St. Louis Showdown

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan freed a concussion grenade from his ready belt and rolled it into the next room. Rocco’s startled gaze leapt after it, swiveling him about in the chair as he momentarily forgot all else.

  It was a short fuse. The explosion shook the room and sent a turret of flame up the stairwell.

  Rocco staggered from the chair with a dazed, “Jeez! …”

  “Here’s your life. Careful,” Bolan declared coldly. “Something just blew up. We’ve got a fire. They better not chance the stairs. Out the windows, and damn quick.”

  The guy nodded understandingly and swallowed a heavy lump which had formed in his throat.

  A yell floated down from the upper level as doors opened up there amid a hubbub of confusion. Then Jerry Ciglia’s sleep-thickened bawl: “Stevie! What the hell is—”

  “Something blew up!” the houseman screamed back. “The joint’s on fire!”

  “The lights!” Ciglia yelled. “What the hell’s wrong with the lights?”

  “Everything’s out, boss,” Rocco screamed. “Don’t try them stairs! Get outta there, quick!”

  Bolan had rolled another grenade toward the stairs, the explosion coming one beat behind the houseman’s warning and sending another tower of flames and smoke whoofing up the stairwell.

  There was no further comment from above. Bolan told his man, “This is the sweetest thing I can do for you, Rocco,” as he conked him with the butt of the AutoMag. He left the guy lying there and swiftly ascended the stairs. Two steps along the dark and smoky upstairs hallway he collided with soft warm flesh and instinctively gathered it in, shutting off a feminine gasp with a quiet warning.

  “You!” she exclaimed in a shocked whisper.

  “Who else? Where’s your buddy?”

  “I believe he just dived out the window. Mack—Mr. Giamba is locked into the attic room. I was just headed—”

  “I’ll get him. You beat it down the stairs and straight out the rear. Wait for me on the other side of the wall.”

  “Well, wait—no! I’ve got the inside track here! I’m not going to—”

  “Toni, dammit, trust me and beat it! Now!”

  She moved away from him without another word and Bolan followed the bannister on around and went up the stairs to the floor above. It was no more than a one-room garret with a door set almost into the landing at the top of the stairs.

  That door was open, now, and there were no sounds of life within. Bolan chanced the flashlight and found Little Artie Giamba lying face down on the floor halfway between the bed and an open window. A rope-ladder fire escape dangled there. The guard had left the weakened old man to shift for himself.

  Some world, Bolan’s was.

  He hoisted the pajama-clad figure to his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, then made quick tracks out of there.

  And, yeah, he was starting at the top in St. Louis. This old man was the mission goal, and it was a first for Mack Bolan. It was a rescue mission … for a capo.

  2: THIS OLD MAN

  The new boss of St. Louis was hobbling about the darkened and battered interior of his headquarters in his underwear, favoring a painful ankle and checking the damage with a flashlight—and he was mad as hell.

  The most incredible part was that more damage had not been done. A couple of windows were blown out, the floor around the stairwell and the lower few steps were badly splintered, paint blistered from walls and scorched woodwork—but that was about the extent of it.

  Ciglia promised Nate Palmieri, his chief tagman, “I catch the wise guy threw those firecrackers, I’m going to shove one up his ass and personally light the fuse.”

  Palmieri grunted an agreement with that idea, then observed, “It could have been a lot worse, Jerry. Let’s count blessings, for now. I better go out to the gate and tell Jonesy to stay locked up. One of our good neighbors may have called for cops or firemen.”

  “Right, we don’t need any of that,” the boss agreed. He turned to the other bodyguard and asked, “How’s Stevie?”

  “Coming around,” was the reply.

  The unconscious houseman had been carried to a couch and was getting the wet towel treatment from Jake Rio.

  “Go see about the lights,” Ciglia ordered brusquely.

  A lamp in the dining room came on before the bodyguard could react to that command. Seconds later, a fourth man hurried into the blast zone. This was Homer Gallardo, the upstairs man. He reported, “The main power bus had been pulled. Some smart bastard …”

  “He cut the phones, too,” Ciglia growled. “Find it and fix it.”

  Gallardo nodded, said, “probably out at the box,” and hurried on toward the front of the house.

  Steve Rocco groaned and tried to raise himself upright.

  Ciglia limped over there, gave his houseman a penetrating gaze, and said, “Easy, Stevie. You took a bad hit there. Just lay still for a minute. You’re going to have a hell of a headache. What happened here?”

  Rocco groaned again and gave his boss a glassy stare. “Hell, I don’t know,” he replied groggily.

  “Well, try and think about it. You yelled ‘fire’. There was a couple of explosions, some kind of bombs. Did you see anybody?”

  Rocco’s eyes fluttered and closed. “I guess I just panicked, boss. I didn’t see a thing but flames shooting up the stairs.”

  “Okay, just lie there and get your head together,” Ciglia growled. “Maybe it’ll come to you.”

  The bodyguard coiled the wet towel about Rocco’s face and went into the dining room. He returned quickly, bouncing a small object in the palm of his hand. “You gotta see this, boss,” he announced in a tightening voice, handing the object over for inspection.

  Ciglia froze there for a moment in the light from the open doorway, then he spun quickly into the comfort of darkness and commanded, “Kill that light!”

  The bodyguard lunged into the dining room and sent the lamp flying off the table and into the wall with a crash. Only a thin sliver of light now shone through the swinging door from the kitchen.

  “Where’d you find that goddamned thing?” Ciglia called over in a guarded voice.

  “On the table,” Rio replied.

  “Have you seen Jonesy or Huck since the blast?”

  “No, boss. I just started wondering about that.”

  “Well, stop wondering. Get out back and take a look around for Huck. And be careful.”

  The tagman moved out without another word.

  Steve Rocco groaned something and Ciglia furiously shushed him.

  Moments later, cautious steps moved across the front porch, then the door cracked open and Palmieri’s hushed voice called in, “Jerry? Okay in there?”

  “Yeah. Keep down. What’d you find out front?”

  “I found a dead soldier, that’s what. Half his head blown away. A marksman’s medal was on the body.”

  Ciglia muttered a string of hushed profanities which was interrupted by another quiet report from the kitchen area. “Same back here, boss. Huck never knew what hit ’im. And one of those medals lying on his chest.”

  “Here, boss,” the fourth man reported, stepping in quietly behind Palmieri. “I made a quick splice on that phone line. I don’t know if it’ll work or not.”

  “Try it! Get Del. Tell him I want his whole crew out here damn quck!”

  “Sure, boss.”

  Ciglia had a quick change of mind. “Nate, you do it. Homer!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where’s the old man?”

  “I left him upstairs.”

  “Oh hell, that’s great, that’s real wonderful. Probably choked on the smoke—or worse. Get up there and check ’im out. Careful, though. You don’t know what’s up there, eh.”

  There was no immediate response nor sound of movement from Homer Gallardo’s general vicinity.

  Ciglia growled, “Homer?”

  “You, uh, want me to go up there and check ’im out, boss?”

  “That’s what I said!”

  �
��Yessir. Uh—wonder maybe someone would like to back me up?”

  “Let Homer play with the phones, Jerry,” Palmieri suggested heavily. “I’ll check the upstairs.”

  “I want you at my back!” Ciglia fumed. “What is this, all of a sudden, a goddamn caucus? Did I ask anybody for a vote? Homer, move your—wait a minute! Where’s my woman? Nate! Where’s Toni?”

  “I didn’t see her since the blast, Jerry.”

  “Well goddamn! Goddamn! I have to do everything my own self? You guys just jump out the damn windows and to hell with everything else?”

  “It all happened so fast, Jerry,” Palmieri apologized. “I figured you had her under your wing.”

  “You take Homer up there and shake this joint down!” Ciglia hissed furiously. “I mean wall to wall and floor by floor! Jake stays with me—this goddamn ankle! That bastard! I want his head, you hear me! I want that boy!”

  “He’s probably long gone,” Palmieri whispered back from the stairway.

  “So what the hell did he want here?” Ciglia growled.

  “What did he want at Gulfport?” Gallardo commented, with obvious petulance. And it was the wrong thing to say, to the wrong man, at the wrong time.

  Ciglia lashed out in the darkness at the sound of that sneering voice, catching the offender with an open-handed slap that sent him sprawling onto the shattered railing at the bottom of the stairs.

  Steve Rocco’s defeated tones rose from the darkness to fill the embarrassed silence that followed and to cap the events of the night. “Boss, I got to tell you this. It was Bolan, okay. He held a cannon to my head and made me yell while he tossed grenades. It was a setup. He didn’t want anyone coming down those stairs. He wanted up there, boss. He wanted the upstairs to himself.”

  Palmieri’s big feet were already pounding up the stairway. Lights went on up there as he rounded the curve and hurried on to the top level. Even Gallardo was galvanized into action, reaching the second floor just behind the chief bodyguard and racing into the master suite at full gallop.

  All was silent below until Palmieri’s quiet report floated down the stairwell. “The old man’s gone, Jerry.”

  “So’s your woman,” Gallardo added breathlessly.

  Ciglia growled, “Can you beat that. Now why do you suppose—”

  “What the hell could Bolan want with that old man?” Jake Rio wondered aloud.

  “Nothing good,” Palmieri said testily as he descended the stairs.

  Jerry Ciglia hobbled to a chair and dropped into it with a tired sigh. He said, “Somebody find me a cigarette. And let’s have some lights on. The bastard’s long gone from here now. He got what he wanted.”

  Gallardo brought a cigarette box and a lighter. Ciglia thanked him, then told him, “Hey, Homer—I apologize, huh? I’m sorry I swatted you.”

  “It’s okay, boss. I earned it.”

  “Go up and get me some clothes, huh?”

  Gallardo grinned and hurried back upstairs.

  Someone had found a functioning lamp in the shattered room and turned it on. Steve Rocco sat in a miserable heap on the couch, head in his hands. Everything looked much worse in the light.

  “Well well,” Ciglia mused.

  Nate Palmieri locked gazes with him for a quiet moment, then said, “Guess I better make that call.”

  “Yeah,” Ciglia said quietly. “We’re going to get that old man back, Nate.”

  “I guess we better.”

  “I guess we damn well better.” Ciglia sucked nervously on the cigarette and his eyes danced to some inner drummer as the full implications of that night in St. Louis descended upon him. “You got a good look at the guy, Stevie?” he asked quietly.

  “Not really,” Rocco replied in a muffled voice. “It was dark. I thought it was Huck, at first. He had this flashlight in my eyes. First I knew of trouble, this big cannon was in my face. Then the guy drops one of those medals … and that got to me, boss. I’m sorry but it just blew me out. He’s standing there talking to me in this graveyard voice, looking holes through me. It was him, all right—everything I ever heard about the guy—and he had me shivered.” Rocco swayed to his feet and staggered over to confront his boss head on. “I’m not trying to alibi it,” he declared emotionally. “Just telling it like it was. That guy is—is …”

  Ciglia’s gaze dropped as he murmured, “I know, Steve—I know. Look—the day crew will be here pretty soon. Go on to bed. You look like hell.” The big houseman gave Nate Palmieri a whipped look and slowly climbed the stairs.

  Jake Rio was nervously pacing the floor just outside the blast zone. Ciglia sent him outside with instructions for the handling of the dead.

  Palmieri was at the telephone. He showed his boss a conspiratorial smile and quietly announced, “It’s noisy, but it’s working. What do I tell them?”

  “Tell them,” Ciglia soberly instructed, “that our pigeon has come to us. Tell them I want a steel curtain around this town. Tell them I want to see blood running in the streets. Tell them it’s open season on the old bunch—no exceptions—I want a clean sweep. Tell them—you know what to tell them, Nate.”

  Palmieri smiled coldly and spoke into the telephone. “Hello, Charlie. It’s going down right now. The big one. Boss says Scramble Alert. You got any questions?”

  He cradled the telephone and turned a smooth face to his boss. “Charlie had no questions.”

  “Okay, now try to get through to New York. Tell them the same thing you told Charlie.”

  “What if they ask about the old man?”

  “Tell them that old man is dead and just waiting now for his burial. Tell them we’re rounding up all his loyal subjects and inviting them to the services.” He smiled hugely. “You know what to tell them about that old man, Nate.”

  “That old man” was, at that moment, resting in good hands on the back seat of Bolan’s rented vehicle, his head pillowed on Toni Blancanales’s lap.

  “He’s breathing good,” the girl reported to the man up front.

  “Conscious?”

  “In and out. I believe he’s stronger than he seems.”

  “Great,” Bolan said. “I hope your maternal instincts are flowering because he’s your new assignment. I want you to mother-hen him night and day. Get some nourishment into him, but carefully. You can’t risk a doctor or any outside help, so it’s all up to you. Got me?”

  “Got you,” she replied. “Do you have a hideout in mind?”

  “That’s where we’re headed.”

  “Have you seen the boys?” she inquired, referring to her partners.

  “I have,” he assured her. “They’re okay.”

  She sighed. “I guess they’re upset with me. I couldn’t risk a contact. That guy Ciglia hasn’t let me out of his sight since Monday night. Mack—wherever you’re taking me, I’ll need some clothes. I can’t run around in this condition—not even in the company of a ninety-nine-year-old man.”

  He chuckled. “Especially not. We’ll take care of that.”

  “Are you on our case now?”

  “Not exactly. But I expect it’ll work out to the same effect.”

  “I hope so,” she said, pouting just a bit. “I was getting awfully close.”

  “It’s all the same bag of worms, Toni. Touch one and it travels to them all. What were they hoping to get from Giamba?”

  “I’m not sure. Whatever it is, they want it awfully bad. Jerry Ciglia is going to be very upset with you.”

  Bolan chuckled quietly at that.

  He hoped Toni was correct. He wanted Ciglia upset enough to come out swinging with every punch he had. A dangerous game, sure, but the only game to play with an infestation such as this one. He had to bring them out of the woodwork everywhere, primed for a showdown and committed to an all-out war.

  And that was Bolan’s game.

  “This old man is pathetic,” Toni commented dolefully. “I know—he’s probably been as big a rat as any of them, in his time, but this is awful, it’s inhuman. He
’s skin and bones.”

  “This old man,” Bolan told her, “is worse than a rat. He’s a piranha, and he’s stripped more bones than you’ve seen. He crawled from the same bag as those others, and don’t for a minute forget that. He’d zap you with a switchblade from his deathbed, and don’t forget that.”

  “This old man, he played one,” Toni crooned softly, recalling the lyrics of a childhood song.

  “One too many,” Bolan told her.

  Yeah. Give a dog a bone.

  “This old man went rolling home.” She sang it like a lullaby, unknowingly voicing the very thought that was in Bolan’s mind.

  Damn right.

  That, too, was Bolan’s game in St. Louis.

  3: THE GUY

  The Giamba empire had been under official police scrutiny for months, ever since Ciglia and his New York troops moved in on the territory. A special tactical intelligence unit headed by Lt. Tom Postum of SLPD had been given prime responsibility for maintaining cognizance of the shifting patterns of underworld power in the area, and Postum’s unit was locked into a very tight cooperative liaison with an FBI task force established for the same purpose.

  And the patterns had been shifting dramatically.

  Several aged members of the Giamba Family had quietly “retired” and left the country. A few others had “gone over,” accepting minor roles in the new crime organizaton being forged by newcomer Jerry Ciglia. Most, however, had simply dropped from view—either out of loyalty to Giamba or distrust of Ciglia—and appeared to be awaiting some word or sign from Giamba himself, who was also mysteriously submerged.

  Little credence had been given to rumors of Giamba’s voluntary exile to Latin America. Such a move could be checked out and verified; there was no evidence to support the rumors. It was also generally believed in police circles that old man Giamba was still alive and “lying low” somewhere in the St. Louis area. The situation therefore seemed dangerously unstable and highly explosive. Some official worriers were predicting an imminent and unavoidable street war and, indeed, informant rumors of a Ciglia purge of Giamba loyalists had been growing day by day.

  The Giamba mansion had been under direct surveillance for weeks, as were several other known centers of mob activity in the area. Telephone wiretaps had been authorized and instituted, and what small intelligence could be gleaned from the enigmatic mutterings harvested from that source only served to deepen official fears of a full-scale shootout between the dissident underworld factions.