California Hit

by Don Pendleton

  And, yes, Mack Bolan had encountered one turkey too many in his wars already. He fully expected to be one himself, sooner or later.

  He was, in fact, prepared to trade himself for two other likely candidates.

  First, however, he had to be certain that there was something left to trade for. Two pathetic turkeys-in-hand were of absolutely no value to the Executioner… nor to the world at large.

  So he had to do a job which several hundred cops were already finding impossible. And he was going about that task in the only way he knew. “Somebody” was playing it cozy as hell, cute as hell—or maybe just plain scared to hell. Whatever the motives, the kidnappers had left no word, no threats, no ultimatums—no clues whatever as to their intentions with regard to the kidnapped pair.

  Bolan had to break that silence.

  He had to learn the name of the game, and he had to learn it damned quick, before all his options were removed by the pace of events.

  As a prelude to that triple-punch Monday-afternoon hit on Boston’s lower-Mafia echelons, another bit of background unfolded into the Executioner’s Boston Blitz.

  In the early pre-dawn hours of that fateful Monday, a heavy black sedan nosed into the loading area of a public warehouse near Constitution Wharf and came to a halt near a public telephone booth.

  The lone occupant disembarked and leaned casually against the side of the vehicle while lighting a cigar. He was a youngish man with dark features and a sort of devil-may-care tilt to his head. Well dressed and handsome with a quick and intelligent face, the man was Leopold Turrin and he had balanced for several years on the sharp edge of a very dangerous blade.

  Turrin was a Caporegime of a western Massachusetts Mafia family.

  He was also an undercover police officer who had infiltrated the mob through a blood relationship with a former Capo, and he had moved slowly but surely through the ranks to a position of trust and importance in the far-flung underworld organization.

  Once, Bolan had been sworn to kill Leo Turrin. That was before he learned the deeper truth of the man. Now Turrin was Bolan’s closest friend and staunchest ally. The relationship was, of course, a furtive one. It would be viewed with harsh disfavor by Mafia and police authorities alike.

  After a precise five-minute wait, Turrin returned to his vehicle and sent the car into a slow crawl along the wharf. At a point about twenty yards down-range a tall figure detached itself from the shadows of the warehouse and slid into the front seat beside the driver.

  Two sets of teeth flashed in brief smiles of greeting as the vehicle quickly swung into a wide circle and picked up speed along the reverse course.

  Not until they were well clear of the pickup point and cruising casually along Atlantic Avenue did either man speak.

  Bolan said, “You’re looking great.”

  “Then I’m a liar,” the other replied. “I feel terrible.”

  Bolan said, “Yeah. I know. Okay, what do you have?”

  “Not nearly enough.” Turrin was studying his friend’s face, seen only briefly during the few personal contacts since Bolan’s departure from Pittsfield so many lifetimes earlier. “Can’t get used to that battle mask of yours, Sarge.”

  The reference was to Bolan’s “new face”—received early in the wars through the surgical skills of another friend, now deceased. The plastic surgery had proved a futile tactic, except for the exigencies of the moment. Bolan’s new face had quickly become as well known as the old one, and this was chiefly due to his decision to use his new look as combat camouflage rather than as retirement insurance.

  Bolan said, “Don’t call it a battle mask, Leo. It’s a fear pack. My guts are crawling. What have you found?”

  “First of all,” the Mafioso cop replied, “the roll call on the mob side of the street keeps drawing total blanks. I can tell you this much—the snatch wasn’t engineered by any of the nationals. The Talifero brothers are still in a Vegas hospital and both are still on the critical list. So the national gestapo is in disarray and probably will be for awhile.” He showed his passenger a wry smile. “To show you how bad things really are, the Commissione has tapped yours truly as their man on the scene at Pittsfield. To get to the bottom of the thing, I mean. They’d never heard of Val until I started flapping my tail about the snatch. And I’m convinced that they’d had no leads on Johnny’s whereabouts. So… from an organization standpoint, this whole thing has come as a bit of heady excitement.”

  Bolan’s face was a study in chiseled marble—and as cold. It did not change expression as he said, “Then I guess I’m just pounding sand. I smell Boston Mob all over this thing, Leo.”

  “There is no Boston Mob per se, not anymore. But I think you’re right. I don’t know where you get your instincts, but…” Turrin smiled grimly. “I’ve got something from the other side of the street.”

  Bolan was listening.

  “Your old nemesis, Lieutenant Weatherbee, thinks he’s found two of the guys who figured in the snatch.”

  “Who are they?” Bolan growled.

  “Wait, don’t get up that high. These guys are beyond your reach anyway. They’re in the Pittsfield morgue and—”

  “Which family?”

  “There’s the rub. They’re not connected.”

  Bolan groaned. “What the hell then? Freelancers?”

  “That’s one theory. But let me lay it out for you, and you read it for yourself.”

  “Okay,” Bolan agreed. “Lay.”

  “Rudy Springer and Pete Grebchek, smalltime hoods, long records, nickel and dime stuff. Springer was released from the state prison three months ago. Grebchek escaped from Suffolk County jail, here in Boston, just two weeks ago, under rather suspicious circumstances.”

  Bolan said, “So?”

  “So the state police found them shot to death this morning, in a car parked just off Highway 9 about five miles east of Pittsfield. Each had a bullet in the head. They’d been dead for more than 24 hours. Both of these guys have Boston addresses, Sarge.”

  “Keep laying,” Bolan said.

  “You’ll like this part. A marksman’s medal was lying on the seat between the two men. They’d been shot with a nine millimeter weapon, hi-shock Parabellums, same type you use. Verdict: a Beretta Brigadier.”

  Bolan grunted, “Cute.”

  Turrin said, “Yeah, isn’t it? It threw Weatherbee for a minute. Just proves one thing to my mind, though. The engineer didn’t know that you were starting a war on the other side of the continent at about that same time. So he must have pulled the job before the West Coast news came in.”

  Bolan agreed. “Okay, that figures. What else?”

  “Well… Weatherbee has definitely placed these guys—Springer and Grebchek—or, at least, their car—in the vicinity of the academy during the period when Johnny and Val were last seen. The car is registered to Springer and several witnesses have positively identified the vehicle. It was an old beat-up Dodge with an easily recognizable backyard paint job and some very characteristic dents and crumples.”

  Bolan muttered, “How convenient.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And they were definitely Boston boys?”

  “Yeah. Strictly small-timers. Heist men—gas stations, small markets, taxicabs, that sort of thing. No self-respecting Mafioso would get caught even talking to them.”

  “How do you read it, Leo?” Bolan asked quietly.

  “They were patsies. Somebody in the mob stumbled onto Johnny and Val. I’m still trying to understand how… and Weatherbee is pushing his investigation along that line. Anyway, somebody stumbled onto the hide-out. For some reason, this somebody wanted a very quiet snatch. He hired the two patsies to pull the actual snatch, then he paid them on delivery with a bullet in the head. Tried to make it look like you had caught up with the guys, maybe, and rescued the kidnap victims.”

  “Why?”

  “Hell, I don’t know why.”

  “Okay. With that small reservation, I’ll have to agree wi
th you,” Bolan said tiredly. “What else do you have?”

  That’s about it,” Turrin admitted regretfully. “I don’t know, frankly, why our somebody is being so coy. He should be dancing a jig and thumping his chest and sending out announcements. I mean, if he’s trying to smoke you into the open, he’s sure going about it in a weird way.”

  “Maybe he wants me to sweat awhile,” Bolan suggested.

  Turrin grunted and said, “Could be. But this thing has all sorts of funny complications. You’re not the only one sweating, Sarge.”

  “No?”

  “Damn no. You understand the shape the Boston territory has been in since BoBo Binaca took the fade. Well now, look. The mob wants your head, buddy, I mean they’ve got a hard-on for your hide that will never go away. They want you, yeah, and they’ll go to almost any fantastic lengths to get you. But notice I said almost. They do not want your enraged hide in Boston. In the middle of the Arizona desert, maybe. Better yet, atop the highest peak of the Rockies. But not, God no, not in Boston.”

  “Who’s the big man here, Leo? There has to be a top dog somewhere in the woodwork.”

  Turrin sighed. “There’s another rub. Since Binaca, there hasn’t been a clear line. It’s been mob war, political scandals, irate citizenry, police promises, blood in the streets and just general chaos for two damn years. It stretches all around the area, even to Fall River and Providence and all points between. I guess about a hundred guys have been knocked off so far in the territorial battles. But that’s been quieting down. And this is why the boys don’t want a Bolan bull in their shaky little China closet. Al 88 is the Commissione’s man here and he’s been quietly putting humpty-dumpty Boston together again.”

  “Al who?”

  Turrin shrugged his shoulders and replied, “All I’ve been privileged to hear is Al 88—and that’s a code name, buddy, so don’t sit up nights trying to match it with anything. Anyway, these people don’t want your blitzing body in Boston. They feel that you’ll mess up everything they’ve worked so hard at these past two years.”

  “You know what you’re telling me?” Bolan commented. “You’re saying the mob isn’t behind the snatch.”

  “No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying that there is no mob in Boston. There are fragments, yeah, here and there all over the place, but they’re not solidly mobbed up. The Commissione’s guiding hand is on the scene now, though, and working diligently to get them neatly mobbed once again and part of the national picture. So—”

  “So,” Bolan put in, “the nationals are primarily the ones concerned about a new round of fireworks in Boston.”

  “Exactly. Not that the locals themselves are actively looking forward to more warfare. I mean…”

  Bolan said, “You mean that most of them are ready to settle down and devote their energies to business as usual.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I mean. I can’t say that for all factions, of course.”

  Bolan said, “Okay, I’m reading.”

  Turrin sighed deeply. “That’s about all I know for sure, Sarge. Except… well… listen, there’s a Unified Crime alert out on you. The Boston cops have had enough underworld warfare, too. The citizens are edgy and the political picture is downright explosive. So… watch it. The first little blitz you pull, cops are going to be converging on this town from all around the country.”

  Bolan said, “Great. So what do you suggest I do, Leo?”

  Turrin replied, “Hell, I don’t know. I’m just thankful that’s your decision and not mine.”

  “There’s no decision to it,” Bolan told his friend. “I’ll have to play it by ear and hope for the best. But I’ve got to break the silence. That’s for sure. I can’t just sit on my tail and wait for word. It could come gift wrapped, in concrete. I can’t play their game until I know what the game is. Meanwhile, there’s nothing to do but to play my own game.”

  The undercover cop expelled a cloud of smoke, then he rolled down his window and ejected a mutilated cigar. “You know how I feel about all this, Mack. I, uh, considered myself personally responsible for those two people. I thought the security was top drawer. But it wasn’t, apparently, and I guess—”

  “Knock it off,” Bolan softly commanded. “You know nothing is ever that tight. It just happened, that’s all, and now we’ve got to save it. Leo… listen… thanks. I know what all this is costing you. How’s the wife and kids?”

  “Fine, they’re fine,” Turrin replied miserably.

  Following a brief silence, Bolan sighed and said, “There’s an angle to this thing maybe you haven’t thought of. If this engineer puts the squeeze on either Johnny or Val, he’ll learn anything they might be able to tell him. You and I both know that.”

  Turrin shivered and replied, “You could have gone all night without bringing that up. Don’t think about turkeys at a time like this, Sarge.”

  Curtly, Bolan said, “Have to. Could they finger you, Leo?”

  The Mafioso cop released a hissing sigh. “I guess not I’ve been no more to them than a voice on a telephone, once or twice a dim face in the shadows. All they know is that I’m your friend, and theirs. Unless they’ve put something together on their own.”

  Bolan said, “Well… Val is pretty damned sharp. So, uh, you step very carefully, Leo.”

  Turrin snorted and replied, “Look who’s advising who on caution.”

  “This three-way stretch can’t go on forever, buddy. You’ve got to let it go, you know.”

  “What three-way stretch?”

  “The cops, the mob, me. You know what I mean.”

  “You’re not going to deal me out of this one, Sarge.”

  “Don’t intend to,” Bolan assured him. “But as soon as we get Johnny and Val back, then you and I have to face the reality of your situation. I could become turkey meat myself, Leo.”

  Turrin was giving his friend a sick look. “If that’s the way you read it,” he replied quietly.

  “That’s what I read.”

  “Okay. Uh, listen… dammit, Mack. Don’t go handing yourself over to those guys. That won’t help the kids any, you know that.”

  Bolan said, “I might be able to work something out. If it turns that way, I’d like to name you as the go-between.”

  “Sure,” Turrin said quietly.

  “Okay. What’s this coming up? Charlestown bridge?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me out there.”

  “Mack… dammit… I don’t like any of this. I don’t like your frame of mind. I don’t like—”

  “Shut up, Leo. I’ve had my innings. Nobody lives forever.”

  Turrin was glaring darkly beyond the headlamps of the car and apparently choking back some heated comment.

  Bolan chuckled understandingly and said, “Cool it, buddy. We’ve been in worse spots. Right?”

  The undercover cop growled, “Right.”

  The vehicle rolled to a halt on the bridge approach. Bolan gave his friend a searching gaze and asked him, “A wild guess, Leo—what is the game exactly? What do they really want?”

  Turrin’s eyes fell in misery from that gaze as he replied, “Same game as always, Sarge. They want you. If they can’t get you whole-body, then they want to hurt you all they can. If that means sending you Val’s tits and Johnny’s balls in a paper sack, then that’s what they’ll do.”

  Bolan grimaced. “That goes without saying,” he agreed. “But I’m not just talking about that angle. I mean, why the waiting game? Why the silence?”

  The Pittsfield underboss Sighed and his fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Ever play chess, Sarge?”

  Bolan replied, “The game of pawns.”

  “I can’t see anything else, get right down to it. Considering the situation in Boston right now. Whoever snatched Johnny and Val might want something else just a little bit more than he wants Mack Bolan’s head. That’s why the silent game. He’s trying to line something up, I’d guess. You said wild. That’s about as wild as my mind can ge
t right now.”

  “Maybe it’s not so wild,” Bolan decided. “My mind has been tracking along the same channel. Okay.” He opened the door and slid quickly to the street, then leaned back inside for a final word. “Go back to Pittsfield, Leo. You’ll be of better use there and I want you to stay clear of this town, at least for the rest of today. I’m hitting it, and hard. I don’t want you in the way.”

  Turrin’s face was partially masked and almost grotesque in the reflected light from the instrument panel. He said, “Johnny and Val are in the way, Sarge.”

  “Johnny and Val could be in South America by now,” Bolan growled. “Or at the bottom of Boston harbor. Keep the ears open, Leo. We’ll contact the usual way.”

  Turrin replied, “Yeah. Good blitzing. You know where to go, eh?”

  “I know,” Bolan assured him. He closed the door and faded into the night.

  Turrin put the car in motion and joined the traffic to Charlestown.

  Back there, he knew, went one hell of a man. One hell of a human being. And one hell of a tortured, agonized, and frustrated warrior.

  The old town, Turrin was thinking, had better get set for a shaking.

  She was in for an experience the likes of which hadn’t been felt since…

  Turrin’s face twisted into a wry scowl.

  The redcoats are coming, hell.

  The blackcoat was already there, and he was striding angrily onto a new page of Boston history.

  Turrin had seen that decision forming behind the ice-blue eyes, and there was no mistaking the meaning.

  Leopold Turrin shivered.

  There were times when he resented being anything other than a human being. But there were Angelina and the kids… he was a husband and a father. There were his duties as a cop and the patient years of painstaking undercover work that could go up in one small puff of misplaced sympathy and loyalty.