and spoke softly for private hearing. "She could be hot as hell. If I don't get back, use my name and contact a guy named Ecclefield, strike force in Atlanta. Tell him to put the girl somewhere cool. He'll know what to do."
The guy was beginning to look like a cop. He replied, "Yeah, I have that. Take care, Big B."
"You, too," Bolan said, and cracked the door open.
The lady catapulted across the room in a sudden flying lunge, slamming the door and inserting herself between it and Bolan.
He said, "Hey!"
She said, "I checked you. I don't want it anonymous, not ever again. Give me something to hold until you get back."
He took her in his arms and kissed her, long and tender, then asked her, "Something like that?"
"Just like that," she said, and made a run for the bathroom.
Reynolds smiled and commented, "Well, there's something to grow on."
"Or die with," Bolan muttered, and went out of there.
Keys, yeah, the girl held the keys.
And what a curious place was this Mafia world.
Bolan went first to the warwagon and fired up the data console, found frustration there, then risked the mobile phone for a combination to Pittsfield. He had to run it three times before Turrin came on the line, and the guy was sounding just a bit on the ragged edge.
"This is La Mancha. Are you clean, Leo?"
"Yeh, it's clean. Jesus Christ, where have you been? I've been trying to turn you all day."
"I've been off the floater, Leo—just got back. What's all the huff?"
"Hell, I think the world's about to stop and let everyone off. I think maybe I'm in deep shit, Sarge. Listen, I'm going to be fading off for a while. I already got the wife and kids packed away."
"What is it, Leo?"
"It's heat, Sarge, and it's moving my way."
"I should be clear by tomorrow," Bolan said quickly. "Find a low spot and stay put. Keep hitting my floater so I'll know where. Have you alerted Hal?"
"Yeh, he knows but I'm not going along with his fix. It would blow everything for good. There's still a chance here, and I think it's worth trying for."
"Just keep it covered, buddy. We'll work it together."
"Thanks, big guy. I was hoping you'd say something like that. Okay. I'm going to tough it through. I'll hit you every even hour from now on until we contact again. Uh . . . how're things in axe-handle acres?"
"Same as everywhere, Leo. Do you have a minute for a quickie?"
"Yeh. Try me."
"When I talked to Hal this morning, he said you'd sent the alert on the head party."
"Yeh, right. I couldn't turn you. He said he passed it."
"I got it, yeah. What I'm wondering, now ... when did you send that word, Leo? Before or after you got my fix?"
"Right about the same time, I guess. I was on the phone with the headshed when your thing came down. I mean, I got it right off the ticker. The guy passes it on to me as it's coming in. And he says something like it's going to be a hot time in Atlanta because the Domino and his crew are heading that way."
"That's the way he put it, eh? Which should mean that the Domino was already sent—shouldn't it?"
"Well, no—well, yeah, maybe so. I didn't put it together that way, but—yeah, I guess so. Unless Domino was sitting there just waiting for your thing to go down, because I got it before he did."
"Okay, Leo, it fits. Thanks, guy. Hey, you cover it. I'll be there. That's a promise."
"So will I. And that's another promise."
Bolan popped the connection and immediately tried another combination, this one to Washington.
He got it the first time, and said, "This is Striker. Clear me."
He sat through the usual rundown of clicks and squeals, then Brognola told him, "Okay, it's clear. What's happening?"
"I just talked to Sticker."
"I hope you talked some sense into him."
"Yeah, I agreed that he should cool it and tough it.
I’ll be up there tomorrow."
"Fine. That's all I need. I'll be running naked through the streets of Washington tomorrow, Striker."
"Maybe no. What's moving on the Sticker?"
"It smells like a general purge, buddy. Things are very tense in New York. The explosion threatens to reach all the way to our buddy. Sticker might lose a sponsor—and you know what that means."
Bolan said, "Yeah. Okay. It all fits. I think maybe it's reaching here, too, Hal. I don't have time to give you details but something is definitely rumbling, and I believe it started before I got here. I'm on short time, so I want you to give me something right off your head—don't go pulling files or anything. I'm going back now to a time when Jake Pelotti was an underboss under Saranghetti, New York City, more than fifteen years ago.
"Okay. Go ahead."
"A guy went for a hit on Jake a few days before his elevation to capo."
"Right. But the guy botched it. Jake picked up a flesh wound and went into hiding until his boys could safe it for him."
"Okay. Who was that hit man, Hal?"
"Oh, hell. We're going back a long way, Striker, and still nobody knows for sure. A few chunks of a human body floated up in the East River a few days after that hit, enough left of it for fingerprint identification. It was generally felt that this was the hit man, but that was never actually established. He was a free-lancer."
"I have that. I'm going for a name, Hal."
"Shame on you. How could you forget a name like that one?"
"Let's have it."
"Uh, a very peculiar—yeah. James. John Paul James."
"That's a positive?"
"It is. Right off the head, Striker."
"Okay, thanks. I'm sure I have him in my files, but all I could get was a picture, a news clipping or something, I don't know. I'll find it. And, Hal, give the Sticker all the cover you can, huh?"
"Now look who's worrying."
"Not us—right?"
"Right. Not us."
Bolan killed the combination and turned immediately to his data console. A picture, yeah. For some reason, it had flashed on him as he was talking with Jennifer Rossiter, but nothing else would come from it. Some subliminally recorded image, no doubt—something adhering to the gray tissues from a routine data scan—but it was in the files somewhere, and it had to do with Jake Pelotti, the current head of a New York family
It was not banked un
der Pelotti—he'd already checked that. But, yeah, there it was under James, John Paul.
It was a microfilm transparency lifted from an old newspaper clipping. It was a photo of a smiling man and woman and two little girls, snapshot quality and dimmed with age long before the microfilm was made.
The faces were hardly distinguishable, but that did not really matter.
It was the caption that mattered.
Suspected Victims of Gangland Retaliation.
John P. James, his wife, Elizabeth,
daughters Susan and Jennifer.
Yeah.
It was a hell of a key.
13: Strongheart
Bolan knew what he had to do. That was not the question. The question was how to do it. And, of course, the answer was obvious, simple, and scary. There was only one way to do it. A bit of engineering, perhaps, could make it slide a bit slicker. But all chutes led to the one inescapable end.
He had to make a daylight penetration of the Sciaparelli household, and he had to do it with all cute tricks inoperative.
He had to go in there cold against a professional force of headhunters.
Unless ...
"Try me," the guy had offered.
Bolan got the guy on the horn and reminded him.
"Sure. The invitation is still open," the young Fed assured him.
"Okay. Don't ask any questions you don't want the answers to. And don't waltz me around—this one is purely for marbles, so just say yes or no. I need an official presence, in force, at the Sciaparelli home, exactly one hour from now."
"Exactly one hour?"
"Yeah. My watch says it's seven past the hour ... right ... now."
"Check. You'll have it. Wouldn't it help if I knew a little about the game plan?"
"It could keep you up nights, friend. How's the paper work going?"
"Smashingly," the guy replied, a pleased ring to the voice. "I've already moved for that lockup you suggested. Preliminary indications are for complete approval within the hour."
"You do move fast," Bolan complimented him.
"I have fast friends," the cop replied with a chuckle. "At seven past the hour. Okay. We have a date."
Bolan said, "You won't be seeing me, friend, I hope."
"What am I supposed to be doing?"
Executioner 027 - Dixie Convoy Page 8
