“You talk to Hal yet?” Bolan glumly wondered.
“I did. He sent his thanks. Then he talked to your man there, called me back, and sent thanks again. He says there’s no way he can make Nola until after Mardi Gras.” Turrin chuckled. “He’s about to get kicked upstairs.”
“To what, and when?” Bolan inquired, very interested.
“Somebody evidently doesn’t like the way he’s running OrgCrime. It looks like he’s going to be an assistant attorney general, in another division, and damned soon.”
Bolan said, “Well, well.”
“Something is very rotten in Washington, Striker.”
“Yeah,” Bolan growled.
“You’re thinking!” Turrin declared accusingly.
“You bet I am.”
“Keep your ass clear of Washington! Last time you damned near—”
Bolan cut in with, “Hey, hey, I have to get out of Nola, first. You have any more gems for me?”
“I guess not. I very delicately tried a ripple about your Able friends and struck out. Nothing. If someone up here is in on that type of operation, then they’re keeping it very close.”
Bolan said, “Okay. If you were standing here I’d kiss you. I—”
“Don’t try, just don’t try,” the man from Mass growled.
Bolan laughed and signed off.
Then a dark mood settled over him and he kicked the warwagon into a hot run toward New Orleans.
The whole country was in a mess. With cancer of the brain, what hope could there be for the body?
Yes, Sticker—the Striker was thinking.
He was thinking about embattled good men, like Hal Brognola, trying desperately to hack their way through the entangled jungle growth that had become official Washington—about Stone Age politics and a crumbling national faith in institutions of government—and with what cause … with what cause!
And, yes, there were other fronts to probe … as soon as possible. The New Orleans wrap-up would have to come quickly and decisively. He’d set them up for the knockout—then pulled his punch in concern for a couple of old friends who were probably dead anyway.
It was a lousy way to push a war.
Toni had said the right words. Pol himself would have roared, “On with the game, the game’s gotta go on!”
“Yeah,” Bolan growled aloud to himself.
The game was damned sure going to go on.
14: WALLS
Lieutenant Petro rubbed aching eyes and told the confining walls of his office, “I just don’t believe that guy.”
He did, of course. There was no way to cut the guy short. But Jack Petro had never come up against any individual who could just keep on going through night and day without stopping occasionally for a breather or a few winks of sleep or—for God’s sake—a drink of water or something.
For that reason he had at first been disinclined to credit Bolan with the Mississippi strike. How, he reasoned, could a guy raise all the hell that guy had raised in this town during the night and early morning and then truck it on over to the Gulf Coast and pull something like that for lunch?
Then the details had come in from Gulfport. Head hits, from about five hundred yards out, two of them in rapid fire—across a distance of five damned football fields? Against armed, cagey professionals who must have been halfway expecting something like that in the first place?
Then the clincher.
The nervy shit had shot a golf ball off a tee to open the formalities!
So, sure. It had to be Bolan. And what a goddam guy!
The gold-braided fed Brognola had made no secret of his feelings for the guy. Loved him like a brother! Tried to get him to accept fed sponsorship, several times. The guy refused! Imagine that! Refusing total amnesty, complete with secret badge and license to hunt. That told something about the guy. But, what? Maybe the guy had an overpowering death instinct—wanted to die young.
“Bullshit!” Petro yelled at the wall.
The guy wasn’t dying! He was the livingest son of a bitch Jack Petro had ever heard of!
So maybe that was the answer. Yeah, maybe it was.
The rackets cop debated with his fatigue for a moment then picked up the phone and called his counterpart at State.
“What’re they doing in Mississippi?” he asked the other wallbanger.
“Mostly running around holding their heads in their hands,” was the wry response. “Same thing we’re doing here.”
“That figures,” Petro growled. “I mean what’re they doing about their nonesteemed visitors from up-country?”
“It’s kind of interesting that you should ask that,” State replied.
“How about giving me an interesting answer,” Petro suggested.
“Well—they haven’t broken any laws, you know. Not that anyone knows about. Even the dead men were carrying gun permits.”
“Local endorsement?”
“You bet. And here’s a kicker. They’re Louisiana-endorsed also.”
Petro whistled. “Who gave it to them?”
“We’re checking that.”
“Yeah, sure.” The NOPD rackets specialist threw a pencil at the wall. “That’ll end at the fucking wall, just like everything else.”
“Don’t take it so personally,” State advised. “One of these days well get all the walls down around here.”
“Fat chance,” Petro groused.
“Then the view will be so blinding, we’ll probably start building new ones.”
It was a cynical profession these men belonged to.
Petro sent that thought crashing into the wall of his office as he told his friend at State, “I’d like to be kept advised on the movements of that bunch from St. Louis.”
“We’re in constant liaison with Mississippi,” he was assured. “They’re still trying to come to a decision about their presence over there.”
“What’s our official position on the matter?”
“Leave them be and keep them under watch. We’re almost certain that their presence is tied into the Mack Bolan problem. We regard the two problems as one and the same. We don’t want them rousted from there just to get up and move over here.”
“They’re coming anyway, you know,” Petro said.
“There’s that feeling, sure. Our guess is that they’re just using Mississippi as a base. At least we know now that they are around and—”
“Thanks to Bolan, no thanks to our own goddam—”
“—and that they’ve been coming in over the past three days. If Mississippi invites them out of the state, they’ll just go somewhere else close by and mob up again. Hell, we’re saying leave them be. And keep us advised of movements.”
“Those bastards are coming to Mardi Gras!” Petro declared disgustedly.
“Well … maybe so, maybe not.”
“I have it on eminent authority that they are!”
“Whose eminence?”
“Mack fucking Bolan, that’s whose eminence!”
A brief silence, then: “Really? Old buddy of yours, or something?”
“New one,” Petro growled. “He sent me a package of dynamite this morning. It’s going to blow some walls down, too, if I can keep it out of the wrong hands.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“You will. Copies, anyway. But not until I have the originals properly sealed away under a dead man’s trigger.”
“My, we’re getting paranoid,” State declared, a bit grumpily.
“Betcher ass we are, and we’re staying that way, buddy. We live longer that way.”
“Jack … come over. We need to get heads together. And bring that shit with you.”
“Nothing doing,” Petro said. “I’m sort of half expecting the guy to call again. I want to be here if he does. I think maybe he never sleeps. I’m so damned tired, I’m dizzy.”
“What guy?”
“Bolan, you dummy.”
“Hell, he’s in Mississippi.”
“Was, dummy, was. Very
briefly, I’d bet.”
“You really think he’ll contact you?”
“Yeah, that’s what I really think, wallbanger.”
“I’ll come over there, then.”
“Do that. And I’ll show you something to blow the walls right out of your mind.”
The rackets specialist hung up the telephone with a crash. He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, glared at the walls of the office that was hemming him in and tucking him neatly—then he got slowly to his feet and went to the nearest one, pleasantly said, “Hi, wall; fuck you, wall”—and ground the cigarette into it clear to the palm of his hand.
He knew why Bolan would not accept that amnesty license.
Walls, that’s why. Walls of the mind and soul and body. A guy like Bolan would not stand for them—hell no, not any, not ever.
And that was mostly why Jack Petro admired him so.
15: THE PLOY
Bolan picked up I-10 just below Slidell and left it at the Canal offramp, swinging onto Claiborne and spotting Toni almost immediately, though he was ten minutes late for the rendezvous.
She’d changed clothes and done something different to her hair, but there was no problem recognizing her—she was some kind of gal, and Bolan was not surprised to find his heart lifting in anticipation of their meeting.
She did a slow double-take at the warwagon as it slid by, then scrambled aboard with a happy sigh when the center door opened in her face and the familiar voice called out, “Come aboard!”
Bolan pulled away immediately, with the girl swaying in the aisle. She moved forward to the cab exclaiming, “Nice! Very nice! Home is the warrior, huh?”
“Secret weapon,” he said, grinning at her in the mirror. “Come on in.”
She slid into the passenger seat forward, bounced on it, said, “Wow, sexy,” then started bawling.
Bolan gave her silence and an understanding atmosphere as he maneuvered clear of those busy streets and back onto the interstate. As he clover-leafed south toward the Greater New Orleans Bridge, Toni got it back together, gave him an embarrassed scrutiny, and told him, “Well, that takes care of the waterworks for another week.” She rubbed angrily at the reddened eyes, laughed shakily, and declared, “I pulled it off, Mack. I walked right in there and spilled my guts all over Lanza’s desk—and he bought it, all of it.”
“I know,” he replied musingly. “Good show, Toni.”
“How did you know? I’ve been listening to the radio. You’ve been over playing on the damn beaches. How could you—?”
He said, “I was with you every step of the way.”
“In spirit, maybe,” she argued, scoffing good-naturedly. “I’m not that dumb. I know when I’m—were you?”
“No spirits involved,” Bolan said. He activated the optic reflector and swung it over for her viewing. “Use the red lever for scanning horizontally, the black for vertical. The little knob there at the bottom is for focus.”
She was a great one for double-takes, pulling the routine again from Bolan’s granite profile to the little viewscreen. Then she understood and bent to the task, a moment later whispering, “Right on! This is fabulous!” She swiveled in the seat, seeking the optic target with the unaided eye and locating it. “That building is a mile away!”
He said, “Yeah. The ears are just as good. Also have radio surveillance capability.” He swung the reflector back into place and deactivated it. “I double teamed you into Lanza’s joint.” He gave her a quick smile. “You’re some saleswoman.”
“I’ve been told I could sell rosary beads to Baptists,” she said, smiling back. “They say it’s a gift. Could I sell you something, Mr. Bad?”
“Like what?”
“Like anything. You name it.”
There was a suggestive opening he did not wish to pursue at the moment. Instead, he asked her, “Think you could sell a quarter of a million dollars to a punk who’s never owned more than a thousand?”
She blinked rapidly at that before replying, “So what would he buy the quarter million with?”
“Maybe his life. And a safe return for a couple of Mack Bolan’s old friends.”
Toni cried, “Whoof! I knew it! You’ve got a plan!”
“A ploy, anyway,” Bolan admitted. “But the game will center around you, again.” He gave her a quick, oblique look as he swung off the expressway. She waited quietly as he maneuvered the outsized vehicle onto an angle for the river front. Then he added, “And much more dangerous this time.”
“Hey!” she exclaimed angrily. “I told you those waterworks were my ration for the week! Don’t you dare start softing me out!”
“Think you can take the heat, eh?”
“Heat you’ve never seen before, heat!” she huffed.
He chuckled and halted the warwagon in the shadows of a Water Street warehouse and pulled the girl into his war room, sat her down, and gave her a moment of steady, cool gaze.
She cooled right back at him, finally giving way to a quivering smile.
He smiled back as he asked her, “Do you have a private detective license?”
She nodded. “Sure. Can’t operate without it. We observe the legalities. And we’re registered here.”
He said, “Okay. Carry a gun?”
She opened her purse and showed him a tiny lady’s special, a nickel plated .25 Auto with pearl grips. “It’s legal, too,” she assured him.
“Great for starting races,” he commented on the little weapon. “If you want to stop a guy with that, though, you’d better go for the mouth.”
She made an unpleasant face. “Just hope I never have to. Don’t worry, though—I could. Rosie saw to that. I must have fired fifty jillion rounds into moving targets. But I—in the mouth?—seriously?”
He nodded. “Straight through the ivories. When you play, play for keeps.” He slid back a panel and produced a fat attaché case. “This is the quarter mil,” he told her.
Her mind was obviously still with the previous subject, but she recovered quickly to ask, “Who do I sell it to?”
He withdrew a list from his breast pocket and gave it to her.
She scanned the list quickly, eyes widening as they raised to a flickering inspection of his face. “All of these?”
He nodded. “It’s not exactly a Sunday school class, either. It’s a collection of pimps, pushers, runners, streetcorner bookies, freelance hitmen—you name the illness, it’s somewhere on that list. I had other plans for them. But I guess …”
Toni’s attention had reverted to the list of names. “Are these addresses still good?”
“As of about dawn today, yes. One or two may have left town suddenly. But there’s still a large field to play to. These people all work for Tommy Carlotti—your Mr. Kirk.”
“What’s my sales pitch?”
“Play that by your own ear. But here’s the basics: Tommy Carlotti is not long for this world. Mack Bolan is very unhappy with this guy, for snatching his two friends. Carlotti is now wearing the mark of the beast. Add to that another angle for a funeral: Carlotti is crossing his capo, Marco Vannaducci. He’s playing footsie with a New York crowd. Vannaducci knows, or he’s going to know very soon. These boys are going to lose their sponsor. More than that, they’re going to lose a home. War is brewing all along these streets. When the smoke settles, there will be no territories for anybody for a long, long time. So here’s a chance for some smart guy to get out of it clean, before the war starts, and with a quarter mil in his jeans.”
Toni’s eyes were wide, speculative, as her mind elaborated on that theme. She said, “It plays. But … could any of these men actually know anything?”
“Probably not, but they are in a position to nose around and find out. It’s hard to keep a secret in this crowd, especially with a bundle of money tied to it. Then of course there’s always the off chance that one of these hoods is already sitting squarely on the problem.”
“They could form partnerships,” the girl mused. “Organize, fan out, go thro
ugh the town like a—it’d be like a treasure hunt with a real treasure at the end. How do I convince them of that? That they’ll get the money?”
He smiled soberly and told her, “First you sweeten the pot with a thousand down to every guy you talk to. It’s their weakness, a scent they can’t refuse. Give him the thousand whether he expresses an interest or not. The interest will grow. And it’s the best way I can think of to cause a ripple—giving money away. Pretty soon they’ll be coming to you. This is where your hazard lies, most of it. Remember, these guys do not live by the Boy Scout oath. You’ve got to make it clear that Mack Bolan is your client. He’s holding the money. He will deliver the money to the boys who turn over, alive and well, these two missing friends.”
“Where do they turn them over? How can they be sure they’ll get their money?”
“They’ll get it because Bolan says they will. They know how I operate. They’ll accept that. They’re to make the contact when they have the goods. They’ll be told where the exchange will take place.”
“You’re really going to give away all that money?”
Bolan shrugged. “It isn’t mine. I just use it where it’s needed. Right now it’s needed here.”
“What if they decide to cross you? There’s a price on your head, too.”
He grinned. “Harder to collect, though. It’s been tried before, by a couple of thousand dead men. You might point that out. This way is surer and richer. Think you can sell the package?”
“Sure I can sell it,” she declared confidently. “I just hope some of the buyers can deliver.”
Bolan produced a manila envelope from the cache behind the panel. “Here’s your front money. Spread it around, but watch out for the con artists and hang onto your purse. Those streets in the Quarter are already chaos and getting worse by the hour. Do business with no one but the guys on that list. There’ll be no double-teaming this time. You’re on your own from start to stop. I’m going to be very busy elsewhere. Get yourself killed and I’ll never forgive you.”
She laughed nervously. “You really do care, don’t you?”
“’Course I care,” he replied gruffly. “Listen, Toni—you’ve got one big thing going for you, and it’s more than looks—it’s looks with class. These boys respect class in a woman. All the others are simply broads, and they’d as soon break a coke bottle inside of them as not. You’re different, so use that difference. Don’t play coy with these boys or make suggestive remarks.”
New Orleans Knockout Page 9
