“Hippies,” Bolan grunted.
“What?”
“Early Italian hippies,” Bolan said, grinning. “What were they demonstrating for—a pizza in every pot?”
Turrin’s face clouded. “I don’t think I like your sense of humor. I’m being serious. The Mafia is a very democratic idea.”
“Okay, I’ll be serious,” Bolan replied. “But—uh-what’s the moral of the thing, Leo? I mean, maybe a hundred years ago, in Italy or Sicily or wherever it was—okay, I can see the picture. But not over here. Not now. I mean, there is a democracy in this country. A legal democracy.”
Turrin laughed lustily. “Shit!” he guffawed. “Don’t let yourself get brainwashed. Things haven’t changed that much. The rich still get richer while the poor get poorer. There’s still a place here for the bold and the brave.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Bolan said. “I’m not arguing against the organization—hell, I’m part of it now. I just like to see things like they really are.”
“Then see them like they really are. Don’t get to feeling like a lousy criminal. You’re the guy said you didn’t have a dime to your name. Over there getting your ass shot off to protect the rich bastard’s riches. See it like it is, Sarge. Didn’t Seymour say he was starting you at two-fifty a week? Hell—does that sound like the poor getting poorer?”
The sergeant grinned. “Just call me Bolan the Bold, Captain.”
Turrin turned him a warm gaze. “By Jesus, you’n me are gonna get along all right, Sarge—yes sir, all right.”
“What is your operation, Leo?” Bolan wanted to know.
“Girls.” He grinned delightedly.
Bolan felt suddenly light-headed. “Girls?” he echoed.
“Girls. All kinds’f girls. Hostess girls, party girls, call girls, house girls, street girls. Name your price range and I got just the girl for you.”
“And they’re all bold and brave too, eh?” Bolan asked, his tongue feeling strange and thick in his mouth.
“Betcher ass they are. You work for the organization, the organization works for you. We’re spreading the riches around, see.”
Bolan relaxed into the soft upholstery and closed his eyes. “Well, I guess that’s one way of looking at it,” he said quietly. He was thinking of another Bolan, and wondering just how brave she’d been, in there among the bold.
7 — The Girl Watchers
Bolan was being worked into the routine that Turrin called “girl-watching.” He had been outfitted in expensive civilian clothes and provided with a snub-nosed .32 calibre pistol, a license to carry same, and a shoulder-holster with a snap-out feature to carry it in. The clothing and the hardware had come from Bolan’s future earnings; the gun license had appeared through some magical means wholly unknown to Bolan.
“It’s legal, it’s legal,” Turrin assured him. “It ain’t broadcasted, but it’s legal, and if the question is ever raised about you carrying a gun, they’ll find your license all duly recorded and all that jazz. So don’t worry about it. We take care of those little details. Nobody gets nothing on the organization.”
Turrin was operating behind a front called “Escorts Unlimited.” The offices were swank and convincing and the “social” rooms of the “clubhouse” beyond reproach. He had a genuine computer match-making service, complete with certified programmer and staff.
“We make a little off the front,” he confided to Bolan, “but just about enough to break even on the rent and salaries. We even carry a mortgage on that razzle-dazzle computer.” He laughed. “Financed through Triangle Industrial Finance Company, that great little friend to free enterprisers.”
Bolan discovered that his official job title was “security officer.” He was on the legal payroll of Escorts Unlimited, and from his weekly $250 would routinely be deducted the social security and income taxes. “You can even have U.S. Savings Bonds taken out if you want,” Turrin explained, “—but listen, don’t worry about those legal deductions. We make all that up. You get an expense account, nontaxable, so don’t worry. You come out all right. But we’re legal, see. Strictly legal.”
The undercover operation even had an air of legality about it. The various facets of organized prostitution in the city and surrounding suburbs were programmed into the computer and coded to insure against inadvertent loss of security and deliberate snooping. The program code for the call-girl operation, for example, was listed under “Dates Available by Prior Arrangement Only”—and the program “key” for specific informational or assignment “sorts” and “print-outs” was activated only by a secret code letter. The same file, sorted electronically and activated by the standard program code, would produce only a print-out on the legitimate dating service. Another operation was listed under “Dates by Spontaneous Selection,” and a similar one as “Organized Social Activities”—covering, respectively, street girls and house girls.
“We use the machine, sure we use it,” Turrin told Bolan. “Why not? The damn thing is foolproof, and you got no idea yet the size of this operation. I got hundreds of girls working the undercover end of things, and why should I try to keep all this stuff in my head, or in a secret set of books someplace. Listen, I got a ‘destruct’ I can punch into that computer and in one second there’s not one incriminating record in the file—not one that anybody can get to, anyway. It wipes out everything but the legit operation. Hell, why shouldn’t I use it? That’s progress, Sarge—hell, that’s sheer progress. My programmer calls it APPS, for Automated Prostitution Program System, and he’s proud as hell of the thing. Hell, he’s a scientist, that guy, a real scientist. The sweet part is that none of these people in the office, nobody but me and my programmer, know anything about the real business. The damn machine has even got them outsmarted. Not one of ’em could really testify to anything. It all looks on the up and up to them. So a guy calls in, see, and says he’s John Smith of Ace Industries, and he’s hosting a sales meeting. He wants us to send him a dozen hostesses to give the place some glitter. One of the office girls takes the order. If this guy is on the level then that’s all there is to it. The girl runs the order through the program and she gets a list of names and phone numbers. She goes down the list, making the calls, until she fills the order. And everybody’s happy. The sales meeting gets some pretty models to pretty things up and Escorts Unlimited has a happy customer. But—but—if this John Smith is in the know and he wants some bedsprings tigers for his little get-together, then he’s got a code in his order that automatically triggers the computer to a different list. And he don’t even know what the code is, it’s just something my field man has rigged into his account number. Get the picture? The damn thing is foolproof. We change the program codes every day—every damn day—so we run things right up tight and we know who we’re dealing with all the time.
“Another case. Say a guy is in town just for the night, and he wants some company. He lets it be known, just like a guy would in any town. You know, a word to the desk clerk or a waiter or a bellhop. You know the routine. In a matter of minutes one of my field men is on the horn, talking to one of the office girls. He places an order for a model, and he knows the program code to use. Sometimes in less than ten minutes a girl is on the job, and we got a happy client, and a totally dumb staff clerk who would testify on a stack of Bibles that all she ever did was call a free-lance model who’s listed in our computer service. See? It’s clean, it’s clean as hell.
“We’re pretty well protected from the girl end, too. There isn’t much to tie her back to us, if she ever gets careless or unlucky. It’s happened a couple of times, and we get very indignant, see. Imagine that! A prostitute, perverting our sacred service to ply her shameful trade! Get the picture? We been took by the girl, see, and naturally we can’t be responsible for anything like that.”
“That doesn’t say much for protection for the girl, does it?” Bolan inquired.
“Aw hell, they just get their wrists slapped. If it looks like she’s in real trouble, you know,
like they’re gonna throw the book at her—why, we get her a lawyer—under the table, you know. We pay legal fees, or some of ’em, and we’ll advance the money to cover fines. We take care of our girls. Unless they’re way outta line. You work for the organization, the organization works for you. Remember that, Bolan the Bold. When the girls are okay to come back to work again, we run ’em into the computer with a new name and a new district and that’s that. But you can see the security of the thing, can’t you? I mean, we’re covered, Sarge.”
Beside Turrin and the programmer there were five other organization men in the operation, these five respectfully classified as “sales representatives” and referred to as “field men.” The job title sounded better than “pimp” but the effect was precisely the same, even though much of their contact work was in the rarefied strata of big business, conventioneering, and politics.
“These are sharp boys,” Turrin reported proudly. “—most of them are better educated than me. They can move around in the best circles, and in fact they got to. They hardly ever see their girls, and probably not one girl in ten would know any of these guys if they saw ’em at the same party, or even in the same bed. The field men work on a commission, so they’re go-getters. They don’t have a lot of contact with the street girls or the house girls, and damn little to do with their own party girls and call girls. We’re up tight all the way, Sarge.”
“With everything run so impersonally,” Bolan probed, “I suppose you never have contact with any of these girls either, eh?”
Turrin winked and smiled knowingly. “Don’t worry, my sergeant, you’ll have all the female flesh you can stomach.” He laughed. “I make personal contact when I feel the need to. Not so much with the girls on the top end. Oh—” He frowned. “—sometimes a certain personal touch is called for. Sometimes I take a personal interest in a new girl, to get her started off right. You know.” He laughed again. “But I got a wife and three kids, you know. I mean, I don’t lay around with whores all the time.”
Bolan dug his elbow into the other’s ribs. “Hell, I bet you got a dozen fillies on your personal list right now,” he persisted.
“Oh, I don’t know …” Turrin sobered, then grinned suddenly. “A guy can go ape at first, if he don’t use some will power. And that’s bad. You either start to lose your appreciation, or you start to lose your head. And that is real bad. Sometimes a girl is referred over from one of the other operations. In those cases, I take a personal interest, get her logged into the computer, that sort of thing, you know. That’s outside the regular recruiting channels. Sometimes I’ll take a personal interest in the kid, help her get off with her best cheek forward, you know what I mean.” Bolan knew what he meant, and a muscle twitched in his cheek. Turrin was not looking at his companion, however. “But I don’t get into no entanglements,” he continued. “Know what I mean? You can’t get emotionally straddled with these girls. You know what I mean?”
Bolan nodded. “I think so,” he said curtly.
“Besides, these girls getting fifty to a hundred bucks a toss get to thinking they got a gold-plated ass or something. I don’t really like ’em. When I feel like cutting up a little, I go down to one o’ my houses.”
“You have those, too,” Bolan observed wryly.
“Oh, sure. Really, I understand that end of things a lot better.” Turrin grinned. “I like it better. That end is run entirely different. We got a madam for each house, just like the olden times. She runs her own books. We keep her supplied in girls, she runs the house, runs her own books, and feeds the money back in to the field man in her district. She works on commission, too, just like the field man, and he gets an override on everything she makes.”
“Sounds like very big business,” Bolan commented.
“You’ll find out just how big,” Turrin replied, “if you stick close to your C.O. Listen, we got ten women who do nothing but recruit girls. And you’d be surprised where we get some of them from. College campuses, factories, office buildings—” He raised his eyebrows. “—suburban homes—one gal we took on last month had just come off her honeymoon. We got chorus girls, models, would-be actresses and even some part-timers who really are actresses. Listen, every woman who is a woman has got at least a little whorin’ streak in her. A lot of our call girls are part-timers. You know—they do other things, too. All of our party girls are part-timers, moonlighters. Hell, some of ’em wouldn’t say ‘fuck’ if they was getting gang-banged. Nicey-nice, you know-but not too damn nice to pick up some extra coin here’n there.” Turrin frowned. “For my part, I’ll take the good old honest whore. Well—” He paused, frowning even deeper. “You’ll go outta your mind with the turnover we got in this business, Sarge. Understand something, and make sure you understand it. We have no competition in this town. Or anywhere around. If a girl is selling it within fifty miles of where you’re standing, then she’s selling for the organization and she’s working for me. We—”
“I’m glad I understand that,” the executioner said brusquely.
“Yeah—well, we don’t even allow no amateurs to operate. We bust ’em fast, damn fast—and they either join our team or they get the hell out. That means we gotta fill the demand if we don’t want a big payroll of nothing but broad-busters. I mean, there’s no profit in that sort of thing. You understand that. I want you to understand me too, Sarge. I might not talk Yale or Harvard, but I’m a businessman and I know my business and I run my business all the way. Understand? All the way. No loose gooses around here, and just because I’m a good guy some of the time don’t mean I’m an idiot. You better understand that. And just because I like you don’t mean I won’t bust you if you get outta line. You got that understanding?”
“I have that understanding.”
“All right. You understand this, too. It’s more profitable to keep the demand filled than to run around bustin’ amateurs and chiselers. We got the high class hotels and motels pretty well covered with our computer call girl services, and we even got a few high class clubs and dining rooms as clients. But we got walking girls, too—we call ’em field girls. They operate strictly free-lance, some of ’em using their own pad as home base, and we trust ’em to play their finances square with us. We spot-check from time to time, but generally we use the honor system with the walking girls. They cover the little bars and clubs and some of ’em even serve as house girls for the crummy little hotels. We let ’em operate and we give ’em the protection of the organization. But they all belong to us. Understand that. Every damn one of them. Get the picture?”
“I get it,” Bolan assured him.
“We treat our girls good. No strong-arm stuff as long as they keep in line. And we don’t try to own ’em. They want to get out, they get out—but once out, they stay out, and they all know that. They’re working for their-selves, see, and they all know that too. The organization does all their contact work—’cept for the field girls—and they get our full protection. And they keep the heavy share of the take. Like I told you, we’re a democracy for the bold and the brave.”
“Yeah, I remember,” said Bolan the Bold.
“All right, come on,” Turrin said, suddenly smiling. “I’m going to show you one of our house operations.”
“I was wondering when we’d get around to the girl-watching,” Bolan replied.
“You don’t know what girl-watching is yet,” the vice-lord of Pittsfield said chummily. “Come on, I’m taking you to my home away from home. I keep it stocked with the best stuff in Pittsfield, and I dare you to keep your eyes on and your hands off. And you gotta do just that. You gotta do just that.”
8 — Goddamn Iron-Man Bolan
It was a large house in the suburbs—nothing overly elaborate from the outside view, and certainly nothing to cause it to stand out from the other irregularly placed estates on the tree-lined street. An iron gate stood open, allowing ready access to the macadam drive. A gardener worked quietly in a flower bed near the front of the acreage of neat lawn. Numer
ous trees and shrubs dotted the landscape, all but hiding the house from street observation. A six-foot iron fence completed the isolation, there being no gate other than the automobile gate at the drive. Bolan looked again at the “gardener,” deciding he was too young, too alert, and too near the open gate to be anything other than a disguised guard. Turrin brought the front wheels of the convertible to a temporary rest upon a slight lateral ridge in the driveway macadam, counting to five under his breath, then grinned at Bolan and gunned on along the curving drive toward the house. “We’re up tight,” he muttered. “There’s a pressure switch buried in that hump. Always give it a five-second count, or you’ll panic everybody in there.” He nodded his head toward the white-painted structure looming in front of them. “We call the place ‘Pinechester.’ And it’s legally chartered as a private club.”
“Looks nice, but deserted,” Bolan commented.
“Little early,” Turrin grunted. “Don’t get much daylight business. Most of the girls sleep until late afternoon, ‘less they wanta get in some sunbathing or swimming or something.” He noted Bolan’s raised eyebrows, and added, “Yeah, there’s a pool around back, nice one. This is one of our higher class houses. It’s my pet, really. The girls here all treat me nice. They wanta stay here. Sheer luxury, huh.”
Bolan had to agree. They passed a double tennis court and a golf-putting green. “How many girls?” he wanted to know.
“There’s twenty-two bedrooms,” Turrin replied proudly. “Sometimes we have more girls than that, sort of rotate days off and get the most out of the property. Real businesslike, you know.” He glanced at his companion. “We sell memberships to this place. Like I said, it’s a club. Run like a club. But the membership fee just gets the member in the door. Or he can use the pool and the other outdoors stuff at no extra charge. Then every so often we throw a party—by printed invitation only—and that costs the guy a bundle. We always got a waiting list for our parties.” He pulled the car into a five-stall garage, killed the motor, and turned to Bolan with a huge grin. “We got half the aldermen in Gwinett on our party list. And the other half trying to get on,” he added, chuckling.
War Against the Mafia Page 5
