Tennessee Smash

by Don Pendleton

  “Which people?”

  “You know, official people. Politicians, mostly.”

  “How is he using you?”

  “Oh I’m the bait—the celebrity, you know. I throw these big parties, see. And who in Nashville would turn down an invitation to a Molly Franklin party? And we have this live-in whore corps, you see.”

  Bolan growled, “I see, yeah.”

  “And these special bedrooms for special guests.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Nick calls them the Candid Camera rooms.”

  “I get the picture,” Bolan told her.

  She sighed and said, “The victims never do. They pay and pay but they never get the pictures. They don’t pay with money, of course. And these are moving pictures, and I do mean moving.”

  Things usually sound trite only because they are so true to form, so much a normal pattern. This one was trite as hell, the oldest trick in the bag—and that was because it worked so well. Obviously it had worked very well for Nick Copa in Tennessee. His entrenchment there had come with miraculous swiftness.

  The lady was making that very point. “I guess Nick is about the most powerful man in these parts, right now.”

  “We’ll see,” Bolan told her.

  “And he’s built it all in less than six months.”

  “He could lose it a lot quicker.”

  “Does that worry you?”

  Bolan-Omega shook his head. “Not a bit. Once a trench is dug, anyone can man it.”

  She got his meaning. “Okay. Doesn’t worry me, either. I don’t know why I’ve been telling you all this. You probably know all about it, anyway. Well listen … you never have to worry about me. I’ll never talk to anybody about this. I know better than that. But I do want you to get that man off my back.”

  He asked her, “What’d you have in mind?”

  She shivered. “Whatever it takes. You can have the farm. I don’t care if I never see it again. Make him an offer … I don’t know. I don’t care. Just keep him away.”

  Bolan said, “Okay. You have a deal. Can you believe that?”

  She replied, “I guess I have to believe it, don’t I. Okay. You want the man from Singapore. Right?”

  So right.

  And Bolan just had to believe that she could deliver. It was, after all, an offer which could not be refused.

  CHAPTER 16

  SQUARING IT

  Toby Ranger answered the knock and stood at the doorway staring coldly at him for a moment before greeting him. “Well, look who’s here. If it isn’t Captain Cataclysm.”

  She turned her back on him and walked away.

  Bolan pushed on inside, sans invitation, and closed the door.

  Tom Anders sat behind a bottle of beer, near the window. Toby went into the bathroom, without looking back.

  The atmosphere in there was decidedly chilly.

  Bolan said, “I tried the radio and couldn’t connect. This is the last place I expected to find you.”

  Anders growled, “You want a beer?”

  Bolan waved the offer away. “Tell me about it.”

  Anders sighed and lit a cigarette. Following a long silence, he replied, “There was a shootout.”

  “Where?”

  “Inside the walls at the Juliana Academy.” Bolan took a cigarette also, and dropped into a chair near the door. “So. Gordy didn’t streak for Carl, after all.”

  Anders said, “Not unless he expected to find him at the Academy.”

  “What did he find there?” “A padlock and a legal notice on the door. He was very upset. Then Copa came roaring in as the Mazzarelli army was withdrawing.” Bolan sighed. “I was afraid of that.” “Yeah. Guess you stoked the fires a bit too warmly. But who can figure those guys? He came in shooting, Sarge.” “Who won?”

  “Nobody won. Nobody lost. Talk about your gangs that can’t shoot straight … those guys must have fired a zillion rounds. But they didn’t leave much blood behind. Copa got his hair parted. Guess it was just a scratch. He was alive and raving last I saw him.”

  Bolan grunted and asked, “How about Gordy?”

  “Yeah, how ’bout Gordy. We don’t know. We lost ’im in the bustout.”

  “He split.”

  “Yeah, he split. Him and about half his army shot their way out. The other half slipped over the back wall and faded away. I guess. Broad daylight, too. I don’t know how the hell …”

  “You lost Mazzarelli.”

  “We lost ’im, yeah.”

  “How’s Smiley?”

  “Smiley will be okay,” Anders replied feebly. “But she’s no help in this. They kept her stupid for a week. She’s lucid now but she knows nothing.”

  “The other people are still under wraps?”

  “Oh sure. But they’re giving nothing, either.”

  Bolan put out his cigarette and went to the window. He took a taste from Anders’ bottle, made a face, said, “It’s flat.”

  “That’s not all that’s flat,” Anders replied, without emotion.

  Bolan turned to look out the window. The voice was very soft as he inquired, “Why didn’t you tell me that Nick was married to Molly Franklin?”

  “It didn’t seem pertinent.”

  “That’s not for you to decide, Tom. When I ask for a briefing, I don’t want you deciding what’s pertinent and what is not. I expect a total package.”

  “Sorry. I guess none of us are perfect.”

  Bolan ignored the reflexive dig. “What else did you think was not pertinent?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He turned the icy blues straight onto his longtime friend. “You know what I mean,” he said quietly.

  Anders sighed heavily and broke the penetrating eye contact. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

  At that point, Toby came out of the bathroom with a clatter. She struck a pose with hips outthrust and angrily said to Anders, “You tell him not a damn thing! You tell him nothing!”

  Bolan growled, “Sit on it, Toby.”

  She said, “Go to hell! You blew it and you know you blew it. So don’t come in here with your accusing eyes and bleeding hands and—and …”

  Very quietly he told her, “I’ve located Carl.”

  That stunned her. Those great eyes flared as she gasped, “What?! Where?!”

  Anders jumped to his feet, upsetting the beer. “Is he okay?”

  Bolan turned a hard look his way. “You want a full briefing? Or do you want it SOG style?”

  The little guy cried, “Jesus God, I—don’t play with it, damnit! Is he okay or isn’t he?”

  Bolan very deliberately lit another cigarette.

  Toby slumped to the floor and put her head on upraised knees. In a muffled voice, she said, “Okay, Captain Cute. We surrender. For God’s sake.…”

  “He’s alive. And reasonably well. For the moment, anyway.”

  Anders gave not a sound. He turned quickly away and busied himself with the spilled beer.

  Toby lay back on the floor and hiked her skirt up to the waist—then lay there spread-eagled with eyes closed, the lovely face composed and giving no hint of the rampaging emotions within. But the closed eyes were leaking fluid.

  Bolan stood over her and took a long pull at the cigarette. He nudged a bare thigh with the side of his foot and growled, “Cut it out, Toby. What’s this for?”

  Her voice came small and contrite. “The symbolism should be obvious. You’re right and I’m wrong. So ravish me. Both of you. Go ahead.”

  “You’re lucky it’s the wrong time and place, babe,” he told her.

  “Sarge, sit down.” Anders said. “Let’s square this up.”

  Toby opened her eyes and blinked back the moisture as she seconded the motion. “Please.”

  They were apologizing. He was accepting. “Okay. You first.”

  “Okay, so you’re right,” Anders said. “The dope traffic is a fringe issue. Nick Copa has been the mission goal all along. Anything beyond that is just pure haze, at the mo
ment.”

  “Of course, the heroin was a very convenient point of entry,” Toby said.

  “So why all the cutesy?” Bolan asked. “Why didn’t you just—?”

  “Know where we’re at? This could just be the home of our next president. It’s politically sensitive territory,” Anders said.

  Toby: “But of course it’s almost virgin territory for the Mob.”

  Bolan: “There no such thing as almost a virgin.”

  Anders: “Call it political virginity.”

  Toby: “It’s still a virgin.”

  Anders: “The good old boys have just been playing with themselves all these years. So that’s technical virginity, anyway. But they’ve been ripe for rape for a long time.”

  Toby: “The rape became almost inevitable when a certain young senator suddenly began achieving such high national visibility. He’s likely to be a presidential nominee the next time around.”

  Anders: “So the stakes are pretty high.”

  Bolan smiled soberly. “High enough to SOG it, eh.”

  Toby said quickly, “That’s right. We weren’t trying to con you, big man. But it is a highly sensitive operation. We were ordered to give it the full silk glove treatment.”

  “The double soft,” Bolan murmured.

  “Right,” said Anders. “This Tennessee senator is a pretty straight guy. As clean as any. But he is a politician.”

  Bolan asked, “Does Copa have something on the guy?”

  “Not yet. Bet your ass he’s trying, though.”

  Toby said, “What he can’t find he’ll try to manufacture.”

  Anders: “We have the feeling that he’s already clubbed a few others that way. But, see, this is all damned sensitive. I mean, if we came in here blowing whistles and waving a big stick—I mean, whether the guy is straight or not, he’ll get dirtied. You know how things go in political life.”

  Toby: “It’s the law of negatives. A single accusation is worth a thousand denials.”

  “And there’s another law,” Anders added. “The law of reversal. If we don’t do this cleanly, someone is bound to start yelling about dirty tricks.”

  Toby: “He means dirty campaign tricks.”

  Anders: “Right. We can’t allow the hint of dirty tricks here. It could blow sky high. If this guy does get the nomination, he’ll be running against the present administration. Our orders are to safe the area.”

  “Very quietly,” Toby added.

  Anders explained: “The present administration figures to be re-elected, anyway. They don’t want—an emotional issue, even a false one, could swing the thing off center.”

  Bolan quietly asked no one in particular, “Are you people working for the White House?”

  The soggers exchanged quick glances. Anders took it. He replied, “Ultimately, sure. He’s the Commander in Chief, isn’t he? But we serve the office, not the man.”

  Bolan sighed and said, “Where’ve I heard that before?”

  “This is clean,” Toby assured him.

  Bolan said, “And your orders are to safe the area. What exactly does that mean?”

  Anders: “Exactly what it says. We have to quietly neutralize all subversive political influences in the area.”

  “Subversive to whom?”

  “Subversive to the national interest. We’re not working for any election campaign, if that’s what you’re getting at. This operation is strictly on the level. It gets sensitive only if it gets political. We’re supposed to keep that from happening.”

  “You’re going to neutralize it.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “How?”

  Anders sighed and shot a quick look at Toby as he replied, “Well, that is the problem, isn’t it.”

  Toby said, “It’s like toppling dominoes. If we could be sure that it is strictly a local problem—but it isn’t pointing that way. And of course it is not just the politics. They—these people have a brand new playground here. And they can reach the entire world from right here. God, they’re into just about everything.”

  Bolan said, “You better know it.”

  Toby told him, “We’ve been worried that you would take Copa out of play. Snuff him.”

  Anders hastened to add: “Too bad that it’s not that simple. Copa is a nobody, in the national sense. We just don’t know enough about the guy. Maybe he’s no more than the local puppet. We cut his strings and where are we? Back to the beginning, that’s where. And while we’re scrambling around trying to pin the new puppet, we lose the game by default. So what’s gained by a snuff?”

  Toby said, “That’s why Carl is so vital to the operation. We must get him inside, in a sensitive position.”

  Bolan softly inquired, “Via Singapore?”

  “We were working another problem in that part of the world,” Anders explained. “We literally fell into this Tennessee game.”

  Bolan said, “Stroke of luck.”

  “Exactly. Don’t knock it. We take what we can get. A domestic outfit was already sniffing the Tennessee trail. It all came together at headauarters. So we take what we can get. Don’t you?”

  Bolan grinned. “Usually. I took Molly Franklin.”

  Toby asked, without emotion, “Dead or alive?”

  He gave her a hard look. “Alive and kicking. She wanted out. I got her out.”

  “Wonderful. So you just called time, stopped the game, and got off to rescue a—”

  Anders stopped her with a growl. “Toby! Don’t start it up again!”

  She replied, meekly, “Sorry.”

  Bolan said, “The Mob takes what they can get, too. I don’t believe they came here looking for a political patsy. They came looking for the same old thing—a quick buck. Copa found his edge and moved it in. Virgin territory—yeah, maybe. But I don’t see a grand conspiracy—no puppets, no puppeteers. It smells like a ground floor operation to me. The guy is trying to build something here. He has outside help, sure, but I think it’s mainly in the form of financial support. Once it gets rolling—well, yeah, maybe so. Nashville could become the seat of the new empire. Right now there is no empire—none that counts. It has returned to the feudal system. Copa is no puppet. He’s a lord, and this is his realm. He’s the man. I believe if you took him out, right now, the whole thing would fall apart.”

  “Wow,” Toby said softly, with mock surprise. “He walks and talks.”

  Anders growled, “Knock it off, Toby.” He asked Bolan, “How strong is your feel on that?”

  Bolan’s gaze traveled from one to the other—then he clasped hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. After a moment, he said, “I guess there’s no reason to test it. We still have Carl.”

  “Where is Carl?”

  “He’s in a cabin out near Priest Reservoir.”

  “What’s his circumstances?”

  “He’s a prisoner of war.”

  “Which war?”

  “The one between Nick Copa and Gordy Mazzarelli.”

  “How long do you plan on leaving him there?”

  Bolan sighed. His gaze came down and rested briefly on each of them as he replied. “I guess that’s up to you.”

  Anders stared thoughtfully at his own hands for a moment. Toby started to say something then changed her mind.

  Bolan said, “What?”

  She said, “I guess it’s up to Tommy.”

  Anders quietly said, “We’d rather not see Copa burn right away. Not until we know it’s safed.”

  Yeah. Bolan could respect that. He asked, “Can Carl deliver on that heroin?”

  “Sure. We have it safed away. He can have it with a phone call.”

  Toby said, “It’s really very important. It’s a side issue, like Tommy said, but it’s also the key to the underground railroad. We can bust a hundred bigtime wholesalers with that shipment. And maybe we can bust a whole lot more than that.”

  “So you want Carl delivered to Nick Copa.”

  Anders said, “That’s where we’ve bee
n angling all along.”

  “So Lyons becomes Copa’s horseman. Then what?”

  “Then we begin the burn on Copa.”

  “How?”

  “Carl will do that. Once he gets inside.”

  “How?”

  Anders grinned as he replied, “Very carefully.”

  Bolan grinned back. “Yeah. He could do it, too.”

  “Sure he could do it.”

  Bolan said. “Okay. Before I forget—do me a favor. Tell Hal to get word to Sticker that the Full House turned the trick. Sticker is a worrier. He should be updated.”

  “Hal” was Harold Brognola, federal chief of everything. “Sticker” was the redoubtable Leo Turrin, inside man extraordinary, the feds’ man at Mafia headquarters.

  Anders said, “I don’t know what it means but I’ll send the message. A Full House?”

  Bolan said, “Yeah. And it’s getting fuller all the time. I guess you’d better call in your failsafe line, Tom. But give me operating room.”

  “What’s the trick?”

  “The trick is to safe an empire.”

  Toby sniffed and said, “I thought we were getting square.”

  “I’ve been there all the while,” Bolan told her. “How about you?”

  She dropped her eyes but then she flashed him a smile and replied, “Touche, Captain Quick. But don’t you think we should be in the signals this time?”

  Indeed, yes. Bolan the Quick would have it no other way.

  “Just give me plenty of room,” he said quietly.

  CHAPTER 17

  SAFING IT

  Conditions were not exactly ideal for a night operation. There was a full moon, a cloudless sky, no wind anywhere. But it would have to do.

  He was in blacksuit and soft footwear. The big silver .44 magnum rode the honor spot at the right hip. Close to the heart and snugged into a special shoulder harness was the whispering Beretta. Slit pockets at the outer calf of each leg carried surgical quality stilettoes. Nylon garrotes were coiled and waiting at the waist.

  He had been scouting them for more than an hour. He had their numbers and he knew that Crazy Gordy was anything but crazy. The guy was a real pro. He knew how to set a defense. He had ten people on outside guard duty, as silent as the night and well placed for maximum utilization of what was there.