Pendleton, Don - Executioner 015 - Panic In Philly

by Pendleton, Don

  "Another guy who knows my face. Friend from back when, black guy. He was counting nickles and dimes for Arnie Farmer last time I—"

  "Oh yeah, the NFL guy."

  "Not any more," Bolan said. "Not since he threw a block into a Claymore mine ... in 'Nam."

  "He's NFL again," Turrin advised Bolan. "Augie gave me a message for Angeletti. The football guy says go to hell. He left the mob right after that bust of yours in Europe. He's scouting the colleges for the pro's now."

  Bolan sighed. "Damn glad to hear that," he muttered.

  Another car was moving up the drive.

  "Stay put right here," he advised Leo, and went out for the next nose count.

  The numbers, the new ones, were coming in now, fast and furious.

  The Executioner meant to see that each of them was played to a cadence count.

  It was war, he kept reminding himself . . . in the right here and now.

  Chapter 20/ The Message

  Regardless of the way the thing eventually worked out, Leo Turrin needed to be covered.

  When the last group had been led to the slaughterhouse, Bolan took Sammy and Leo upstairs for a report to the man.

  He was seated in a chair at the window, calmly puffing on a cigar.

  It was Sammy who told the Capo, "It's done, Don Stefano."

  "Good work, I'll remember this," Angeletti said lazily. "Give your boys some wine. No—give them whiskey but not too much. And tell them there'll be an extra thousand on their books this month."

  The calm gaze swiveled slowly to dwell fully upon Leo Turrin. The eyes flared with a passing uneasiness as he asked, "Who is this?"

  Bolan said, "We're in luck, Steven. This is Leopold Turrin from our friends in Massachusetts. They're neutrals. I think Leo should take the message back to New York."

  Angeletti proffered his hand. Leo kissed it. The old man became expansive then, smiling and waving the visitor to a chair.

  Bolan remained standing. He flicked his eyes at the yard boss and Sammy went out.

  The old man said, "I had other ideas for you, Leo, and I thank you for coming but . . . well ...no need for that now. What message would you like to take to New York for me?"

  Turrin looked at the floor.

  He stretched his neck, patted his throat, popped his jaw, bugged his eyes, then patted his throat again.

  The old man smiled. "Good, good," he said warmly.

  And that was all there was to it.

  The Don turned his back on them and resumed his meditative smoking of the cigar.

  As. Bolan and Turrin returned to the library, Bolan grinned and told his friend, "You're better at that than I am."

  "Hell, I was raised in it," Leo said. "I've seen the old guys carry on conversations for hours like that. It's a language all its own."

  Bolan knew it.

  He also knew what Leo Turrin had told Don Stefano in that weird sign language of the Mafia. He would, he'd indicated, tell the men in New York that Stefano Angeletti was no old man to be dicking around with. He had killed amici, yes, but in self-defense and with honor, and he would handle further incursions into his sacred territory in the same manner, with all due respect to the brotherhood.

  In the minutes that followed, though, Bolan gave a message of a somewhat different tune for Leo Turrin to carry to New York.

  "The old man is addled, stumbling about in his second childhood. He hasn't the faintest notion of what is going on around him, and Frank the Kid is already running things. The Kid has worked out a deal with Don Cafu of Sicily for unlimited support of trained soldiers. He's planning on pulling out of the coalition and setting up a rival shop, and he's gone plain power-crazy. If somebody doesn't look out, Frank the Kid is going to have a standing army of mercenaries from Sicily, and he's going to take over the whole outfit. Or at least, he's going to try."

  That was the heart of it. As proof of that pudding, Leo would tell of the treacherous slaughter, by Frank's boys, of the three New York crews who had been dispatched to the aid of Don Stefano. And for no other reason than that they had innocently blundered into Frank's armed takeover of the Angeletti family.

  A story such as that may be considered lacking in credibility by ordinary men, but Bolan knew that the New York coalition would buy it—quickly and anxiously. It was merely a repetition of an old, old story played many times upon the Mafia's stages— and playing right now, in varying degrees, throughout the New York City area. The chief variation, in this case, was the use of foreign triggermen—and their presence in the country was already an established fact.

  Bolan hoped that the reaction in New York would produce a two-fold result: one, to insure the utter destruction of the Angeletti Mafiosi and all their foreign outriders; secondly, to induce the old men in New York to take a new, hard look at this idea of importing foreign guns and at the power which the practice could place in the hands of upstarts like Frank the Kid.

  But there was more to Bolan's battle plan than mere hopes. Contributing factors in Philadelphia, reacting to Bolan's manipulation of the natural environment there, would add the kicker to make the whole thing jell.

  He provided Leo Turrin with an automobile, personally escorted him to the gate, and warmly shook hands with that soldier of the same side.

  "Good luck," he said in parting.

  "Jesus Christ, keep it for yourself," Turrin replied, and went off to open the second front of Bolan's Philadelphia war.

  Chapter 21/ Legs For the Kid

  Frank the Kid was a soaken, sullen heap in the center of his floor, sending murderous glances at the house captain who was working him over with a soggy bath towel.

  He wore a terrycloth robe, also soaked, and a steaming cup of coffee was balanced on his thigh.

  Bolan told the captain, "Okay, guy, you've earned a rest. Get below, Sammy's setting up drinks."

  The guy gave him a grateful and weary smile and got the hell out of there before Bolan could change his mind.

  Bolan began rounding up clothing and throwing it at the guy on the floor. "Off your ass," he growled. "We have work to do."

  Frank's eyes had dropped to the floor the moment Bolan stepped into the room. Without looking up, he told him, "You've got a hell of a nerve."

  "You could use some," Bolan told him. "Your old man facing the toughest night of his life and you dead drunk on your ass through most of it."

  Frank's head snapped up and rolled with that verbal punch. The eyes flashed something from the depths which Bolan had never seen there before. He lurched to his feet and went into the bathroom, emerging a moment later with a dry towel. He dried himself and glared at Bolan throughout dressing. Then he told him, "I won't have to put up with this kind of shit forever. Some day you'll be kneeling and kissing my hand."

  Bolan said, "In a pig's ass I will. Come on!"

  The Kid reluctantly followed the big bastard from the room. As they headed down the hall, he asked, "Where we going?"

  "We are going," Bolan replied, "to put a different head on your shoulders."

  Frank muttered something beneath his breath and tagged along in silence.

  Sammy the yard boss and the house captain were standing just inside the library door, drinks in their hands, talking in low tones.

  Each of them started visibly and came to a stiffish attention but Bolan waved his hand at them and said, "Relax, you've earned it," as he and the Kid swept on by.

  They went through the kitchen and down the stairs to the basement. A bunch of boys in the ready room were passing a couple of bottles around and laughing it up. They also seemed a bit uncomfortable with the appearance of the bigshots, but one of the guys called out, "Hey, Mr. Cavaretta, have a drink with us."

  Bolan grabbed a bottle from an out-thrust hand and faked a belt from it, then passed it to Frank who stiffly handed it on without even a token show of conviviality.

  Bolan growled, and pulled him on into the pistol range.

  "What're we doing in here?" Frank the Kid complained.<
br />
  Bolan turned on the lights to the overpowering smell of spilt blood. Bodies were tumbled everywhere, piled grotesquely, strewn all along that range where earlier victims had been dragged to make room for fresh arrivals. Bolan had counted twenty-six men down those stairs; twenty-six stiffs all in a pile made a hell of an impressive sight.

  He did not know what sort of reaction he had been expecting from Frank Angeletti, but he certainly was not expecting the one he got.

  The Kid stepped delicately among the victims, carefully avoiding dirtying his shoes with their blood, but grinning and reaching out now and then to turn a face into view. Evidently he was looking for familiar faces and hugely enjoying each one he found.

  He did not bother to even ask why until he'd picked his way through the entire batch. "What the hell happened here?" he asked, all smiles and good humor now.

  Bolan was not entirely surprised, at that. Frank the Kid could be a dangerous son of a bitch if he ever got some legs under him.

  And Bolan decided then and there that he could never allow that; his battle plan for the night would have to be revised accordingly.

  One beat off the numbers.

  He told the Kid, "There's a war on. These boys came down from New York to take you over. We changed their minds."

  The damned guy was still grinning. He said, "Yeah, I've sort of been expecting something like that."

  Bolan gave him a close look, said, "Do tell," and went the hell out of that slaughter pen.

  The Judas goat was waiting for them at the door. He glanced at the Kid but directed his worry to the wild card. "What do we do with them guys, Mr. Cavaretta?" he asked.

  Bolan replied, "What did Sammy say?"

  "Sammy said leave 'em right there 'til you said different."

  "It still goes," Bolan said, and went on up the stairs.

  Frank had latched onto a bottle on the way out. Bolan had to hurry back and snatch him away from it. He hustled the guy up the stairs and told him, "Touch another bottle tonight and I'll break your face. We have things to do and, dammit, I want you on your legs."

  Even that couldn't spoil it for the guy. He chuckled and told Bolan, "Hey, I'm no souse. I just got a little carried away there this evening."

  Bolan took him outside and asked him, "Have you been in touch with your Sicily boys since that hit at the Emperor's?"

  "Sure. What d'you take me for? It's the first thing I did."

  "What's your present head count?"

  "What? Oh. Why?"

  "Don't he cute, dammit How many?"

  "Well . . . I got twelve stashed in a rooming house over by Connie Mack Stadium. Another fifteen at this other joint. Then there's . . . I got forty-two."

  "Out of how many to start with?" Bolan wanted to know.

  "None of your damned business."

  "Go to hell!" Bolan snarled, turning angrily away. "I didn't come down here to play—"

  "Hey, hey!" the Kid yelled. "Okay. I started with seventy-five. So I got hurt, bad. You know what those malacarni are costing me? Listen, for every one that dies in my service, I have to send back ten grand over the original fee. You think I'm happy about that? For Christ's sake, that hit out there today cost me three hundred gees."

  Bolan whistled. This kind of warfare, then, could hit them where it hurts. He commented to the Kid. "Hell, if I was your partner, maybe I'd have tied one on myself."

  The Kid thought that hilarious. He started to laugh, then cut it off quickly and grabbed the back of his head. "Oh, oh," he said. "Maybe you would but I wouldn't if I had it to do over again. Hey, Johnny. We got off on a bad foot. Let's be friends."

  Yeah. A damned dangerous son of a bitch.

  Bolan gave him a surprised look and said, "Hell, I never said otherwise, did I?"

  "I guess you didn't at that. What're we doing out here in the dark?"

  Bolan said, "Talking. Private." And rippling across every key in the repertoire, trying to find a chord for a son of a bitch. "Listen, Frank. You saw that mess in the basement. That's just the beginning, not the end."

  "You're on our side I guess, huh?"

  Bolan shrugged. "Hell, I have to be neutral, you know that. But I was sent to advise your papa. That means I advise you, too. You know that. And I think it's time you brought your Sicily boys out of hiding."

  Frank was frowning. "I brought 'em out once, and look what happened. The old man took advantage of me. He said the Emperor's would be more defensible. And he wanted to test my boys. He set that up, I know he did. He laid a trail a mile wide from here to there."

  "That's past history," Bolan told him. "The thing is, what he loses, you lose. Right?"

  "I guess that's right."

  "He's about to lose a lot."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, dammit—"

  "I get you. They picked a good time to lay down on us, didn't they? With this Bolan laying all over us, too. Now that guy. . ."

  There it was. He saw the look on the Kid's face and told him, "Forget that guy."

  "You forget 'im. I saw the bastard and I'll never forget him."

  Something turned him, moved him, compelled him, and Bolan voted to risk the exhibit once again. He said, "Come over here and see 'im again then."

  He was pulling the guy toward the Maserati. "What? What are you—?"

  "Just shut up and look."

  Bolan sprung the lid and opened his prize exhibit for its third premiere showing.

  Frank exclaimed, "Well, Jesus! You got the bastard! When did you do that?"

  He was all over that prize stiff—feeling, poking, jerking on the combat rig, fooling with the weapons. Bolan took the Beretta and AutoMag away from him and took them to the glove compartment and locked them away.

  The guy was still playing with that stiff.

  Bolan pushed him aside and closed the exhibit. "When did you get him?"

  Bolan growled, "What's important now is he's had. You can forget about that. Right now we have to concentrate on beefing up Carmine and Jules. Those guys are in no strength to take on the New York boys. They need your Sicilians, Frank."

  "I'll rent them out," the son of a bitch said.

  "I'm ashamed of you, Frank," Bolan said disgustedly.

  The guy was still staring at the lid of that luggage compartment. "Be ashamed, then. They're my boys and I paid through the nose for them. Would you believe a thousand a day? A Goddamned day?"

  "It's your papa's money, Frank," Bolan pointed out. There was an odd light in Frank the Kid's eyes and Bolan had to wonder who was manipulating whom. "Jules and Carmine are papa's boys. Now, what's he going to think if. . ."

  "Okay, okay," Frank said, laughing and trying to pass the thing off as a joke. "You know I wouldn't hold out at a time like this. Johnny. . . . What're you going to do with that guy?"

  Right. Dangerous, very!

  "What guy?"

  Frank threw a glance at the Maserati. "That guy."

  "I'll be taking him in."

  "In where?"

  "Hell, back to the head-shed. There's a hundred thou' on that boy."

  "Sell him to me."

  "What?"

  "Let me take him in. For the family—our pride. It would help us in this time we're having. Don't you think? How many families has this boy made monkeys of? Just about all of them. Right? It would help us here in Philly if . . . Johnny, I'll do anything you say. But let me take him in. Naturally I'll turn the contract purse over to you."

  "Oh, hell, I don't know," Bolan said.

  "I'll give you the purse and add ten of my own. Make it twenty. Whatever you think is right."

  Bolan repeated, "I don't know. It's more than I money. It's like you said, pride too. I mean, you know. The boy that got this boy is going to be something special. You know?"

  Damn right Frank knew.

  The idea was full into his gut now and it was tearing him apart. He was shaking all over as he told the wild card from New York, "Name your price, just name it. Johnny, I've got to
have this boy."

  Bolan hesitated as long as the moment would allow, then he told Frank the Kid Getting Legs Under Him, "Well, I guess money isn't everything, is it? Like you say, people will be kissing your hands some day. You won't forget me when that day comes, will you, Frank?"

  "Listen, you know better. Anything you ever want, Johnny . . ."

  "Okay, just give me the purse. But you better give it to me now. Just to keep things straight." "You want it now? All of it now?"

  Bolan stretched his neck and popped a burp into his palm. "Well, if you can put your hands on that much, yeah."

  "Oh, hell, I can. Johnny . . . does Don Stefano know? About . . .?"

  Bolan assured him, "Oh you're the first to know."

  "Okay." The guy was soaring. "It's between you and me, then, and it's going to stay that way. From now on it's Frankie and Johnny, right? Hey, those two names go together. Look, I got the money. I was planning another trip to Sicily and I got the cash stashed. Johnny, I'm going to give you a hundred and ten."

  "That's damn big of you, Frank. But the hundred's okay."

  "No, you're going to get the extra. Listen, wait right here, we'll seal this deal right now."

  Bolan halted the guy as he was starting to trot toward the house. He said, "Keep it quiet, Frank. One guys knows and it blows the whole thing."

  "Shit, don't worry."

  "While you're in there . . . this is important call your crew bosses. Send half to Jules, half to Carmine. Be sure and do that, Frank, because they may not have much time left."

  "I will, honest to Christ, I will."

  The guy hit the back door on the run.

  Bolan leaned against the Maserati and rubbed his eyes.

  It was an Executioner's never-never land, and a melody played by ear had never sounded sweeter.

  Chapter 22/ Numbers Falling

  They transferred Bolan's side of the $110,000 transaction to the trunk of Frank Angeletti's Buick —with necessary modifications—and Bolan rode with the guy as far as the gate.

  Frank was bubbling over from head to toe, already living the fantasy of "the man who got Mack Bolan"—he could hardly wait to begin the victorious trek to Commissione headquarters in New York.