Tennessee Smash

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan nodded. “You always do, Nick.”

  The Professor liked that nuance. He said, “Thanks. Here’s what I want to say. I don’t know anything about the troubles in New York. I’m not part of them and they’re not part of me. I have no complaints with the administration. You guys have been doing a whale of a job and my doors are wide open to you. If you have a problem then I have a problem and vice versa. Like I said, my doors are wide open. But I run a tight ship. I don’t want you doing anything in my territory unless you’ve cleared it with me, first. Now that’s about as plain as I can put it.”

  “That’s plain enough,” Bolan replied, not committing himself to anything further.

  “So why are you here?”

  “I came to get Carl Leonetti.”

  “Who?”

  The Bolan gaze turned fully upon Mazzarelli although it was clear that he was responding to the other. “You’ll remember Roberto. Carl is his kid.”

  Copa thought about that for a moment before quietly replying, “That goes way back. Roberto’s wife and kid disappeared ten, fifteen years ago. You’re not still looking for them?”

  “The lady died ten years ago. The kid did not. He came to Nashville last week. He’s needed in New York. I came to take him home.”

  Mazzarelli’s eyes became noncommital slits, but the rest of the face was pure mama mia once again. “You mean you came to hit ’im,” he said.

  “I mean exactly what I said,” Bolan told him.

  “Wait a minute here,” Copa said, in obvious confusion—and it seemed genuine. “There’s more to this than I’m hearing. Why would Roberto’s kid be in my territory? What’s this all about?”

  That was good enough for Bolan. It confirmed a feeling he’d had almost from the beginning. “Gordy can tell you more about that than I can,” he said quietly.

  The Copa gaze traveled quickly and compellingly to his lieutenant. “What’s this all about?”

  “I thought I told you,” Mazzarelli said blandly.

  “Told me what?”

  “It’s no big deal. I guess it wasn’t important enough and I just forgot. Clemenza ran into the Leonetti kid awhile back when he was on a buying trip. You know. I think they had some kind of business deal. I don’t know for sure. Anyway, Leonetti turns up here, maybe a week ago. In town, I mean. I guess he was looking for a connection.”

  “Did he say he was hot?”

  “He didn’t say, Nick.”

  “What did he say?”

  Bolan was clearly no longer a participant in the conversation at the table. It was almost as though the other two had forgotten his presence. Which is perhaps why he was the first to become aware of the lady. He did not know how long she had been standing there in the background. But there she was—very striking, very lovely. She wore a silk lounging suit—on the order of a jumpsuit—and wore it very well. The dark hair was shoulder length and tawny, the eyes large and suffering. The age was anyone’s guess but Bolan would call it quite a big younger than Copa. And there was something very familiar about that haunted, pretty face.

  Bolan came to his feet and greeted her with, “Well, hello.”

  That ended the private conversation between the other two. Copa stood up quickly and took the lady’s hand. He told Bolan-Omega, “I said everything I wanted was right here. This is most of it. Omega, meet Mrs. Copa. Maybe you already know her as Molly Franklin.”

  Of course. Most people in the country would have found something very familiar about the lady. She was one of the current legends of the Nashville music scene. She’d come to this town as a raggedy teenager from a mountain hamlet with a suitcase full of original music and a voice to give unique life to that music. And she’d conquered Music City long ago, very nearly conquering all of America, as well, through television appearances in recent years.

  Bolan murmured an acknowledgement of the introduction and the four sat down to small talk and light refreshments. After several minutes, Copa suggested that the lady show the visitor around the garden. She softly acquiesced. Bolan and the lady wandered away. Copa and Mazzarelli immediately returned to their original conversation.

  She was showing Bolan a rubber tree which overhung the swimming pool, speaking almost mechanically in that soft drawl of the problems inherent in tropical gardening in Tennessee, when she shifted smoothly into another problem much closer to Mack Bolan’s interests.

  “Can you get me out of here?” she quietly inquired.

  He was not certain that he heard her rightly. “What?”

  “Can you get me out of here?”

  “Can’t you get yourself out?”

  “I wouldn’t be asking you if I could.”

  “Are you a prisoner?”

  “Yes I am a prisoner. In my own home. This is my home, damnit! And he won’t let me—will you take me with you?”

  Bolan took her arm and moved her along the pool’s edge. “What makes you think I can?”

  “The whole house has been buzzing ever since you got here. I’ve heard nothing else. You’re an important man. I know you can take me away if you want to.”

  “I wouldn’t want to get in the middle of a family spat,” he told her.

  “It is not a family spat.” She shot a look of pure hatred toward the table. “Let him have it. I just want out of here.”

  “Let him have what?”

  “The house, the land, all of it. But not me. I want out.”

  All of which was very interesting and intriguing to Bolan the Bold … but perhaps also a complication which might prove very hazardous to the mission goal.

  He told the lady, “You put me in a very delicate position.”

  The lady told the visitor. “Well you won’t find what you’re looking for here.”

  He said, “You know what I’m looking for?”

  “I heard enough that I can guess. You won’t find him here. Her, either. Get me out and I’ll tell you where to find them.”

  Complicating, yeah. But very, very interesting. Unless the lady was merely grasping at straws.

  “Convince me,” Bolan said quietly.

  “He’s from Singapore. He has a Russian wife. Gordy is trying to—and we—the flowering plants make such a mess of the pool, and we …”

  She’d shifted back just in time. Copa was moving toward them … almost upon them.

  Bolan told the lady with the haunted face, “I’m convinced. You’ve got a real problem there.”

  Copa said, “No problem can’t be fixed. Right, honey?”

  “I don’t know,” she said coldly.

  “Depends on the proper approach,” Bolan said, speaking for the benefit of both. He made eye contact with the lady and put as much understanding as he could gather there. “You have to pick your own time and place. I always do that.” He turned to her husband. “Right, Nick?”

  Copa laughed and said, “Better listen to the man, honey. Troubleshooting is his business.”

  “I heard every word he said,” the lady assured her husband.

  Yeah. Bolan was sure of that.

  She’d heard, also, every word he had not said.

  So now what?

  CHAPTER 11

  TROUBLESHOOTING

  They had been silently strolling the grounds and had reached a point about midway between the house and the outbuildings when Copa soberly declared, “I hope you don’t mind me walking your legs off. I think better on my feet.”

  Indeed, Bolan did not mind the walk. He was getting a good feel of the place. And he was getting an even better feel of the man. “You’re lucky to have a place like this, Nick,” he told him. “The cities are just getting to be too much. New York has gone completely crazy. The others aren’t far behind.”

  “Don’t I know it,” said the other. “Take L.A. Take Chicago. Take even Vegas. Artificial. It’s all artificial.” Several paces farther, the conversation turned to a serious note. “Omega, I’m worried.”

  “Uh huh. About Gordy?”

  “Who else?”<
br />
  “How long has he been with you now?” Bolan inquired.

  “Just long enough for me to start wondering. I didn’t know him very well, before. Just his reputation. You?”

  Bolan grinned. “They didn’t start calling him Crazy Gordy for nothing.”

  The responding grin was more of a grimace. “He’s crazy all right. Like a fox.”

  Bolan was treading a delicate line. He kept that balance as he told the boss of Nashville, “I know nothing behind him, Nick. Far as we know, he’s always been a good company man.”

  “Far as we know, right. But what is all this shit, Omega? What’s going on?”

  “What did Gordy tell you?”

  “He said Roberto’s kid came in from the Orient looking for a connection. Said he was worried about the old trouble and didn’t know where he stood. Said he was quietly asking around. Gordy says he met with the kid, in town. Had dinner with him and his wife. They small talked. The kid asked for nothing, Gordy offered him nothing. They were supposed to meet again, the next day. The kid was going to call to confirm the meet. He didn’t call. Gordy says that’s all he knows.”

  “Maybe that’s straight and maybe it’s not,” Bolan-Omega said quietly. “There’s more here than meets the eye.”

  “So I figured, yeah. But why would he lie about it?”

  “That’s for you to say,” Bolan replied cryptically. “But I have to tell you, Nick … the reason I came down …”

  “Don’t stop there. Say it.”

  “Well, you’ve got a problem here.”

  “Don’t I know it. I guess you know that Dandy Jack took a big fall last night. This is tied to that, somehow, isn’t it?”

  Bolan said, “I’m afraid it is, Nick.”

  “Gordy and this Leonetti kid. They’re part of that.”

  “Right. Only the kid is no longer a kid. He’s a man. With ideas. You know.”

  Copa knew, sure. “I see.”

  “He was Clemenza’s man in the Far East.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “It’s a fact, Nick.”

  The guy had a great poker face. “I see.”

  “Here’s the way we get it.”

  “I’m listening,” said the Lord of Nashville. He was paying no attention whatever to the direction of their stroll. Bolan was deftly maneuvering the course toward the large central barn.

  “Leonetti brought in the shipment that went down with Clemenza last night. He—”

  “But the goods arrived just yesterday. The kid hit town—”

  “He was supposed to have dropped it off in South America. And he did. But he did not return to home base, like he was supposed to. Instead, he hopped a plane to Nashville. Not to Memphis, Nick. To Nashville.”

  “I see. Why?”

  “The way we make it, he was carrying another shipment.”

  A moment later, Copa said, “I see.”

  Damn right he saw.

  So did Bolan. They were directly opposite the barn, now. The huge sliding doors were partially agape. A row of large packing crates were stacked just inside. The floor was slick and clean. But it was still too far away to give up any secrets.

  The Mafia boss was deep in thought, his mind far removed from the stretch of turf at his feet.

  “What, uh—this, uh—are you saying that Clemenza’s fall last night is related to all this? Directly, I mean?”

  “All I’m saying,” Bolan quietly replied, “is that Dandy Jack had a secret competitor. Let’s call him X. So X hits the scene about a week before Dandy’s stuff is scheduled to arrive. Very conveniently, for X, Dandy then takes a fall—all his product with him. Which leaves X in a very fortunate position. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’d say, yeah,” Copa growled softly. “And where does that put Z?”

  Meaning, of course, Mazzarelli.

  Bolan said, “Depends on where he stands with X, I’d say.”

  “So would I,” said the boss. “How sure are you of all of this?”

  “Sure enough that I came as quick as I could,” said the visiting Ace.

  “I appreciate that. Okay. So I’ve got a problem. Thanks.”

  Bolan said, “More than maybe it seems right off, Nick. We, uh—it’s so delicate, we, uh—we didn’t want to barge in.”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” the boss assured the visitor. “I appreciate it.”

  Bolan could now read the lettering on the crates in the barn. Electronic equipment.

  “Who, uh—I have to ask—who funded the buy?”

  “Oh, well—you know—a lot of people are in this. Who’s funding Leonetti?”

  “The same people,” Bolan replied.

  “I don’t, uh, get your meaning,” Copa said slowly.

  “It’s a shell game.”

  “Who’s got the shells?”

  “X has one of them, for sure. Z has one, maybe.”

  “I still don’t get you.”

  “Can we talk straight out, Nick?”

  “Like men, right. Go ahead.”

  “How much was invested in the product you lost last night?”

  “Cash outlay, over a million. Street value—hell, it’s—”

  “Forget the street value. Let’s talk cash from the pocket. You say over a million. What if I suggest to you that what you lost last night in Memphis was worth about half that?”

  “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying what if. What if our boy Leonetti got an exceptionally good price in Singapore. What if he was able to actually double the value of the buy? And what if he saw a way to sell you your own goods twice?”

  Copa was now chewing invisible nails. “Go on.”

  Nobody hates to be suckered more than a guy who makes his living suckering others. The bare possibility was eating at Copa’s guts.

  Bolan quickly sank the spurs a bit deeper. “I believe that Leonetti was really trying to contact you, Nick. But he didn’t get there.”

  “He runs into someone else first,” Copa said thickly, picking it up for himself.

  “That’s what I’m saying, Nick. And this Leonetti kid has not been seen since.”

  The guy’s anger was strangling him. “Okay, thanks,” he grunted. “I’ll handle it. Thanks for …”

  Bolan put a hand on the guy’s arm and said, “First things first, Nick. You’ll want to safe the investment. Right?”

  “Naturally.”

  “You can still pull it out. That’s all I’m suggesting. Leonetti is either at the bottom of the river or he’s still around somewhere, under wraps. Either way, the product is here. In your territory. You’ve already paid for it. It’s yours. Right?”

  Copa was getting the anger under control. He said, “Go on. Say what you’re saying, damnit.”

  “Don’t tip your hand to Gordy. Tip mine.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Drop it on him that I’m really looking for a secret shipment that came in with X. Tell him I almost have it wrapped. I checked in with you just for the courtesy.”

  Bolan wondered if he had pushed too hard. Copa was stiffening, mentally resisting. The response was troubled, thoughtful. “I never liked cat and mouse, Omega.”

  So Bolan pulled back. “Forget it, then. It’s your territory and your problem. I just wanted you to know.”

  “I appreciate it, sure,” said the boss. “You came a long way—I appreciate it.”

  They were now less than twenty paces from the barn. A hard looking guy stepped through the opening between the hanging doors, a submachine gun cradled at his chest. Bolan’s mental mugfile clicked to an immediate make. It was one Rudi Folani, an old pro who’d last been noted in the St. Louis area.

  Bolan said to Copa, “God, you’ve dredged them from everywhere, haven’t you?”

  Copa growled, “I like to stick with the tried and true. But maybe it’s not always such a good idea.”

  They were ten paces out when Bolan called ahead, “How’s it swinging, Rudi?”

  The gu
y did a doubletake as he replied, “There’s still a few swings left in it, sir. Do I know you, sir?”

  Bolan winked at Copa as he replied, “You’d better not.”

  Folani understood the meaning of that. It was an embarrassment, a breach of ritual. “Right, sir, I’m sorry.”

  Copa was still engaged in the inner struggle with his own troubles, but he seemed to be putting it all aside as he told Bolan, “Rudi is still the best of his kind, Omega. He never asks why or how. He only asks what.”

  “You’re right,” said Bolan-Omega. “They don’t come like that in the new packages, do they?”

  Folani did not mind being the subject of such praise. He stroked the auto, grinned at the lords of his realm, and went back inside.

  “I meant it,” said Copa, quietly. “Rudi’s the best there is. And he’s not so old. He’s still mean as sin.”

  “Just don’t give him much to think about,” Bolan suggested.

  “Oh, you’re right there. I don’t.” The guy was loosening up. “But he’s a perfect watchdog. The best. I say sit and he sits. I say hit and he hits. That’s all I want from Rudi.”

  “That’s all you need from Rudi,” Bolan agreed. “Just keep him on the family jewels and you can rest your mind.”

  It was enough. Copa’s gaze flicked to the barn as he responded to it. “You know about that, huh?” He chuckled, though without great humor. “You guys are the beatingest.”

  No, Bolan did not “know about that.” But he was trying. “A bit here and a piece there, Nick,” he explained while not explaining. “We haven’t been nosing around. But we do hear things. You know?”

  Yes, Nick knew. It was the Ace’s duty to hear things. He said, “Right—you can’t help that, I guess. Neither can I. Sometimes I—even—it’s hard to keep a lid on, isn’t it? The boys sometimes talk right out, in front of Mrs. Copa. I’ve told ’em and told ’em, and still they—what the hell can you do?”

  “You keep her on a short leash, I guess,” Bolan replied sympathetically.

  “Right. That’s all you can do. At least until I get it all safed. But—well I guess you noticed—it gets on her nerves. Hell, I hate that. But what can I do?”