Hard Targets

by Don Pendleton

  “It’s a simple deal. You borrowed money, now you owe more money. It makes no difference to me whether you got the money. Find a way to get the money. Noon on Friday, I’ll be sending over my collectors for it, and you better not try ducking them. Understand?”

  Abbandando cut the link and lit a cigarette. The gambler would come up with something, even if he had to pawn his wife’s engagement ring. Most of his clients found a way to make the vigorish they owed, and if the principal kept floating out there, what the hell? He would take their vig forever, get his money back tenfold, a hundredfold, and never break a sweat.

  He loved compulsive gamblers, wished he had a piece of the casino, but the law was too damn tight for that. No matter. Nino Abbandando made a decent living with his loan operation, keeping the degenerates in business, playing while their world burned down around them, squeezing them for vig whether they won or lost. That was the beauty of it. He was spared the overhead of running games himself. Just had to pat the losers on their backs, hand them a table stake and take control of their pathetic lives.

  Jackpot.

  He’d heard about something across the river, a soldier going down, but he didn’t know the details. Things always ran smoother on this side of the border, a tribute to Al Cavallaro and to Canada. The two Niagaras might stand only three hundred yards apart, but Canada was calmer, somehow. There was trouble now and then, of course, like anywhere, with any business, but New York—even the upstate part of it—was like the damned Wild West, if you compared the two.

  Smooth sailing, and he didn’t envy his amici on the other shore.

  The front door’s buzzer told him someone had come in from Falls Avenue. He heard voices out front, Carlo asking whoever it was what they wanted, and getting some kind of response. A man’s voice, nothing odd about that. A minute later, there was Carlo in the doorway, looking nervous, with a pair of strangers crowding in behind him, eating up the space in Abbandando’s private office.

  “Carlo, what the hell is this?”

  “They wanna see you, Nino.”

  “So, you bring them back without a by-your-leave? All right, gents, what’s the deal, here?”

  The mobster slipped one hand underneath his desk, where he kept a fully-licensed pistol in a quick-draw holster, mounted in the knee well, within easy reach when he was seated. It was a Heckler & Koch USP, chambered in .45 ACP, never fired except on the range when he’d qualified for his permit.

  The taller, older-looking of the two intruders shoved Carlo aside, and both of them showed Abbandando pistols tipped with sound suppressors. “The deal,” he said, “is this. Go for your piece, or roll your chair back to the safe and crack it for us. Either way, it’s your call.”

  Abbandando figured he had about two seconds to decide.

  He chose to live.

  Hamlin Park, Buffalo, New York

  “SHE’S IN THE BAG,” Leo Kelly said, casting nervous glances up and down Jefferson Avenue while speaking on his cell.

  “And she’s okay,” Joe Borgio replied. He wasn’t asking; he was telling him she’d better damn well be okay, as ordered.

  “Sure, sure. Mick just goosed her with a little voltage. Nothing to it.”

  “Where’s she stashed?”

  “An East Side place we use sometimes, for this and that.”

  “Who’s babysitting her?”

  “Mick’s over there right now.”

  “You warned him about any funny business?”

  “Yeah, of course. He’s over that, I think.”

  “What kinda freak gets over it?” the underboss demanded.

  “Hey, I mean, he works it out with hookers, ’kay? Besides, I’m hoping we can borrow one or two of your guys, since they’ll miss us pretty quick.”

  “Hmm. I’ll see what I can do. Give me the address there.”

  Kelly named the street and gave a number. “Up by Humboldt Park, there.”

  “I have people who can find it. And I have some who can find your partner, if he gives us damaged goods.”

  “I’m telling you, he’s cool.”

  “You give your word, you better hope so.”

  “What’s the difference, anyhow?” Kelly asked. “She can finger Mick, which brings it back to me.”

  “Not that you’d ever rat, eh?”

  Kelly felt a sudden dry-ice chill along his spine. “What the hell? You kidding me, or what? You think I’m freaking crazy, Joe?”

  “I hope not, buddy boy, for all our sakes. You know the reach we got, that Witness Security deal ain’t half as safe as TV makes it out to be.”

  “I’m not a rat, goddamn it!”

  “Good thing for you I believe that.”

  “So, then...what’s the deal?”

  “You know we’ve come up empty, looking for this Grayson prick, plus whoever in hell is helping him.”

  “Sure.” He nodded, even though the mafioso couldn’t see him.

  “And the city’s finest ain’t accomplished squat in that direction, am I right?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  “So, if this Grayson knew Joe Dirks, maybe he knows the sister. Maybe if he finds out that she’s got her little titty in a ringer, he’d come riding to the rescue. Check her cell phone. If she has a contact number, give it a ring.”

  “Hey, yeah. That’s a good idea.”

  “Don’t sell me short. Lots of guys have, and that was the last mistake they ever made.”

  “I hear ya.”

  “And I hope you’re listening.”

  “Well, sure.”

  “If I was you, next call I made would be to check in on your partner. Make damn sure he’s behaving himself with the twist. Bait’s no good if it’s been all chewed over.”

  “I’ll call him, soon as we get off the line.”

  “That’s now,” Borgio said. “I’ll get back to ya.” He cut the link before Kelly could say another word.

  * * *

  JESUS. HE DIDN’T like Joe Borgio fretting, since it meant that Mr. G. was agitated, too. They both knew Mick had a little problem with the ladies, that he lost control and roughed them up sometimes.

  But it had to stop when Mr. G. expressed dissatisfaction with the situation, sure. Or else he might reach down, swat Mick Strauss like a fly, and maybe step on Kelly for good measure.

  Best to check and make sure that the sister was all right.

  Or still alive, at least.

  Falls View, Niagara Falls, Ontario

  “WHAT ARE WE talking, when you say a ‘high-class’ brothel?” Bolan asked.

  “Expensive, clean, protected,” Johnny said, watching the shops roll past as they drove east on Dunn Street. “Just right for whales who want a little break from the casino action.”

  Which could mean the nearby Fallsview Casino Resort, Casino Niagara or Seneca Niagara Casino—all squeaky-clean and scrutinized six ways from Sunday by authorities, but teeming with the types who might’ve gotten used to working girls served up on platters in Atlantic City, say, or Vegas. That was where the Mafia stepped in, with women, outlawed stimulants, a timely loan for losers who were certain they could win it back, if only someone staked them to another shot.

  Good times.

  “Are we close?” Bolan asked.

  “Take the next right, onto Drummond. Then another right, on Dixon.”

  Bolan boxed the block, and Johnny pointed to a reasonably stately house set back from Dixon on a deep lot with well-tended grass.

  “And here we are.”

  “Open for trade?”

  “From what I hear, they never close.”

  Bolan turned in, followed the driveway to a turnaround that let him point the Mercury back toward the street. Better for hasty exits.

  “I suppose we’
re underdressed,” Johnny said.

  “But at least we’re well-equipped,” Bolan replied, slipping the Spectre M4 underneath his raincoat as he stepped out of the car.

  A modern version of a madam answered the doorbell’s melodic chimes. She could have been a runway model, maybe ten, twelve years ago, and still possessed the necessary poise. In line with Johnny’s observation, she surveyed their outfits, saw they weren’t exactly putting on the Ritz, and arched a well-plucked eyebrow as she asked them, “Can I help you gentlemen?”

  “We’re here about the renovation,” Bolan said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The remodeling,” Johnny added.

  “I’m afraid you have the wrong address.”

  “Nobody told you?” Bolan asked.

  “Told me what?”

  “You’re closing down,” Johnny said, as he let her see his pistol.

  They pushed past her, rude but tired of wasting precious time. The foyer had a vaguely French motif, though Bolan couldn’t name the style. “It’s time to hit the panic button,” he informed their hostess.

  She was blinking at him, dumbstruck by the SMG he’d drawn from underneath his coat.

  “The warning signal for a raid,” Johnny reminded her. “Hop to it, will you?”

  Sluggishly, as if in shock, she turned and punched a button nearly hidden by the pattern of the wallpaper. At once, a blaring klaxon sounded through the big house, followed swiftly by the noise of running feet and slamming doors. Women and men, most of them nude or caught midway through stripping, scrambled out of upstairs rooms, bustled along the second-story landings and stampeded down the curving double staircase, bolting for the nearest exit.

  Two of them were slower, fully dressed and armed—one with a pistol, while his sidekick held a stubby shotgun. Bolan caught them both before they had a chance to mark their targets, stitched them left to right and back again, a dozen of the Spectre’s fifty rounds dropping the pair together in a flaccid tangle.

  With a shriek, the madam bolted, joined the exodus and vanished in a headlong sprint toward Dixon Street. Another moment, and they had the stylish cathouse to themselves.

  “Those tapestries look flammable,” Johnny observed.

  Bolan smiled and said, “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Calaguiro Estates, Niagara Falls, Ontario

  “WHAT DO YOU mean, a total loss?” Al Cavallaro felt as if his head was going to explode. His knuckles ached from strangling the telephone handset.

  “I talked to the fire captain, boss,” said the voice in his ear, nervous sounding, with reason.

  “Jesus Christ! Where’s Monica?”

  “I got her here, boss.”

  “Wrong. You bring her here, to me. I wanna hear the rest of this direct from her.”

  He slammed the phone down, turning back to Nino Abbandando in his not-so-easy chair, facing the bulk of Cavallaro’s desk.

  “Looks like you’re not the only one who screwed a pooch today, Nino.”

  “I swear to God, Al—”

  “Save it! This ain’t church, and when I hear confessions, I don’t hand out Hail Marys.”

  “What I mean is—”

  “You and Carlo, up against two other guys. I make that even money,” Cavallaro said. “And both of you were packing.”

  “So were they,” Abbandando replied. “With a machine gun, no less.”

  “I don’t care if they walked in there with a bazooka and a flamethrower. You coulda tried to save my goddamn money!”

  It was getting through to Abbandando that the money mattered more than he did. “I don’t know what to tell you, boss,” he muttered.

  Cavallaro spit it back at him. “I don’t know what to tell you, boss. How about you tell me how you’re gonna pay me back three-quarters of a million dollars?”

  “Um...”

  “And now I get a call that two guys just torched Monica’s funhouse. A total loss, the fire department says.”

  “Hey, Al, you think it was the same two pricks?”

  “I hope so, Nino. Otherwise, I got four guys kicking my ass, and maybe more, besides.”

  “I know I let you down,” Abbandando said. “But if you let me have a second chance, I’ll take those guys and—”

  “Save it, will you?” Cavallaro interrupted him. “You run a decent operation, Nino. But a soldier? Not so much.”

  “I got a reputation to uphold!”

  “And it’s on shaky ground right now. You wanna save it, get your ass out there and squeeze those suckers you got dangling on the hook. I want my friggin’ money back!”

  “Okay. I’m on it!” Abbandando hurried for the door, before his second chance was snatched away.

  Now it was Cavallaro’s turn to take his medicine. He had to call his boss in Buffalo, brief Mr. G. on what was happening and how his people had already dropped the ball—not once, but twice. Three-quarters of a million dollars out the door, and now the cathouse up in smoke, with all the nasty questions it was bound to raise once arson dicks and the Ontario Provincial Police started sniffing around. Close scrutiny was the last thing that he needed, and the last thing his padrino would desire.

  He buzzed for Elio Mangano, spitting orders like an auctioneer the moment that his number two came through the office door. “Double the soldiers we got on the street and tell them no one sleeps or takes a dump until these bastards are brought to me! I mean right now! Alive, if possible, or else with proof they didn’t grab some figli di puttana off the streets and try to run one past me. How in hell you think it looks to Vinnie, when we get our asses kicked like this?”

  Mangano shrugged and said, “I hear he has some problems of his own. Could be the same problem, for all we know.”

  “And if that’s true, it helps us all the more to clean it up, eh? Show him that we’re not just playing second string out here, with the Canucks.”

  “I hear you, Al.”

  “You do? One question, then—why the hell are you still standing there?”

  Konica Minolta Tower Centre, Niagara Falls, Ontario

  “ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER loan shark,” Johnny said.

  “They make the world go ’round,” Bolan answered, piloting the Mercury around a crowded parking lot, seeking the nearest space that he could find to Golden Horseshoe Pawn & Loans.

  “And when we tap them, Vinnie Gallo squeals,” Johnny acknowledged, completing the thought.

  It was a simple law of nature: hit your adversary where it hurt the most, to bring him down.

  Golden Horseshoe took its name from Horseshoe Falls, part of the system collectively known as Niagara Falls, which also included American Falls and the smaller Bridal Veil Falls. Most people on the U.S. side were unaware that three falls went together—or if they’d been told at some point, they had probably forgotten it.

  The two men’s target, operated by a parasite named Peter Deodato, stood in the shadow of the Konica Minolta Tower, a 325-foot observation point for Horseshoe Falls that featured a hotel, a restaurant and a wedding chapel. Sprawling out around its base were offices, branch banks, arcades and Deodato’s shop, ready around the clock to “help” some idiot who’d bet the farm and lost it at the nearby Fallsview Casino.

  “Same drill?” Bolan asked.

  “Suits me,” Johnny replied—and then his cell phone rang. He checked the LED display and said, “Hang on a sec. It’s Zoe Dirks.”

  He answered, “Zoe?”

  A male voice told him, “Zoe can’t come out and play right now. She’s all tied up.”

  Johnny swallowed the lump that came from nowhere, threatening to block his windpipe. He put on the phone speaker so that his brother could listen in, before he asked, “Who am I talking to?”

  “Names aren’t important, are they, Mr. Grayso
n?”

  “Okay, then. What do you want?”

  “It’s funny you should ask. First thing, this shit that you’ve been pulling has to stop.”

  “Which shit is that?”

  “All of it, smartass! Asking about things that don’t concern you. Poking into other people’s business. Causing trouble for an old, established Family.”

  “Meaning the Gallo Family.”

  “See, there you go with names again. You need to focus on priorities.”

  “Explain them to me.”

  “Take this little honey that I’m looking at right now, for instance. Pretty cute there, in her birthday suit, but she could have an accident, you know? All kinds of accidents, in fact. Over and over, like.”

  “And you’ll release her if I leave the Gallo Family alone?”

  “Whoa, pardner! Not so fast. Stopping your shit is one thing, but you’ve caused a lot of damage, too. I figure you owe repercussions.”

  Johnny frowned at his brother, who’d raised an eyebrow.

  “Repercussions? You mean reparations?”

  “I mean payback, smartass. Is that plain enough?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “You and your butt-buddy come in, white flag, surrender, all that. We’ll see what happens next.”

  Johnny gave that the full consideration it deserved, then said, “No, thanks. I pass.” He cut off the call, then switched off his phone, to prevent a call-back.

  “Only way to play it,” his brother said.

  “Right.”

  “It’s fifty-fifty that she’s dead already. If she’s not—”

  “I know. The only way to help her is a blitz.”

  The same thing the Executioner had done when Johnny had been taken hostage as a youth, together with his soon-to-be adoptive mother. Set the punks’ house of misery on fire and find out if they were smart enough to bail before the roof fell down on top of them.

  And maybe, in the midst of it, rescue an innocent.

  Chapter 7

  East Side, Buffalo, New York

  “Son of a bitch hung up on me!” Leo Kelly said.