Tennessee Smash

by Don Pendleton

  “That’s ten to fifteen minutes from here,” the Mafia flyboy groused. “I’ll take the chopper in. There’s a place down by the river where I can leave it. Then I’ll only be a couple minutes away if you should need me quick.”

  Bolan nodded his agreement. “So long as it doesn’t compromise you, Jack.”

  The guy waved a hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry about me. Just hold onto your own ass. If you need a liftout, just scream. I’ll be there.”

  Bolan warmly gripped the loyal friend by the shoulder then went out of there. Strange, sometimes, the curious weavings of fate. He’d first crossed paths with Grimaldi at about the same moment as the first encounter with the SOG people. Grimaldi, while not a truly “made” man was nevertheless an employee of the crime syndicate and therefore inherently an enemy to the grave. The soggers, on the other hand, though not truly cops in the usual sense were nevertheless federal agents bent on upholding the law and serving the ends of the country’s justice system—therefore just as dangerous to a guy like Bolan. That both sides of the equation were now Bolan allies was, indeed, a curious and remarkable thing.

  The local Holiday Inn was grouped with several other downtown motels overlooking the state capitol grounds. Bolan strolled into the dining room at precisely six o’clock. Employees were scurrying about trying to set up for the breakfast trade and it appeared that they were not yet open for business.

  Toby Ranger and Tommy Anders, though, sat with cups held casually to their lips at a window table. Nobody else was in evidence. Bolan helped himself to some coffee and carried it to the table.

  “What time does it open?” he inquired, by way of greeting.

  Anders looked up with a disinterested gaze and replied, “Beats me, guy. I guess it’s self-serve, they got a—” He stopped talking suddenly and flashed a glance toward Toby, then laughed softly and said, “Hell, siddown. I didn’t spot you right off.”

  Bolan slid in next to the lady and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “Watch it, Captain Hard,” she muttered. “I have a quick switch and this is no time to be tripping it.” Lovely eyes flashed over him. “I like your little suit. But which planet did those hairdo and purple shades come from?”

  Anders commented, “It’s very effective. I’m still not sure who it is.”

  “The name is Lambretta,” Bolan said soberly. “Guys in the know call me Frankie.”

  “It fits,” Toby said. “… a Madison Avenue cowboy.”

  “That’s the idea,” he told her, and turned his gaze to the comic. “Where’re you working, Tom?”

  “I’ve been doing a gig out at the new Opry. Also looking into a couple of record offers. Toby’s headlining, knocking ’em dead. We been here ten days, now. Should’ve been on our way out by tomorrow. But it’s falling to hell, so I really don’t know.”

  A teenage boy approached the table with water and menus. “We have a breakfast buffet,” he announced. “Or the waitress will take your order in a few minutes. I recommend the buffet.”

  The three exchanged glances and unanimously opted for the self-serve department. Conversation was limited to small talk as they wandered to the steam table and made their selections. Bolan took scrambled eggs and bacon and carried Toby’s fruit assortment to the table for her. Anders ended up with melon and tomato juice, but ate very little as the meeting got down to business.

  “Tell me everything you know or think you know,” Bolan demanded of his companions.

  It took a bit of telling. The SOG-3 team had drifted to the Orient from Hawaii and began burrowing into the drug traffic from the Golden Triangle. It was about that time, they related, when Dandy Jack Clemenza had begun making his pitch to the collective families of Mafia for a centralized, single-source approach to America’s illegal drug markets. Since the families bankrolled most of the big drug buys on an individual basis anyway, Clemenza’s brainstorm was to move en masse to take over the entire North American operation—in an organized manner—thus cornering the entire American import market in illegal drugs. That way, they could control market prices at every level, manipulate the equation of supply and demand, and fix an iron fist upon every user and dealer in the country. Included in the scheme was a proposed national distribution network which would minimize legal harassment while introducing a stability which had never been present in such operations. Distribution was, of course, the key to the whole grand plan. And it marked an extension of interests for the Mob—who, because of the inherent risks, had traditionally remained shy of actual involvement in routine trafficking.

  “And this brings us to Nashville?” Bolan commented.

  “In spades,” Anders replied. “We think that Nashville is shaping into the national headquarters for the entire operation. We know for sure that the first trial run into national distribution will be launched from here. The smack factory in Memphis is the prime facility. There are others, bigger and better, so there has to be a good reason for selecting Memphis as processing point for the first big batch to come over. Part of the reason is Clemenza himself, of course. He’s been operating through the Delta Importers front for over a year—but it’s always been small potatoes up ’til now.”

  “You’re saying that this new empire has not actually come into existence,” Bolan observed.

  Toby picked it up. “We think not yet. Apparently Clemenza is still trying to sell the idea to the collective families. That’s vital, see. Either they all come in or the whole idea falls apart. Competition would kill it. The shipment we knocked over last night was to have served as the proof run.”

  “We weren’t trying to kill it,” Anders explained. “Just divert it a bit. If the thing looks good to the Families, they’ll pick it up with or without Clemenza. We want them to pick it up.”

  Sure they did. The SOGs had a lot more in mind than the simple harassment of drug traffickers. They wanted what Mack Bolan wanted. They wanted an end to organized crime in America.

  “So why did you knock over Clemenza?” Bolan wondered aloud.

  “Because we had a replacement standing in the wings,” Anders quietly replied.

  Bolan sighed. “Lyons, eh.”

  “Right. But we’re calling him Carl Leonetti, these days. He met Clemenza in Singapore last month while the guy was firming up the supply lines.”

  “Is there a real Carl Leonetti?”

  “Used to be. He died of yellow fever ten years ago in Indonesia, at the age of fifteen. He was the only son of Roberto Leonetti who died in the Brooklyn wars a few years ago. The kid was on a hasty world cruise with his mother. They both got the fever and died. Actually they were on the lam from Leonetti’s troubles in New York. Somebody in the State Department neglected to pass the word to Roberto. He probably died thinking the lady took the kid and skipped out on him. Everybody in the Mob, back then, knew that he was scouring the world for them—very quietly, of course. Leonetti had a lot of enemies.”

  Bolan said, “Yeah.” The story was coming back to him, now. “So Carl Lyons becomes the long-missing Carl Leonetti. Go on.”

  Toby said, “Clemenza liked his credentials and signed him on as his agent and courier in the Far East. It was Carl who brought in the major part of the stuff we seized last night.”

  Anders added, “By way of South America.”

  Toby continued, “But he also brought quite a bit more than he delivered. That’s the story, anyway. We were setting him up, see, as an alternate to Dandy Jack.”

  “Good plan,” Bolan mused. “What went wrong?”

  Anders spread his hands in a gesture of puzzlement and replied with misery in the voice. “We just don’t know. Smiley’s traveling with him, too, as his wife and assistant. We dredged up a foolproof identity for her, too. She’s a White Russian, a granddaughter of some refugees from the revolution. There’s lots of them there. She died, too, awhile back—natural causes—but the records don’t show it.”

  Toby said, “They arrived in Nashville right on schedule and left the message on
our floater. Carl said that he was already set up with a meeting, to be held that evening, with some “future associates” of Clemenza. And that’s the last we’ve heard.”

  “You have no idea who he was meeting?”

  Anders shook his head. “Neither did he, apparently. We do know that Clemenza’s main man in Nashville is a guy going by the name of Oxley—Ray Oxley—real name Raymond Accimentio. He’s the figurehead of an outfit called Roxy Artists Management, Inc. We’ve had the guy under day and night surveillance for the better part of a week. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  Bolan asked, “How many people are working this with you?”

  The two exchanged troubled glances. “There’s a bunch,” Toby said quietly.

  “Call them all in,” Bolan suggested. “Clear the field. I don’t want to be playing the friend-or-foe routine.”

  Toby said to Anders, “I told you he’d just waltz in and take it all over.”

  Anders grinned feebly at Bolan and said, “We’ve been working this for a long time, buddy. We’d hate to see it all blow up now.”

  Bolan sighed. “It’s already blown up, hasn’t it? You’ve got Clemenza on ice and his powders off the market. Without Lyons, you’ve got no show. Tell all your people to get lost for twenty-four hours. If I’m not back with Carl and Smiley by then, well—then you’ll know they won’t be getting back. Meanwhile you need to be looking at your options, don’t you? One more question. Where does David Ecclefield fit into your operation? Last I saw the guy he was running strike forces in Atlanta.”

  “He’s not doing that any more,” was all Toby said.

  Bolan was giving the frosty gaze to Tommy Anders. The little comic fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment, then said, “What the hell, Toby—we don’t keep secrets from this guy.” The gaze shifted to a square fit with Bolan’s. “David has joined the game. He’s domestic operations chief. It’s a support outfit. Okay?”

  Bolan smiled without humor as he replied, “Okay. Give him my respects. And tell him to keep his support out of my way for the next twenty-four hours.”

  “You’re blitzing,” Toby Ranger said with a sigh.

  “Is there any other way?” Bolan quietly inquired.

  For reply she leaned into him and snaked both arms around his neck, melting against him with a soulful kiss.

  Anders, on the sidelines, chuckled softly as he commented, “There, damn ya. Now go out there and conquer Music City.”

  And Mack Bolan knew that he would have to do precisely that.

  CHAPTER 5

  SPEAK FEAR

  “Good morning, Mr. Oxley.”

  The macho young president of Roxy Artists Management Inc. swept past the pretty receptionist without acknowledging the greeting. Nervous hopefuls clutching guitars and demo records overflowed the large outer office. He gave these a quick, measuring glance as he rounded the corner and entered the corridor to the private offices.

  It was business as usual on this most extraordinary, unreal day. All of the glass-fronted audition booths were occupied and the agents’ cubicles were humming with a dozen conversations as Oxley ran the gauntlet to his sanctorum. At any other time it would have been music to his ears; today he was thankful for the soundproofed private suite.

  The hubbub disappeared behind the closed door as he moved briskly inside and greeted his secretary.

  “It’s off and running early, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. And there’s—”

  “I don’t want to be disturbed, Doris. No calls, no visitors, no exceptions.”

  The woman’s eyes revealed an inner worry. “I’m sorry. You already have a visitor. He’s waiting inside. Simply would not take no for an answer. The men weren’t in yet so I decided I’d better just—I think he’s from … from … you know.”

  Yes, damnit, Oxley knew, or thought he did. And it was not a total surprise. He hid the displeasure from his secretary while telling her, “Soon as Arthur and Jimbo get in, tell them to hang close.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “I’m liable to need them.”

  But that was just for show. The men were the best legbreakers in town, sure. But this was no time for mere legbreakers—not if Oxley’s hunch was on target.

  It was.

  The visitor was a total stranger—big guy, neatly dressed in denims, purple lenses shading the eyes. The atmosphere in the room was almost electric. Oxley suppressed an inner tremor as he pushed on inside and carefully closed the door.

  The guy was standing by the window in semi-profile with the morning light behind him. The face was therefore not too clear but Oxley knew instinctively that he did not know this man. The type, yeah … okay. Oxley knew immediately what the guy was. But he had not anticipated the greeting he got.

  “Are you Raymond Accimentio?” inquired the cold voice from the window.

  Oxley went on to his desk. He sat down, lit a cigarette and toyed with a paperweight as his mind spun through the situation. What the hell was this? The guy had hitman written all over him. Surely things had not gone that sour that fast. But it was the standard hitman greeting. They hated to make mistakes. They liked to know for sure. Are you the guy I’ve been sent to burn?

  The troubled man took a deep pull at the cigarette and cautiously replied, “I haven’t used that name for a long time. You know who I am. What’s the game?”

  “It’s called ‘kiss your ass goodbye’,” was the cold response.

  Oxley had not been aware of a flicker of movement over there, but suddenly an ugly snubnosed pistol was yawning on him.

  He froze with the cigarette pointed toward an ashtray as a million and a half thoughts careened through his mind. His heart went into triple-time. His mouth was suddenly very dry, the tongue overlarge and threatening to seal off his throat. His voice, when it came, was weak and raspy. “Now wait! This is … misunderstanding! We can straighten it out!”

  “You can’t raise the dead, amici,” said the big frigid man.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Oxley squawked. “I’m not—I didn’t—who’s dead?”

  “You are,” said the voice of doom. “It’s tit for tat, Raymond. So kiss it goodbye.”

  “This is a terrible mistake!” Oxley yelled. He staggered to his feet and leaned weakly back against the desk, both hands held out in a loose boxing stance at chest level. This was the most terrifying moment of his life. Things like this didn’t really happen—did they? But, yes, that son of a bitch meant business for sure! “It’s crazy! You got the wrong guy! I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”

  The man at the window had not moved. He said, “We’re talking about Carl Leonetti.”

  “Who?”

  “And Dandy Jack Clemenza. That was no way to honor a deal.”

  Oh for God’s sake! Oxley giggled in near hysteria, overjoyed with a sudden understanding. It was a gruesome mistake! “Hey, buddy—amici!—you got it all wrong! Clemenza’s not dead! He took a fall, that’s all! I had nothing to do with that, for God’s sake! I thought at first you were from the other people! God! Scared the shit outta me, you did. Those people are the ones I’m worried about! They got a big investment in this. Naturally—I mean I’d expect them to be worried about their investment. I thought you were from them. Hey!—I’m with Clemenza all the way on this thing. What hurts him, hurts me. You got it all wrong.”

  The purple shades came away from that impassive face. Oxley felt impaled by probing blue eyes—penetrated, examined, judged and sealed. Finally: “Is that all you have to say?”

  “No! I never met Leonetti. I know he’s with Clemenza on this, too, but we never met. He hit town last week. We talked on the phone. I set up his contact and that’s all. I never saw him.”

  “Who burned him, then?”

  “God I didn’t know he got burned. I was hoping to find him, myself. I figure he’s my only out. I need the product and I need it bad. Like I said, there’s this big investment. I got to deliver on that investment. Who burned him?”

  The b
ig guy seemed to be giving Oxley a second inspection. Then, that cold voice again: “Send for your leg-breakers.”

  “What?”

  “The two Swedish Angels—Jimbo and Arthur. Call them in here.”

  Oxley was greatly confused by the command but he gladly leaned over the intercom and obeyed it.

  Thank God they were there.

  The two bruisers were at the door before Oxley could straighten up. They came in cautiously and halted just inside the room, obviously sensitized by the heavy atmosphere.

  The guy at the window said to them, “Let’s come to an understanding, boys.” He was putting the gun away. The fucking idiot! Oxley was breathing better already. “I just want one thing. I want my partner, Carl Leonetti. So let’s decide where he is and let me be on my way.”

  Like shit!

  Jimbo shot an oblique and loaded gaze at his boss while Arthur took on the cold stare of the visitor.

  “Relax,” said Oxley with an easy laugh. “There was a misunderstanding but it’s straightened out, now. Mr. uh … mister …?”

  The guy at the window supplied the name with no change in voice tones. “Lambretta. Call me Frankie.”

  “Oh right, sure. Frankie is worried about his partner, boys. If you know anything about a man named Carl Leonetti, now’s the time to spit it out.”

  Arthur had no patience for games of finesse. His massive shoulders were hunched forward and the fingers of both hands were splayed and flexing. “You want me to toss this hotshot outta here, Mr. Oxley?” he rumbled.

  “No no,” Oxley replied grandly, enjoying the moment. “It’s cool. I told you to relax. Let’s give the man his answers before we throw him out.”

  “I got no answers,” Arthur growled.

  “Me neither,” seconded Jimbo.

  “There you go,” Oxley said sweetly to his visitor. “Both of these boys are armed, of course. But I’m sure they’d rather break you open with their hands. I guess you have that much choice.”

  But that was a mistake. As it turned out, the big guy at the window apparently had infinite choices in the matter. Both of the bodyguards were going for their weapons when the snubnose magically leapt into Lambretta’s hand, seemingly roaring as it did so. Arthur was flung backward with a gaping well between the eyes. Jimbo’s mouth exploded into a crimson fountain, the eyes twitching and rolling momentarily as he crumpled to the floor.