They went in through a side door, and Bolan found himself standing ankle-deep in the carpeting of a wide hallway. “Library in here,” Turrin announced, rapping lightly on the wall as they proceeded centerward. “Looks nice, but wasted space. Couple of thousand books in there just turning to dust.”
They entered a smartly furnished room with a vaulted ceiling and two enormous crystal chandeliers. Couches and overstuffed chairs were placed here and there, in threesomes and foursomes, with accompanying side-tables, ash trays, and various bric-a-brac. “This’s the clubroom,” Turrin told him. “We tried to cozy it up some. It’s a God-awful big room, and cozying wasn’t easy.” He tugged at an ornately woven pull cord. Bolan heard soft chimes echoing somewhere in the quieted mansion. A statuesque woman with flaming red hair piled high, empress fashion, strode into the room, a warm greeting on her lips.
“Leo dar-ling!” she cried happily. She ran to him and embraced him, pulling back immediately to look warmly into his eyes. Bolan noted that she was a half-head taller than her employer, then took into account the impossibly high heels of her shoes and mentally calculated her back down to Leo’s general height. She wore silk skintight hip-huggers that clung to her every suggestion, from belly button to ankles, and Bolan allowed that there was quite a bit of suggestion there. A silk jacket completed her attire. It had flaring, slitted sleeves, nicely exposing the rich skin tones of her arms as she moved them, and ended several inches above the waistband of the pants. The front of the jacket did not come together—three scarlet ties were provided as closures, but only one, squarely at bustline, was being employed. The gap at the center was a span of inches, and the ties no bulkier than a shoestring. The effect was startling, and found an interested audience in Mack Bolan. The redhead ignored him completely until Turrin made note of his presence.
“I want you to meet my new top-kick, Rheeda,” he said. “Mack Bolan, Rheeda Devish.”
The redhead looked him over then, and it was done in a single flash of interested eyes—yet Bolan had the uncomfortable feeling of being completely invaded in that brief inspection. She smiled and said, “Hi, Mack. How’s the weather up there?”
“Warm,” he replied, grinning.
“Oh, it’s the environment,” she said soberly. “Once you get acclimatized I’ll have to get to know you better.”
Bolan was unsure of the ground, but there was no mistaking the invitation of that friendly declaration. He wondered, but only briefly, about the degree of quote emotional involvement unquote between the girl and Turrin.
“And I guarantee you’ll never be the same again,” Turrin added quickly, chuckling, and removing the wonder from Bolan’s mind.
“I can hardly wait,” he replied, staring into warm, violet eyes. He felt a shiver at his spine, and hoped it was not observable from the outside. He had never known that women such as this one were to be found in the oldest profession.
“You’ll have to,” Turrin said, still chuckling. “Remember what I told you. All eyes, no hands.” He moved his head closer. “Look, Sarge, Rheeda and I have business together. You’re on station right here. Understand? Right here.”
Bolan nodded soberly. “I’m on station, Captain.”
Turrin winked and clapped Bolan on the shoulder. “God damn, I’m glad we found you, Sarge,” he said warmly. Then he turned back to his redhead and together they left, going out the back archway and up padded stairs, the woman clinging in lock-step and giggling delightedly over something Turrin was saying to her.
Bolan shrugged his shoulders and paced about the big room, gazing at the paintings adorning the walls and wondering idly who had posed for the nude studies hanging everywhere. He decided that if the models were also residents of Pinechester then there was quite a world of prostitution he’d never been exposed to. The clubroom itself was sumptuous. He wondered if the bedrooms were equally lavish in devotion to the details of animal comforts—and decided that they probably were. The place reeked of luxurious flesh-pampering, which meant money with a capital “M,” and Bolan wondered how much it did cost the monied American aristocracy for a night’s indulgence in the pleasure palace. He could almost appreciate the grim satisfaction of a Sicilian “Matthew” peasant who had risen to the proprietorship of such a magnificent “cunt castle,” as Turrin had referred to it, and who could so gladsomely relieve the rich of some of their riches and pass them on to some of the nouveau riche now luxuriating in the twenty-karat comfort of the suburban estate. Bolan pulled himself out of the thoughts, shaking them off, telling himself that Turrin was a hood, purely and simply a hood, a conscienceless goon who seduced little girls into prostitution and squeezed hard-working family men into desperate acts of violence.
Such were his thoughts when the blonde appeared, and she jarred every trickle of sanity from his suddenly shrieking synapses. She was fully as tall as Rheeda and made up in vibrant youth and oozing sex what Rheeda took from her in poise and beauty. The golden hair fell in a torrential sheen to below the creamy shoulders, reappearing in a loosely braided effect with the tail draped casually across the back of the neck and down onto the throat in a light curl. The eyes were widely spaced and sparkling blue, the nose and chin delicately chiseled, the jawline soft and barely defined. The richly sensuous mouth was provocatively ajar, the pink top of a tongue thoughtfully extended onto the upper lip.
“Who the heck are you?” she inquired in a soft voice.
“I’m waiting for Mr. Turrin,” Mack told her. It seemed an idiot thing to say but, under the circumstances, it seemed also quite apropos. The golden goddess was, for all practical effects, unclothed. A transparent gauzelike stole was draped across her shoulders and in a free fall down the front of her, crossing at the arch of her thighs and drawn under, back, and around and tied loosely at the hips. The effect was altogether casual and altogether revealing and, in the altogether, stunning to male awareness. Huge globular breasts with strongly defined areolae surged restlessly beneath the gauzy film, scarlet tips only emphasized by the luminously white material. The soft midsection and soaring hips dramatically back-dropped the obviously darker shading of the swollen Mount of Venus, hardly more than accented by the transparent bow overlacing. The legs and thighs seemed to explode upwards with no loss of continuity between that below and that above, and Bolan found himself nervously wetting his lips like a schoolboy at his first strip show.
The blonde was regarding him studiously, getting his measure, and obviously approving of what she saw. She hooked curled fingers of both hands into the vee formed by the crisscross of material and slowly tracked the upward route, enlarging the open area of fleshy display. Bolan the unshakeable lost command of his eyes as the rubied tips jerked free and bounded toward him.
“You may as well wait upstairs with me,” the blonde said, obviously sure of her effect on the straining male consciousness. “You may as well,” she repeated coaxingly, in a husky voice. “Leo always takes about an hour. C’mon. We’ll get a drink and take it upstairs.”
“I’m sorry,” Bolan said, already wondering about the genuineness of the encounter. “He told me to wait right here.”
She moved against him then, and the delicate scents of her edged stronger into the male of him. His hands automatically moved onto the soft roundness behind her, then twitched away as the magic of chemistry had its way. She tossed her hips in a recognition signal, her lips nuzzling toward his ear, and whispered, “He always takes at least an hour. I’ll bet it wouldn’t take us five minutes.”
Bolan politely but firmly pushed her away. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
She gazed at him for a moment, reading the message of his eyes. Her own eyes flashed, then, and she asked, “Who do you think you’re kidding?” Her nostrils were flaring angrily. “That’s a roaring monster you’ve got there and you’re just dying to bury it in me!”
“You are absolutely right,” he replied agreeably.
The girl gave a short, nervous laugh, wriggled her hips, and threw a viciou
s bump in his direction. “Picture it buried in that!” she cried.
“I got the picture,” Bolan said. He grinned feebly. “Take it easy, blondie. This may be the place, but it just isn’t the time. Now you haul that hot ass away from here and leave a working man alone.”
Her eyes softened and she gazed at him with new respect. She said, “Well-l-l …” in a voice tinged with indecision, then simply smiled at him.
An electronic squeal and then a hum broke the silence, followed swiftly by the voice of Leo Turrin, obviously issuing from a concealed speaker somewhere in the clubroom. “Okay, Sarge,” it said. “Another point for you. Hey, what are you? A goddamn iron man? Huh? I wonder if I could pass that test!” Turrin was enjoying himself and the moment hugely. “Hey—hey—grab that hot blonde and drag her delectable ass up the stairs. You hear me? Go on and enjoy yourself!”
“I hear you, Leo,” Bolan said softly. He was looking for the speaker.
“Hey, it’s closed-circuit TV. I’ll show it to you later. Mitzi—you take good care of my friend—you hear me?”
The girl was smiling good-humoredly. “Sure, I hear you, Leo,” she replied.
“And that makes another piece you owe me on the house!” He laughed uproariously. The speaker squealed, then was silent.
“See what your devotion to duty cost me?” the blonde said, now smiling ruefully at Bolan. She snared one of his hands and tugged at him. “Well, c’mon, let’s go find some place to bury that bone. Or are you still saying it’s not the time?”
“It’s the time,” Bolan agreed, moving in-tow toward the carpeted stairway. Bolan the goddamn iron man knew very well he could pass the next test—over, and over, and over again. He followed the blonde seductress up the curving sweep of stairs, along a wide, beautifully decorated hall, and into a large bedroom. It was a sumptuous affair, complete with canopied bed, deep carpeting, and lavish furnishings. Bolan emitted a soft whistle.
“Nice, eh,” the blonde said, turning to him with a warm smile. Her gaze angled down to his loins, one hand moving spontaneously with the eyes. “What’s your druthers?” she asked, lashes lowering demurely.
“What?” Bolan said, one hand toying with a soft shoulder.
“Do you prefer it sitting, standing, laying down, all-fours, belly-to-belly, or oral-genital?”
Bolan merely grinned, pushed her an arm’s length away, and carefully untied the bow at her hips, thoughtfully disentangled the stole from the warm flesh of the thighs, drew it over her head, and dropped it to the floor, then stood gazing at her, one hand raised contemplatively to his chin. She smiled and did a slow pirouette, arms raised gracefully, concluding with a repetition of the bump-and-grind she had shown him downstairs.
“Don’t tell me,” he said, grinning, “—I’ll bet you were on the stage.”
She gave a short laugh, lowering her arms and standing somewhat awkwardly, perhaps even self-consciously. Bolan had taken command; this was obvious. She laughed again, a bit nervously, turned and strolled toward the bed, hesitating momentarily to gaze at him over her shoulder, then studiously folded back the bedcovers and crawled onto the luxury of silken sheets, plumping a pillow beneath her head and rolling languidly onto one side and staring at her companion of the boudoir. Bolan was undressing. She watched him as he stripped, her eyes following each flexure of the manly frame. He carefully draped his clothing over the back of a chair, stalked over to the bed, and stared down at her with a penetrating gaze, his lips set in a half-smile.
She smiled back at him and patted the bed beside her. Bolan seized the patting hand and dragged her off the bed. She stumbled to her feet, spluttering. “You like to throw it,” he said. “So throw it.”
“Aw look, I was just—”
“Throw it!”
She threw it, repeatedly, grinding and tossing her hips in a pretty fair facsimile of a burlesque queen, and obviously tiring fast. Bolan was standing back, hands on hips, watching her labors. Presently she said, “Is this how you get your kicks or is this a grudge fight?” She had come to a panting halt, glaring at Bolan with a despairing light in her eyes. He laughed and folded her into a tight embrace, his flesh all but shrieking under the duress of the delightful head-to-toe contact.
“Let’s just say that you passed your test,” he told her, grinning down at her. “Now—how do you want it?”
She giggled and relaxed against him. “If I have a choice, I’ll take it flat on my back and breathing slow.”
“Okay,” he said agreeably, “—at least we’ve got the display-window starch out of you.”
“What?” She had fallen back onto the bed, tiredly drawing her legs onto the edge.
“All that posturing and posing,” Bolan explained. “You put that on for all your callers?”
“I never get any complaints,” she assured him.
He dropped his knees to the floor and encircled the lush female body with an arm, raking his lips across the torso, pausing momentarily at the breasts, then onto the throat and lingering on the pouting lips. “This is more like it,” she said a moment later, sighing and running hands along his back. He doubled one of her legs and drew it forward, kissed the knee, kneading the leg and thigh with both hands.
“You, uh, like legs?” she asked, a new light beginning in the depths of her eyes.
“I like yours,” he told her. “But probably not in the way you’re wondering. I’m just trying to discover where you tick.”
“Hell, I tick all over,” she said quickly. His hands had moved onto her hips, fanning along the heavy cones of firm flesh, and up into the juncture of legs and body. The raised leg jerked involuntarily and she inhaled sharply. He was grinning at her. “Well, okay, so I tick some places better than others,” she admitted. “Are you going to, uh, get up here on the bed with me?”
For reply he pushed, pulled, and rolled her over and ran his hands along the back of her, hesitating here and there to probe sensitive spots. The blonde was beginning to puff again. “Say,” she said, “say …”
“Yeah?”
She lunged about and flung her arms about his neck, mouth eagerly seeking his. He went onto the bed then and they lay in tight embrace, limbs intertwined, mouths joined, her hips moving rhythmically against him.
He withdrew from the urgency of her mouth and said, “Now, that’s the proper movement for the bed set.”
“Okay, Professor,” she puffed, “—on with the lecture.” Her mouth again grafted onto his, the heavy globes of breasts worrying frantically against his chest. Both hands came down off his neck and moved between them, searching, grasping.
He evaded her, saying, “I haven’t seen your steam yet.”
“God, God—how much steam you want a girl to have? I’m going nuts all over.”
He rolled to the other side of her, carrying her over atop him, lifting her high, head beneath her chin, and buried his mouth in the luxurious flesh. She gasped and flopped, hammering at him with her hips, whining, entreating. Some moments later he pushed her onto her back and rolled off the bed to stand beside it and gaze down at her. Her knees and arms lifted together and her eyes were pleading. “Please,” she moaned, “please …”
Bolan smiled approvingly, murmured, “Now you’re a woman,” and fell onto her.
She arched up to meet him, capturing him in a death-grip with all four limbs. “Yes, yes, yes,” she panted, then her midsection exploded in a convulsive grasping, and it was not until some moments later that she was able to complete the statement. “I am a woman,” she declared languidly.
“Hell, don’t I know it,” Bolan said tiredly.
All tests were A-OK.
BOOK TWO:
1 — The Cause
An unexpected caller presented himself at the door of Mack Bolan’s Liberty District apartment in the early morning hours of August 31st. Bolan grunted with surprise, swung the door open, and admitted Detective-Lieutenant Al Weatherbee. The see-all cop’s eyes made a fast appraisal of the expensive lodging, then settled
onto the slightly exasperated tenant.
“Consider this a friendship call,” the policeman said, smiling tightly. “I want—”
“Five in the morning is a bit too early for friendship,” Bolan observed.
“A friend in need doesn’t know the time of day,” Weatherbee advised him. “I just dropped by to pass along an interesting piece of information.”
Bolan was not being a gracious host. He left the lieutenant standing in the center of the living room and went back to the small kitchen. He put a pot of water on the stove, pulled two cups and a jar of instant coffee from a shelf, then turned sleepy eyes toward the front of the apartment. “Come on back here,” he called.
The huge bulk of the detective moved into the narrow dining compartment. Bolan was perched on a high stool at the breakfast bar. “Coffee be ready in a minute,” he announced in a thick voice. “What’d you say about some information?”
Weatherbee nodded. “Came by way of an informant.” He settled tenuously onto a stool, sitting sideways and studying Bolan’s face in the dim light. “A contract has been let on you, Bolan.”
Bolan thought about it for a moment, then said, “I don’t understand you.”
“A kill contract,” the policeman explained. “Somebody has set you up for an execution. Understand now?”
Bolan stared at him briefly, lit a cigarette, and glanced toward the pot of water. “Why does it take water so much longer to boil in the morning?” he asked soberly.
“You do know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I know.” Bolan slid off the stool and stepped to the stove, touched the pot experimentally with fingertips, then angled a pentrating gaze toward his companion of the early morning. “You trying to shake me up, or something?” he asked softly.
War Against the Mafia Page 6
