California Hit

by Don Pendleton

  He said, “Sure I am. And then you threw it back at me. Bugged out. I figured you as good as dead. Maybe that’s why I.…”

  “Why you what?”

  “Never mind. Why did you leave, Mary?”

  “Conscience, I guess. Suddenly I just couldn’t stand myself.”

  Bolan could appreciate that.

  “I mean,” she went on, “I just had to get out of here. I went back to my place, hoping that Captain couldn’t locate Wo Fan anywhere. Then I got to thinking about Cynthie and Panda, and it worried me sick.”

  “What did?”

  “The fact that they had seen you at my place. Listen, Mack. Those girls work for Wo Fan. Indirectly, but they do. And they know it. It’s part of the convenient marriage I mentioned. Wo Fan and Laurentis are entertwined in several ventures in this town. And I got to thinking.…”

  “Yeah,” he prompted her.

  “If they started talking it around about seeing you there.… At my place. And Laurentis knew about my connections with Wo Fan. And if Wo Fan didn’t want Laurentis to know that he was trying to arrange another marriage, with you. And if—”

  Bolan was laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Not funny,” he said, “just entertaining. It’s nice to watch a China doll’s mind busily whirring out a web of intrigue. But I think you’re probably right.”

  She jerked her head in an adamant affirmation. “Darned right I am, and those two empty kids could be in a whole lot of trouble.”

  “Yes, they could,” Bolan mused. “I warned them to keep quiet. But they probably won’t.”

  She agreed. “Anyway, I tried to find them. I called everywhere I thought they could have gone.”

  Bolan said, “She mentioned something about a houseboat. In Sausalito, I believe.”

  “They wouldn’t have gone over there. They’re shooting a picture. It’s too hard for them to run back and forth when they’re shooting. They crash around town all the time they’re shooting.”

  “How’d you get mixed up with those kids, Mary?”

  She sniffed. “They’re not as bad as they talk it. Panda is pretty mixed up, about sex and what her’s is, I mean, but… well, they’re okay kids. I met them through Wo Fan, at a business bash he was hosting a few months ago. They were, uh, paid guests.”

  Bolan said, “I see.”

  “I was not.”

  He chuckled. “Where do you go from here, Mary?”

  “Into the woodwork, I guess. How about you?”

  A faint smile pulled at his lips. He said, “I’ve got this war.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him and said, “Tough. You’re a tough guy, Mack Bolan. Can I tag along and load your guns for you?”

  He sighed. “Hell no.”

  “Well… I knew better than to ask. Mack.…“

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ll have to kill Wo Fan.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. He’s a nationalist, and my sympathies, of course, go with that cause. But he’s running with the wolves now. And he’s turned into a wolf himself. I suspect—no, I feel it in my bones. Wo Fan and Laurentis are up to something sneaky. I believe they are trying for a coup in the San Francisco underworld. An unholy alliance. Laurentis will help to keep the commies out. Wo Fan will help to put down the ruling Mafia family, and Laurentis will move in. I think that’s it. I think that’s what it’s all about.”

  Bolan was thinking it over.

  “Like Wo Fan suggested, it’s a big conflict,” she added quietly.

  Bolan said, “And a complicated one. My war is a bit narrower than that.”

  “Well you’d better broaden it.”

  “You believe Wo Fan is a real threat? To me?”

  She nodded. “Like I said, he’s a wolf now. He’d stop at nothing. If Laurentis learns that Wo Fan has been in touch with you… and if Wo Fan decides that it would help his cause to turn you over to Laurentis… well, I’m just saying, lookout lover. That’s a hard old world out there.”

  Bolan consulted his wristwatch. It was a few minutes past noon. He sighed and told her, “End of détente.”

  “End of what?”

  “Do you know the place where those girls shoot their pictures?”

  “Yes.”

  “One more thing. Where does Barney Gibson fit into all this?”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied slowly, thinking about it. “He’s had his problems with the mob. For years. I think he’s trying to pull them down.”

  “On his own?”

  She nodded. “Way I read it I think he doesn’t trust various people in his own department.”

  “Could you set up a meet between Gibson and me?”

  Her eyes flared. “Whatever for?”

  “A secret meet, a secure one. Could you do it?”

  She stared at him with wondering eyes for a long moment, then she daintily nodded her head and told him, “I guess I could.”

  He said, “So do it.”

  Quietly, she asked, “Does that mean you trust me now?”

  “That’s what it means,” he growled.

  She squeezed his hand. “Great. That’s really great.”

  So it was great.

  The R&R was ended.

  It was time, once again, to come out shooting.

  14: THE SELL

  It was an incredibly beautiful and peaceful spot, and Bolan had to wonder how often the native San Franciscans actually visited the place.

  It was called the Japanese Tea Garden, and it occupied a relatively small area of Golden Gate Park. Winding footpaths through exotic shrubbery, pygmy trees and authentic Japanese statuary led the visitor beside reflecting pools and across an arched bridge where you could take your choice of an open-air tea house, a temple, or a shrine—and, yeah, this was a place where a guy could go to meet his soul.

  At the moment, though, Bolan’s primary interest lay in a meeting with a grizzled old maverick cop who just maybe wouldn’t mind a bit of official larceny, if a greater cause were thereby being served.

  Bolan was betting that Barney Gibson was that kind of cop. He was, in fact, betting his life on the idea.

  He watched from behind the cover of purple sunshades and a poised teacup as the girl and the cop made their prearranged meet beside the pool. Gibson had not yet been told the reason for the meeting and—watching them now—Bolan knew the precise moment when that reason was revealed.

  The big guy stiffened, but just across the shoulders. He did not break stride nor was there any other gross reaction, but Bolan knew.

  They were talking about it now. Mary Ching, selling the Executioner. Not, he hoped, selling him out… just selling him.

  And the cop was buying. That face became immediately evident. The pair strolled on, into the enfolding garden, and just as they disappeared from view Mary hung a white flower in her hair.

  Bolan promptly left his table at the tea house and went around the other way, on an intersecting path.

  He got there first, per plan, and watched them approach.

  Gibson was one of those guys who could fool a casual observer. On the surface he simply looked overweight, grumpy, a bit dull—maybe even a bit dumb. The head was too large, the jaw too overslung, the eyes bloodshot and masked with indifference.

  But that was just the surface man.

  Bolan had learned to read men, just as he read jungle signs and trails. Men, after all, were a jungle product.

  All the deeper signs of Barney Gibson revealed him as definitely a cop of the old school. He wasn’t a constitutional lawyer, he wasn’t a civic moralist, he wasn’t even a law officer. He was a cop. He wasn’t there to protect anybody’s civil rights, he was there to protect his town; to keep it straight; to keep it safe. He would bend the law—even break it—to do his job as he saw it.

  Yeah, Bolan had known a couple of cops like Barney Gibson. Flaming, stubborn anachronisms who absolutely refused to get in step with the times. And there was still room in the wo
rld for a few Barney Gibsons.

  There was no introduction, nor did the two men shake hands. Both pairs of hands, in fact, were pointedly kept in full view. The Captain said, by way of greeting, “So you’re the guy. What d’you want with my town, Mister?”

  Bolan solemnly told him, “Your town has a rotten smell, Captain. I sniff Mafia every step I take.”

  “So what’s new?” the cop growled.

  “Me, I’m new,” the Executioner replied.

  The Captain snorted. “You’re practically dead, fella.”

  “A dead man can do things,” Bolan said. “Things a living man wouldn’t even think about.”

  “I guess you’re right there. What’ve you got in mind?”

  “I left a couple of samples around,” Bolan said.

  The big guy grunted. He stared at the Executioner for a moment, then admitted, “Yeah, I saw your samples. Pretty impressive. Those were just samples, eh?”

  Bolan said, “Well, call it a pattern.”

  “I like your patterns, Mister. But somewhere else. Not here. Gives the town a bad feel. Look. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known what was up. I can stretch, but not that much. You turn around and walk away from here. And keep going until you’re clear out of town. That’s as far as I can stretch.”

  “The thing is going to split wide open, Captain. Whether I leave it or not.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Things have become too good here. For the mob. It’s time for the thieves to start falling out. They’ve already started.”

  “You have some definite knowledge of that?”

  “I have,” Bolan assured him. His gaze flicked to Mary Ching. “Mary can fill you in later, I don’t have the time. But you better believe this. A full scale mob war is brewing here. It involves not only the organization boys but their fellow travelers as well. That means blood in the streets, and maybe a lot of innocent blood with it.”

  “Go on.”

  “So my way is much cleaner.”

  The shrewd old eyes were sizing him up, wondering, measuring, taking a vote. The ballot fell in the box, and Captain Gibson told the Executioner, “Okay, I’m still listening.”

  “I’m thinking of a clean sweep, from the bottom to the top. I’ll take the top and leave the bottom for you.”

  “That’s damn nice of you.”

  “Be realistic,” Bolan argued. “You’ll never wrap up the big boys and you know it. And as long as they’re up there, this town will be crawling with torpedoes and leeches of every variety. When the big boys fall, the influence falls with them. You’ll need to set up annexes to your jails to handle the load.”

  “So why tell me about it?” The guy was interested, though, definitely interested. “Why don’t you just go ahead and do it. Why consult me first?”

  “I might need your help.”

  “Uh huh, I guess I saw that coming.”

  “Nothing open, nothing that would put you on a spot. I just want you to pass a few words around for me.”

  “And what are those?”

  Bolan smiled, for the first time during the meeting. “Would you say that we’ve come to an agreement in principle?”

  The cop smiled back, and it was a hideous thing. He wasn’t used to smiling, and it moved all the wrinkles the wrong way. “You might say that.”

  “Okay,” Bolan said. “I’ll be in touch with you through Mary.”

  “Why not get it all on the table right now? I’m here, you’re here, let’s have it.”

  “Not yet,” Bolan told him. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Hell, you’ve got me dangling, fella. What the hell have you got in mind?”

  “You’ll know very soon,” Bolan assured him.

  He grabbed Mary’s arm and they left there in a hurry.

  Yeah, very soon. The whole thing would be cracking… very soon now.

  “Say that again,” requested Leo Turrin’s troubled voice, all the way from Pittsfield.

  “Something wrong, Leo? You don’t sound too good,” Bolan decided.

  “No, I’ll tell you later. I’m just not sure I heard you right. What was that again?”

  “I said I want you to get a message to Augie Marinello.”

  “In your name?” the Caporegime asked.

  Bolan said, “No, just in my spirit. Don’t make the impression that it came from me.”

  “What do you have in common with the Lord of the East?” Turrin wanted to know. He still sounded troubled… almost cold.

  “Blood, maybe,” Bolan said, chuckling. “He’s still the big boss?”

  “More or less,” Turrin replied in that curiously masked tone. “What he says at council usually turns out to be the way things go. What kind of a message, Sarge?”

  “I want him to know there’s a conspiracy brewing on the west coast. Top drawer stuff. Big enough to wreck the whole arm. The shot heard ’round the world, that sort of thing. Following?”

  “Yeah. What’s the pitch?”

  “A new coalition,” Bolan replied.

  “Coalition of what?”

  “Try the ChiComs with Daddy DeMarco as a starter. How does that grab?”

  “Easy, easy,” Turrin said. “I’ve told you things have been in the wind.”

  “But you didn’t tell me what sort of things, Leo.”

  “Right, well… hell. Okay. Here’s the way I’m reading. The boys hate the hell out of the commies. You know?”

  Bolan said, “I know. But business before pleasure. Right?”

  “So right. Business before anything. I hear they’ve been trading. Mostly in narcotics, but other things too. Uh, Mack… what coalition?”

  “It’s only in my mind, right now. But it could be for real, Leo. It could be. I’d like for Marinello to think it is for damn sure.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want him to shake the hell out of Daddy DeMarco.”

  “Okay. What’s the plot?”

  “The plot is simply this. DeMarco is Mr. King’s boy… even more, maybe, than he’s the organization’s boy. And Mr. King has big ideas for the West Coast. With trade routes to the Chinese mainland now almost a certain event in the near future, Mr. King is moving swiftly to dominate the entire import picture, and the exports to China as well. Not just narcotics, not just contraband, but the big sweep, everything. The picture forming?”

  The man in Pittsfield was evincing definite interest now. “Yeah. Keep going. Uh, you’re saying this Mr. King is coming out in competition with the regular mob setup.”

  “Right, in direct competition. Would this suggest a conflict of interest to your mind? Concerning DeMarco and his close ties with King?”

  “Sure. Is this for real?”

  “It could be. There’s a certain old Chinese gentleman here who is definitely worried about something pretty close to that. So worried, in fact, that he has already formed a counter-coalition.”

  “Who with?”

  “There’s a dime-store hood here called Franco Laurentis. Know him?”

  “That guy. Yeah. Crazy Franco. They call him that because he’s always had a Napoleon complex. Thinks he was born to rule the world or something, or so the story goes.”

  “Perfect,” Bolan said.

  “Yeah, well, he’s also DeMarco’s enforcer.”

  “Even better yet. He’s pulling something cute on the old man, Leo. It sounds like he’s trying for a takeover—or something very close to that. Uh, get this name now, Daniel Wo Fan.” Bolan spelled it. “Local Chinese honcho, very strong ties with Taiwan. He and Franco have been cozying it. They’re interlaced in various projects around the bay area. I believe Franco has made an agreement with Wo Fan… to kill the ChiCom trade.”

  Turrin whistled across the connection. There was a momentary silence, then he said, “The guy must really be crazy if he’s trying to cross DeMarco. The Don is old, but he’s a hell of a long ways from dead. He’s eaten guys like Franco Laurentis for casual snacks.”

 
“That’s the whole idea, Leo.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get the drift. Well… hell, it’s a great idea, Sarge. I would guess that Franco is the head torpedo in charge of stopping you. If, uh, if he’s thinking of crossing the old man, this would be his golden opportunity.”

  “Exactly what I’m thinking. You know what to say to Marinello now, Leo?”

  Sourly, Turrin replied, “I do. I just wish I could be out there to see the results.”

  Bolan said, “Well… if I get luck, Leo, I’ll give you a blow-by-blow account.”

  “Do that. Listen, wait, don’t hang up yet.”

  It was coming now, the trouble in Leo Turrin’s voice. Bolan asked him, “You ready to tell me about your problem now?”

  “Yeah. I’ve, uh, got something disturbing to tell you, but.…”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t want you to get all upset. I mean, maybe it’s nothing at all.”

  A chill chased itself down Bolan’s spine. He said, “Let’s have it.”

  “Well, Johnny and Val have taken off somewhere.”

  Something ticked loose in Bolan’s brain. He said, “Since when?”

  “Since I tried to get in touch this morning. I wanted them to know I’d talked to you. They… just aren’t there, Sarge. No one at the school remembers seeing either of them since early last night.”

  Bolan’s guts were coming unglued. “Their clothes, Leo, what about—”

  “Hard to tell. They left some behind, yeah, but there’s no way of knowing if they took any away with them. I mean.…”

  Bolan’s ears were roaring. Woodenly, he said, “You mean they could have been snatched.”

  “It’s possible. But there are a lot of other possibilities, too. You remember I told you Val was agitating for a meet. They could have bugged out of there early this morning. The Frisco news was all over the television—you know how the home town follows you. I mean, I think maybe they’re headed that way, Sarge. I think Val just decided, hell, to set up her own meet.”

  Bolan muttered, “I don’t believe Val would do that. Not with Johnny along, anyway. She knows what a risk it is. No. I can’t buy that, Leo.”

  The panic was edging clearly into Turrin’s voice now. “God, I’ve been living with my ear to the ground all day, Sarge. I haven’t heard a rumble from the boys. Not one. If somebody got to them, then they’re being mighty damn quiet about it.”