California Hit

by Don Pendleton

  It was time to twang her again.

  He asked, “What were you doing at the China Gardens an hour after the doors closed this morning?”

  “I was gathering intelligence.”

  “Uh huh. Of what nature?”

  She glared at him for a moment, then she shrugged and said, “What’s the difference? It’s all in the fire now.”

  He said, “Give, dammit!”

  “I was tracking a shipment.”

  “A shipment of what?”

  “Counterfeit art treasures. Ming period, supposedly. They are arriving sometime this week.”

  Bolan did not necessarily believe her, but he went along. “By what route?”

  She smiled wryly. “That’s what I was about to discover when you blew the place up, Mr. Bolan. Why all the sudden interest? I was getting the idea that—”

  “I’m trying to protect your lovely hide, lady. A hired assassin was standing just outside your door a couple of minutes ago. So listen to me now and think carefully before you answer. Can you think of any reason why Franco Laurentis would send a hit man to your door?”

  “I… I guess not.”

  “When I first spotted you this morning, you were in a hell of a hurry. Almost as though someone was chasing you. Was there?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m sure I hadn’t been seen. I was… just.…”

  “So you’ve convinced yourself that these two goons were tailing Wo Fan?”

  “Yes I—what two goons?”

  “There was another one waiting across the street,” he explained.

  “Did you…?”

  He nodded. “Clean.”

  The girl sighed tremulously and showed him a pair of eyes that had taken in one bloody sight too many. She bit her lip and said, “Well I don’t know what to think. I’m just about ready to say to hell with the whole thing.”

  He squeezed her shoulder and told her, “I guess it’s too late for that.” He pulled her off of the couch and gently nudged her toward the door. “Come on.”

  “Come on where?”

  “We’ll think about that on the way. Right now I just want you out of here and a hell of a long ways clear.”

  “Does that mean that you’re going to go on protecting my hide?”

  He growled, “For the moment, yeah.”

  There was also the matter of Ralph the Pretender. Bolan wrapped the remains tightly in the blanket and draped the package over his shoulder.

  “Let’s go,” he said gruffly.

  The girl led the way, and they went through the darkened hallway and down the stairs in silence.

  The time was nearly five o’clock.

  And the night was almost gone.

  They were less than twenty paces clear of the street door when a vehicle swung around the corner down-range.

  Bolan pressed the girl into the dark entranceway of a store, and they waited for the vehicle to pass. It did not. It came to a halt directly outside Mary Ching’s building, and the lights went out.

  Bolan cautioned the girl with a finger across her lips, his eyes remaining riveted to the car.

  The door opened and a big man slid out to the street. He wore a blue uniform and a badge, and he seemed to know precisely where he was going.

  As the big cop disappeared inside the building, Bolan asked the girl, “Did you see him?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Know him?”

  “It looked like Barney Gibson.”

  “And who is Barney Gibson?”

  “He’s the head cop at Harbor Precinct. At the moment, anyway.”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Not exactly.”

  They moved on, quickly, detouring via the alleyway so that Bolan could deposit Ralph the Mess, and then they headed straight for Russian Hill.

  It was developing into a hell of a hit.

  5: PARAMETERS FOR COMBAT

  Any visitor to the city who has ever taken the fabulous cable car ride from Powell and Market to Fisherman’s Wharf has had an experience not difficult to remember… and that final drop from Russian Hill, down Hyde Street to the Bay, is a spectacular finale befitting the adventure.

  From atop the hill most of the north bay is laid out in a panoramic sweep from the Golden Gate to the Embarcadero, with views of Fort Mason, Aquatic Park, Alcatraz Island, and—on a clear day—across to the rugged backdrop of Marin County.

  For a luckless traveler afoot in the mist-laden darkness of the early morning, however, Russian Hill presents merely another muscle-straining obstacle in a city of obstacles—and Mack Bolan was finding himself no exception to the rule.

  This combat-zone athlete’s heart was thudding against his ribcage and his breathing was becoming an ordeal by the time he steered Mary Ching through the gateway to his “drop”—a large, old home on the north slope which had long ago been converted to an apartment building—and which was a few short blocks removed from the mansion of Don Roman DeMarco.

  “That’s the last time I walk across this town,” he panted.

  The girl leaned against him for support, breathing too hard for comment. He pulled her to the rear of the building and they paused there, getting their breath and allowing overtaxed muscle tissues a chance to relax.

  Presently she asked, “What… are we doing… back here?”

  He pointed to the fire escape, hovering just above their heads. “My private entrance,” he told her.

  “Are we… breaking in?”

  “No. My humble pad is up there. Top floor.”

  She groaned and rolled her eyes and told him, “Okay. If you can, I can.”

  Bolan chuckled and made a leap for the raised platform. The hinges creaked a little but the contraption came down with his weight, and he ushered the girl aboard with a flourish.

  His window was open exactly two inches, the shade drawn to an inch above that—precisely the way he had left it Still… Bolan had not survived this long on sloppy security.

  He moved his lips to Mary’s ear and whispered, “Stay!” Then he quickly raised the window and slid inside.

  She was becoming worried and fidgety when finally the lights came on inside. A moment later Bolan’s smiling face appeared at the window and he said, “Okay.”

  He helped her in, then lowered the window and shuttered it.

  The girl was looking around, wrinkling her nose as only a scrutable Chinese doll can do it.

  He said, “Well it’s not sable and satin, I’ll agree.”

  Mary was still having trouble with her breathing. She said, “No… I was just wondering if you always come home so carefully.”

  He shrugged and showed her a grin. “Just another small sacrifice of warfare,” he said lightly. “Uh… kitchen’s that way. Why don’t you brew us some coffee? I have a phone call to make.”

  She said, “You actually set up housekeeping here?”

  “It’s safer this way.”

  She replied, “I guess it is,” and went on to the kitchen.

  Bolan dropped onto a threadbare couch that groaned under his weight. He lit a cigarette and allowed the smoke to surge around inside for a moment, then he coughed and reached for the telephone.

  It was a long-distance, operator-assisted call to a number on the far side of the country.

  The timing, he figured, would be just about perfect.

  He got the connection on the third ring and the operator was announcing, “San Francisco calling Mr. Frank LaMancha.”

  The responding voice was gruff and seemingly unimpressed with a call from the Golden Gate. “You got the wrong number, honey,” it reported. “There’s no LaMancha here.”

  The operator went through the formality of verifying the number. The man assured her that indeed she had gotten the number she’d dialed, but he still didn’t know anybody named LaMancha.

  Bolan heard the decisive click of that instrument nearly three thousand miles away. His own voice had never entered the connection. The operator told him, “I’m so
rry, sir. Would you like to refer to Pittsfield information?”

  He replied, “Thanks, I’ll check my own book.”

  He hung up and studied his watch. It was 5:30. It would be 8:30 in Pittsfield. He looked up to find the China doll studying him from the kitchen doorway.

  “Your kitchen is a mess,” she told him.

  “Find the coffee okay?”

  She nodded her head. “Make your call?”

  He said, “No good. Try again in five minutes please.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Mack.”

  “For what?”

  “For bringing me here. For… trusting me. I know what it must be costing you—in your own peace of mind.”

  He grinned and told her, “That’s one of war’s nicer sacrifices.”

  “I guess I always pictured… men like you… as living high on the hog. You know. Luxury hotel suites, flashy broads lying all around hot and naked, gourmet food and vintage wines, all that.”

  Bolan shook his head. “That’s the enemy you’re thinking of.”

  She said, “Well does this crash pad come equipped with john?”

  He smiled. “Off the bedroom, and watch out for the roaches.”

  She made a face at him and disappeared.

  Bolan smoked and watched the time tick by. At 5:35 he again picked up the phone, but this time he poked out a direct-dial to a public telephone which was located several Pittsfield city blocks from the home of Leopold Turrin, a caporegime in Bolan’s home town, scene of the original conflagration point of this impossible damned war.

  One of the nicer surprises of the Pittsfield battle was the last-second revelation that Leo Turrin was an undercover cop.

  It was friends like Leo that made the war a bit less impossible… but just a bit less.

  They had worked out the telephone routine for contacts which would not jeopardize the security of either.

  Bolan got his response this time on the first ring.

  A hell of a comforting sound said, “Yeah, hello.”

  Bolan said, “Avon calling.”

  “Well at least you didn’t drag me out in the middle of the night this time. Hey… paisano… get the hell out of that Goddamned town.”

  “Can’t. Not yet. The irons are hot.”

  “That’s not all that’s hot. The wires are burning from coast to coast, and they’re all screaming one thing. Death to Bolan. You picked a bummer this time, buddy.”

  “They’re all bummers. The word is already out back there, eh.”

  “Hell, hours ago.”

  “The mob’s telegraph gets better all the time.”

  “The first word didn’t come from that side of the street.”

  “No?”

  “No is right. The fuzz wires were burning minutes after your hit. Well, maybe an hour after. Ever hear of a James Matchison. Captain James Matchison?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “You should, and I’m betting you will. He heads up a specialty outfit in the soggy city, geared for open warfare and committed to the salvation of San Francisco. It’s called the Brushfire Squad, and they’ve elected you their next triumphal achievement. They’re not going to give you the keys to the city, Sarge.”

  “I don’t want the keys, just the garbage franchise.”

  “They’re going to bury you in their garbage, friend.”

  “Did Matchison tell you that personally?”

  “He did.”

  “They actually contacted you?”

  “Via the usual routine, yeah. I’m the quote foremost living authority unquote on Mack the Bastard. The guy wants your blood, Sarge. I could smell his taste-buds at three thousand miles. Take my advice and get out.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The usual honest truth, what else.”

  “Okay, I’ll take a helping of that, too. Give me a rundown on Daddy DeMarco. What are his pet things here?”

  “The usual stuff.”

  “Tell me something unusual.”

  Turrin sighed across the wire. “One of these days, my buddy, my fuse is going to get lit from both ends and I’m going to go up in a puff of police outrage and mob vengeance. Why can’t you just say hi, how’s the weather, how’s your heart beating, and let it go at that.”

  Bolan said, “Okay. How’s your heart beating, Leo?”

  The cop/Mafioso chuckled and replied, “Same as ever. Uh, you’re looking for a fresh handle, eh?”

  “Yeah. The boys are starting to treat me with respect. Soon as I hit town, everything grinds to a halt.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s per official directive from the commissioners. You’re going to be getting that from now on.”

  “Well…”

  “You might look at an outfit calling itself Baysavers, Incorporated.”

  “What are they saving?”

  “The San Francisco Bay, among other things. Can you imagine the mob getting ecology conscious?”

  Bolan said, “Sure. They’ve been fighting the overpopulation problem for years.”

  Turrin chuckled and said, “They’re fighting industrial pollution now.”

  “Then there must be a buck in it somewhere,” Bolan replied.

  “There’s the secret. There are plenty of bucks in it.”

  “Nothing’s sacred, is it.”

  “Just omerta. Uh, you know about Thomas Vericci?”

  “Tom the Broker.”

  “Yeah. He’s an invisible director of Baysavers… and not always so invisible. The feds are poking into it, but they can’t prove anything yet. Meanwhile several formerly profitable bay-area industries have been forced into receivership, and at least two of them have wound up in Vericci’s other pocket.”

  “Which side of the street does this intel come from?”

  “The police side. We hear very little, really, from the west coast arms. We meaning the mob. They run their own cozy little shops out there, with as little contact with the national council as they can get away with.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard. Okay. It sounds pretty vague, but maybe I’ll look at Baysavers.”

  “Do it easy. The words I get, Vericci got a bunch of kids conned into the act. Naider’s Raiders types. They think they’re saving the bay for the fishes. I guess they don’t know about the sharks they’re running with.”

  “I get the picture,” Bolan said. “Speaking of pictures, what do you know about porno movies?”

  The man in Pittsfield chuckled merrily. “Not as much as I’d like to know. Which end are you talking about?”

  “What ends are there?”

  “Well… you’ve got distributors and you’ve got exhibitors. Some of the boys have been active in both areas, from time to time.”

  “Who makes the movies?”

  “Nowadays, just about everybody. They’re legit in most places.”

  “This could be important, Leo. Do you know of any of the boys in this area who might be making these movies?”

  “No, not offhand. I could look into it, but it would take awhile.”

  “I guess I don’t have awhile.”

  “Okay. Anything else on your mind?”

  “What can you tell me about the ChiComs?”

  Turrin whistled softly. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all??”

  “That’s right. I keep hearing Red China rumors, but it all sounds pretty wild. I wouldn’t even repeat such crap, not even to you.”

  “Okay. How about Mr. King?”

  “Hell, you do jump around. What about Mr. King?”

  “Who is he, really?”

  “I wish I knew. So do ten thousand feds. Speaking of them, you’re on their shit list, buddy. Especially after Haiti. The men up high are actually frothing at the mouth, I hear.”

  “Sorry if I embarrassed them,” Bolan said drily. “But a hit is a hit.”

  “Well, they did have some bad moments. Haiti is an OAS member, you know. And with all the rumors floating around that you’re actually being sponsored by every
body from the FBI to the CIA… well, it got pretty messy.”

  Bolan laughed out loud.

  “Don’t laugh,” Turrin said. “Even some of the congressmen are starting to wonder if you’re sponsored. The feds are going to have to burn you, buddy, just to prove the rumors wrong.”

  “About Mr. King,” Bolan prompted, changing the subject.

  “Hell I told you, I don’t know. I guess there aren’t more than two or three men in the whole country who know his true identity. The name has been falling out of tapped telephones for years, and everybody generally agrees that he pulls the strings all over the western states… but hell that’s it, Sarge. There just simply isn’t any make on the guy. And he’s not Mafia, he’s bigger than that.”

  “I hear that Don DeMarco is his pipeline into the mob. I hear that’s what made DeMarco, and that’s what’s keeping him made.”

  There was a long pause, then Turrin replied, “You’ve got better ears than mine, then. I never heard anything like that.”

  “Okay. Thanks a bunch, Leo.”

  “You, uh, don’t want to know about anybody else?”

  “You know I do.” Bolan’s voice went softly serious. “How are they?”

  The reference was to Bolan’s sole surviving relative—the kid brother, Johnny. And to Valentina Querente, Bolan’s warmest love, the schoolteacher who’d taken over the care and feeding of young John.

  “They’re fine,” Turrin reported. “The kid keeps a scrapbook on you. He’s going to be wanting to join you some day, Sarge… if you should live so long. I mean… he wants a piece of your war. If you’re still around by then.”

  “Don’t worry,” Bolan said tightly. “I won’t be. Their security still okay?”

  “Yeah. First class. Uh, Val keeps agitating for a meet. She’s, uh—”

  “Tell Val I’m dead, Leo. Tell her to find herself a nice, clean history teacher or something and settle down to the good life.”

  “I’ve told her a hundred times, Sarge.”

  “Well keep telling her. She’s an old maid already. Tell her I said that.”

  “Okay, but it won’t do any good. She’s a Rock of Gibraltar, you know that.”

  “It’s just a matter of time anyway,” Bolan muttered.

  “Yeah. She knows that. And she’s prepared for it. But she does want to see you, Sarge. One last time, she says. One hour, she wants one hour.”