Save the Children te-94

by Don Pendleton

  At the next landing, Bolan leaped over the railing, then dropped the remaining few feet to the alley.

  He jogged toward the lights of Rush Street.

  Someone emerged to block his way.

  Sheba.

  Even in gloom of lights from the street, her red hair shone like fire.

  "I want you, big man," she snarled.

  Then the amazon came at him in a lightning-fast martial arts assault.

  A lot of weight lifters were no good in a fight, Bolan knew, but this woman had done more than just pump iron, obviously training herself in the martial arts, combining speed and agility with her strength.

  Sheba was a tornado of punches and kicks.

  Bolan, moving with speed and skill of his own, blocked one punch but another connected. He took a blow on his left forearm, then quickly stepped in closer before she could do anything about it. He brought a swift uppercut almost from the ground.

  The haymaker slammed into Sheba's jaw, knocking her backward, the impact lifting her several inches off the ground before she came crashing down to sprawl on her back in the alley.

  She didn't move.

  He hesitated just long enough to make sure that Sheba was still breathing.

  She was.

  A bullet whined close past his left ear from above.

  Sheba's men descended the fire escape noisily, guns in their hands.

  Bolan drew the AutoMag and fired three times. The sense-numbing reports echoed in the confines of the alley, three heavy slugs snuffing out three threats.

  Two men up there in the darkness plowed backward, slowing down the others. A third goon pirouetted and toppled over the edge of the fire escape's handrail. The dead man landed at the end of the alley with a sickening thud.

  That would slow any other pursuers long enough for Bolan to make the street.

  No one in the milling crowd in front of the building made any attempt to stop the big man who strode from that alley, holstering Big Thunder under the overcoat.

  No one followed him as he hurried away.

  Bolan didn't blame them for not wanting to get involved.

  A block away he slowed to a walk, having put hundreds of pedestrians between himself and Jimmy Kidd's.

  A few minutes later, several police cars came to a squealing stop in front of the club.

  On their way, they passed a Datsun cruising out of the Rush Street district at a sedate speed.

  They were on the lookout for somebody driving like a bat out of hell; that would be the guy who had caused all this trouble.

  None of those cops wasted a glance at that Datsun, or at the Executioner behind the steering wheel.

  And Bolan steered on to play his next bet on this blood-soaked kill hunt.

  It was time to pay a call on a bought politician named Dutton.

  Bolan would track down the elusive presence of the Boss, the man the Executioner had originally come all this way to kill.

  A time bomb was ticking in Chicago.

  And its name was Bolan.

  10

  The banquet was almost over by the time Bolan arrived.

  He had changed into a two-piece suit of subdued blue and a sky-blue shirt and red tie, complete with a phony, laminated press tag from one of the suburban weeklies, courtesy of his Stony Man Farm connections. He had left the AutoMag behind for this probe into high society, but the Beretta rested in his shoulder holster as usual.

  Now, as the desserts were polished off in the hall full of long tables, tv news crews with their video cameras moved closer to the raised stage at the front of the huge ballroom.

  At the tables, the male guests were in tuxedos, the women garbed in spectacular evening gowns, their jewelry glittering brilliantly in the camera lights.

  The room reeked of affluence.

  Bolan hung back near the rear of the room with the contingent of newspaper reporters, recognizable as such by the fact that their garb wasn't as sharp and fashionable as that of their electronic media counterparts.

  Dutton occupied a seat at a front table, which sat on a kind of raised platform, along with several other men whom Bolan identified as political figures from both city and state level.

  The senator, whom Bolan knew to be a liberal desperately trying to pass himself off as a kind of neo-conservative so he could stay in office these days, was a tall, slender, handsome man, a lock of graying hair rakishly covering part of his forehead.

  There was one man at the head table with Dutton whom Bolan did not recognize. He sat at Dutton's immediate left, his head bald except for a fringe of sandy hair over his ears. He wore thick glasses, and with his diffident smile and mild blue eyes, he looked like somebody's favorite uncle.

  Bolan stood on the periphery of the clutch of reporters while one of the politicians stood up, rapped on his water glass with a spoon and launched into some after-dinner remarks that led to an introduction of the senator.

  Some of the reporters shot an occasional curious glance at Bolan, not recognizing him, but no one bothered to ask him any questions.

  He waited until Dutton had been introduced, then took out a pencil and pad as the senator began his speech.

  "I really can't tell everyone how glad I am to be here tonight," Dutton began in a smooth actor's voice. "It makes me feel good to know that in an apparently heartless world, so many people really care about kids."

  Bolan's jaw tightened.

  Kids.

  Dutton went on, as if addressing a close circle of friends.

  "Sometimes it seems as if today's world has become morally bankrupt, what with the floodtide of pornography, crime and violence, but then I see a gathering like this, where people come together to raise money for a good cause, and I am reassured. I regain my faith in my fellow man. Morality is not dead and never has been!"

  That brought a thunderous round of applause from the packed ballroom.

  Bolan watched in silence.

  Dutton continued his speech, warming up now, and after several long minutes of pontificating, he got to the actual subject.

  "Many of you may know that we have already raised more than enough for the new inner-city playground project, so that ghetto children will have a place to play besides on the streets. And the man who is largely responsible for getting this whole project off the ground is up here with me tonight."

  He turned slightly to gesture at the bald man who was sitting beside him.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, I would like Mr. Floyd Wallace to take a well-deserved bow for all he has done to help with this most worthwhile project."

  The bald-headed man stood up and nodded his head in nervous acknowledgment of the applause that welled up again, then Wallace made his way to the podium to join Dutton.

  Floyd Wallace reached into his pocket and produced a piece of paper, which he held up, though the printing on it could hardly be read from the other tables.

  "I'm pleased and honored to be able to present this check to Senator Dutton, which he will pass on to those in charge of the playground project. Senator, thanks to all the good folks who participated in this fund-raising banquet. Here is forty thousand dollars. And if that's not enough, you just let us know. The kids are worth it!"

  Again, waves of applause rang around the ballroom.

  Dutton accepted the check, then shook Wallace's hand.

  Electronic flashes glared and video cameras whirred, capturing the scene for posterity.

  "And I do think the senator is being a bit too modest," Wallace went on as the applause died down. "Senator Dutton deserves as much credit for the success of this effort as anyone else."

  More applause rang out, this time for Dutton.

  The partygoers were having a good time.

  Bolan leaned over to one of the other reporters.

  "Who's this Wallace guy?" he asked in a low voice.

  The reporter frowned at him.

  "You from the sticks or what, man?" The reporter went on without waiting for a reply. "Floyd Wallace, the
do-gooder. Owns a chain of day-care centers. He's always in on things like this playground project. Runs a privately funded orphanage and adoption agency."

  The reporter turned away to face the podium, losing interest in Bolan.

  Bolan had to admit, looking at Wallace, that the guy fit the part of a humble man dedicated to doing good deeds.

  Wallace seemed embarrassed at being in the limelight. He returned to his seat, turning the speech making over to Dutton, who went on for another fifteen minutes before drawing his remarks to a close. He received another ovation when he was through, then the politician who had introduced him earlier made a few closing comments.

  Bolan began elbowing his way along the wall of the crowded hall toward the front of the ballroom where the scene was starting to break up.

  He kept scanning the room for familiar faces, as he moved, finding none.

  Security was lax, this not being a bona fide political event. There were a few inattentive rent-a-cops posted at some of the exits.

  When Bolan made his way near the standing senator, Dutton was busily shaking hands and talking to a knot of well-wishers gathered around him.

  Bolan slowly edged closer to the group, waiting for some of them to drift away. When he judged that the coast was clear enough, he stepped up to the senator and addressed him in a quiet voice.

  "Pardon me, Senator, do you mind if I ask you a few questions? It'll only take a couple of minutes."

  Dutton hardly glanced at him, taking him for just another reporter looking for an interview.

  "I'm sorry, but interviews are arranged through my office. Call there in the morning and talk to my press aide, okay? I'm sure he'll be able to set something up."

  "I'm not so sure this can wait, Senator. It's about David Parelli."

  Dutton's head swiveled to take a closer look at the big man addressing him.

  "Who are you?"

  "Just a few minutes of your time, Senator."

  Dutton swallowed, looked around and plastered a practiced smile on his face.

  "Why not?" he said heartily. He turned to the others in the group. "I'm sure you'll excuse me, folks. No politician can turn down the chance to get a little free publicity with the press, now can we?"

  The others chuckled, unaware that anything unusual was going on.

  Bolan fell in step beside Dutton as they headed toward one of the ballroom's rear exits.

  Dutton kept smiling as he walked, but Bolan noticed that sweat had begun to bead across the senator's forehead.

  "This better be good," he rasped to Bolan. "I don't know why I'm taking the time. I don't know anything about Parelli..."

  They were approaching a cluster of people around the exit.

  "Shut up," Bolan growled so only Dutton could hear, "and keep smiling. You don't want to lose any votes, do you, Senator?"

  Dutton shot a furious glance at him, then they shouldered their way through the group.

  They were alone in a short passageway that led from the ballroom to the hotel kitchen. Swinging doors at the far end of the hall closed off the kitchen, but the tinkle of cutlery and dishes being handled floated out past the doors.

  Dutton turned to Bolan, irritation plainly written on his face now.

  "Now see here, I want to know the meaning of this. I..."

  Bolan did not break the reporter cover just yet.

  "There was a shooting at the New Age Center tonight, Senator. It's a..."

  Dutton paled.

  "I know, it's a health club."

  "Owned by David Parelli?"

  "If you say so." Dutton bristled. "I don't see what that has to do with..."

  "You're a cool one, aren't you, Senator? Someone told you they moved your Porsche for you before the cops got there, didn't they? Well, they did, Senator. Except that I was there first."

  Dutton's eyes narrowed. "You're not a reporter. Who are you?"

  "Who do you think I am?"

  Dutton still didn't tumble.

  "Some punk on the make, I'd say. Okay, I am a member of that club. Have been since before Parelli bought it. It's near my office when I'm in town. That is the extent of any connection between myself and Mr. Parelli. That club of his is a legitimate business, above reproach. There's nothing in that for you, whoever you are."

  Bolan grabbed Dutton's right wrist with his left hand, forced open the senator's fingers, then took something from his pocket and slapped it into the politician's palm.

  Dutton looked down at the object, a piece of metal with ridges. The senator recognized it immediately.

  A marksman's medal.

  The senator lost his sunlamp tan altogether. Suddenly he wasn't so sure of himself.

  "Oh, sweet..."

  Bolan wasn't sure where Lana Garner fit into this mosaic of violence and lies, but he was not about to make more trouble for the lady by spilling her identity to the senator.

  And one look at Dutton's suddenly very nervous eyes told Bolan that the man knew what this was all about, that he was being interrogated by the Executioner.

  "I know you're in Parelli's pocket, Dutton. Did you meet him tonight at the health club? That's why your car was there and you weren't. You went somewhere with him and I showed up before you could get back, so he just dropped you off here, right?"

  "I didn't mean for it to happen!" The words choked out of Dutton's throat. "I never meant for any of it to happen!"

  "Tell me," Bolan said.

  "It was a couple of years ago." Dutton breathed heavily, fear and shame intermixed on his face. "Some friends of mine, they have a daughter... I offered to take her to Washington, show her the sights. I was an old family friend, her parents trusted me. My wife was out of town, so I took the girl to my apartment there. I... I... For God's sake, I never meant to touch her, but I did, I did, I couldn't help myself..."

  "How old was she?"

  "She was... fifteen." Dutton hesitated, then went on hurriedly. "It never happened again and that's the truth! It was... just one of those things. I didn't... rape her or anything."

  "Yes, you did," said Bolan icily.

  "It was only that one time," Dutton blurted. "And the girl... she wasn't hurt. She's fine today, just fine. You wouldn't kill me for something like that, would you, Bolan?"

  "Did her parents find out?"

  Dutton shook his head.

  "No, not that I know of. But Parelli found out, damn his soul. I don't know how, but he discovered what happened that night in Washington."

  "Guys like Parelli, guys shopping around for power, make it their business to know things like that," said Bolan. "You ought to remember that, Senator."

  "The weird thing is," said Dutton, looking honestly baffled now, "in the time since, Parelli hasn't asked me to do anything. I was sure he'd want money..."

  "He wants the power he can control through you and others like you," Bolan told the politician.

  Dutton licked his lips.

  "A few times... when some legislation came up, I would get a call. It was just a matter of looking the other way, that's all."

  Bolan started to back away from him.

  "You've betrayed the people's trust, Senator."

  Dutton read something in Bolan's eyes that scared another near scream out of him.

  "Wait!" Dutton pressed his back against the wall. "I'll resign! I'll quit politics forever... D-don't kill me, Bolan. There are things I can tell you. You wouldn't kill me just because I was weak one time! I have a wife, a family..."

  Bolan paused, not exactly sure what he should do with this walking slimebag.

  "What can you tell me?"

  "Parelli. That's who you're after, isn't it? He's why you're in Chicago! I know things you don't know!"

  "Tell me what you've got," rasped Bolan, constantly aware of the atmosphere around them, "and make itfast."

  11

  The kitchen noises from one direction and the ballroom sounds from the other continued unabated. No one had ventured into the narrow passageway connecting
the two areas during the thirty or so seconds of this exchange between Bolan and Dutton. But Bolan knew that luck could not last forever.

  "I've... only heard rumors," Dutton said haltingly, "but they could be rumors you haven't heard."

  "You're stalling, Senator."

  "All right, all right. It's... his mother. Parelli's mother."

  That caught Bolan's interest, but he did not let Dutton know that.

  "What about Denise Parelli?" he growled.

  "Well, uh, it's unsubstantiated, but I've heard some people in the know suggest that... well, that David Parelli is a figurehead, that he only appears to run things, but somebody else is really pulling the strings. You know how those gangsters would feel about taking orders from a woman. The Mafia is sexist, to put it mildly."

  Bolan frowned thoughtfully, wondering if he had finally found what he was searching for since he arrived in Chicago.

  "Are you suggesting that the real head of the family is Denise Parelli?"

  "That's what I've heard," Dutton answered with a nod. "It's just a rumor, but I've heard that Denise took over the reins when old Vito was fighting off the Big C. Everyone thought The Butcher was still running things, and after he died Denise didn't let go. Her son gets all the respect, but she tells him what, when and how much. But like I said..."

  "Right," growled Bolan. "Just a rumor. Now tell me where Parelli is."

  "I have no idea! We've never met. I only received phone calls from the man."

  That was the only way it would be handled, thought Bolan, turning this provocative tidbit over in his mind even as he decided what to do about Dutton.

  The senator sounded sincere enough and he was sure still scared enough. He was either telling the truth or he was a consummate liar, which, considering his line of work, was altogether probable.

  It was not often Bolan heard something new from the underworld grapevine, but Senator Mark Dutton was close enough to the source that there just might be something to it, which put an interesting new twist on things.

  Sleek, attractive Denise Parelli, the actual boss of a ruthless Mafia family, ruling things from behind the scenes with an iron hand?