“You wouldn’t shoot a cop, eh?”
“I’d rather not. Well—I have a crowded schedule, better bug off. I’ve enjoyed the chat.”
“Bolan—that informant I was telling you about …”
“Yeah?”
“He’s on my other line right now. Like to hear some more interesting information?”
Bolan chuckled. “I love gossip.”
Weatherbee cleared his throat heavily. “You may not love this tidbit. That contract has been expanded. Not ten minutes ago. It is now open season on one Mack-the-Knife Bolan, with every hood in the East joining the game. You are now worth a hundred gee’s, dead in the street, buddy. How do you like them apples?”
“So, they are running scared.”
“You dumb bastard, can’t you see what you’ve done? You’re attracting every gunsel in ten states into our town.”
“That’s exactly what I want,” Bolan clipped back. “Now you cops are going to have to move off the sidelines, aren’t you.”
“Bolan, you’re a lunatic! You—”
“I’m a catalyst, Lieutenant! I’ve smoked a ratpack out from under their cover of respectability—and now you’re going to have to do something about them, aren’t you!”
The detective’s angry voice rattled the telephone receiver. “We’re going to do something about you too, Bolan.”
“So we understand each other,” The Executioner replied levelly.
“Yeah, we understand each other. But Bolan …”
“I’m still here.”
“Don’t shoot a cop.”
“I’d rather not.”
“You’d better not! Like I said, you’ve got some unofficial sympathy down here right now, but …”
“We understand each other,” Bolan clipped. He hung up, grinning, and returned to the car. A glance at his watch informed him that the time was 4:40. He would just about have time to make it over to the Triangle office. His smile broadened and he started the engine and eased into the rush-hour traffic. He thought of Weatherbee and chuckled, feeling a bit sorry for the serious-minded cop. It was good to understand people, Bolan decided. Understandings were highly important in warfare. They were, indeed, all-important. And now, Bolan needed to cement an understanding with the Mafia—a financial understanding. He angled into a turn-lane and headed directly for the loan company.
5 — A Gut Transaction
Bolan stepped through the door at five minutes before five o’clock, closed it firmly and locked it, and pulled down the shade. The girl at the reception desk showed him a startled attention, and Bolan showed her the little plastic-embossed card supplied by Turrin. “You’re closed for the day,” he snapped. His eyes flicked toward the closed door beyond the plastic and wood interview cages. “Who’s in there?” he asked harshly.
“J-just Mr. T-thomas,” the girl stammered.
Another girl popped up behind a wire enclosure. Bolan turned his attention immediately upon her. “Are you the cashier?” he asked her.
“Yes, sir,” she replied breathlessly.
“Got your day’s accounts in order?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir, just now.”
Bolan was moving around behind the cage. “Bundle everything up and take it into Thomas’ office, the money too, everything.” He pulled the receptionist to her feet and gently pushed her toward the back office. “Get in there and tell Thomas to get his books ready for a spot audit. Everything on the top of the desk, please.” He was rattling the wire gate to the cashier’s cage. “Let me in there, I’ll give you a hand,” he barked.
The receptionist turned back to him with a pained expression. “I—I forgot your name,” she said.
“Just tell him I’m from Plasky’s office,” he snapped. “Move—move! I don’t have all night!”
The girl nodded and half-ran across the outer office, rapped lightly on the closed door, and swept inside. Bolan picked up a wooden tray and began stacking currency the cashier was removing from her cash drawer.
The two of them noisily invaded the private office a moment later. Thomas, the office manager, scowled at Bolan and said, “I don’t think—”
“Good, don’t think,” Bolan snapped him off. “You haven’t been here long enough to start thinking.” He jerked a thumb toward a massive steel door. “Get the vault open,” he commanded.
The young man’s face was showing an inner conflict. “I’d like to see your, uh, identification,” he said.
Bolan once again swept the plastic card into sight, held it briefly in front of the man’s eyes, then returned it to his pocket. He smiled suddenly, a warm reach of friendship. “Look, don’t be so nervous,” he said softly. “Plasky thinks these spot audits will keep you on your toes. You have nothing to worry about, I’m sure. Open the vault so we can get this over with.”
Thomas hesitatingly began working the combination of the door lock, then turned the big wheel and swung the door open. “What is your cash on hand?” Bolan asked tersely.
The cashier thrust a scrap of paper tape into the manager’s hand. He glanced at it. “Forty-two thousand, six hundred eighty-nine and forty,” he mumbled.
“Oh Goddamn, not that figure,” Bolan replied with obvious exasperation. “The holding fund, Thomas, damnit, not your nickels and dimes.”
The younger man blinked, stepped into the vault, slid back a section of steel wall, and produced a large leather case. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place,” he complained petulantly.
“Open it,” Bolan commanded.
Thomas fished a key from somewhere inside the vault, inserted it into the case lock, then blinked past Bolan to the young women who were standing awkwardly in the center of the office floor. Bolan understood the look.
“You ladies wait in the outer office,” he said. The two girls exchanged glances and went out. Thomas carried the case over to his desk, opened it, and glared at Bolan.
“I hope to God you don’t want to count it,” he said miserably.
“What’s the tally?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Certified?”
The manager nodded and produced a sheet of paper from the top of the stacked currency. Bolan pretended to study the list of figures, said, “Uh-huh,” and moved back toward the vault.
“Just exactly what are you looking for?” Thomas wanted to know.
“Come here and I’ll show you,” Bolan said. He jerked the other man inside the vault and slammed his head against the steel wall. The young man’s legs rubberized and he slid to the floor. Bolan stepped past him and began hurling ledgers and records out into the office. He stripped the vault completely, stuffing currency into the open case on the manager’s desk and piling everything else on the floor. He slammed and locked the vault door, then touched his lighter to the pile of papers on the floor, picked up the case of money, and went out to join the young ladies.
“I want all your records out here—out here on the floor,” he barked. The girls looked at each other, then began opening drawers and arranging papers and file folders atop the counter. “Don’t be so dainty about it,” Bolan said roughly. “This’s an emergency.” He swept the records to the floor, then went over to a metal file cabinet and began unloading the drawers. Minutes later a bonfire was raging in the outer office, and the eyes of the young ladies were beginning to reflect the presence of a madman in their midst.
Bolan seized the cashier and pressed a marksman’s medal into her hand. “Tell Plasky The Executioner said it was easy as pie,” he said calmly.
“Wh-what?”
“Just tell him that. Oh, and you’d better go get that guy out of the vault before this whole place goes up. Oh, and tell Plasky thanks for the bucks, they’ll come in handy.” He picked up the case of money and opened the door. The girls were already dashing toward the private office. Bolan chuckled and stepped onto the sidewalk, pulling the door firmly closed. He’d returned to the scene of the crime, and by God he’d committed another one, and b
y God he wondered how The Family would appreciate this one. He suspected that financial considerations were gut-matters to the Matthews. Bolan suspected also that he certainly knew how to hurt a Mafiosi. He walked around the corner, got into his car, and chuckled all the way home.
6 — The Council
“Listen, something’s gotta be done about that sonuvabitch!” Seymour snarled, “He’s running wild, hog wild, all over the damn place—burning, and killing, and stealing, and—and …”
“Look who’s complaining,” Turrin commented bitterly.
“Yes, I’m complaining!” Seymour roared. “He was your goddamn man! Couldn’t you spot the son of a bitch for a phoney without having to get word down from upstairs? You creep, you bastard you—Jesus Christ, any dumb dago wop would know the son of a bitch is a phoney! If you weren’t laying up with those fucking sluts of yours all the goddamn time you might—”
Turrin leaped to his feet and threw a wild punch at his tormentor. Seymour dodged back out of the way, his face going white, his hand scrabbling about for a weapon and coming up with a Coke bottle.
Nat Plasky stepped between them, his arms waving wildly. “Stop it! Stop it!” he yelled. “Don’t you think this is what the bastard wants? He wants us at each other’s throats. Now stop it!”
Leo Turrin’s lips were quivering with rage, but he hunched his shoulders, clenched his hands together, and dropped back into his chair.
“I’m sorry, Leo,” Seymour said humbly. “I didn’t mean that crack about the wops.”
Turrin merely nodded and stared broodingly at the toe of his shoe.
“The Man is going to be very upset over that quarter-million,” Plasky said, after a short silence.
Seymour nodded his head. “We’ll get it back.”
“Sure we will,” Turrin sneered mildly.
“I don’t hardly remember even what the guy looks like,” Plasky ventured. “I only saw him twice, and then just for a few minutes. How the hell did he know about the organization money being in that vault? Huh? How’d he know?”
“Didn’t you know?” Turrin grunted. “He’s the fuckin’ Phantom. The fuckin’ Phantom knows everything.”
“I thought that was the Shadow,” Plasky mused.
“Will you two for Christ’s sake shut up!” Seymour roared.
“Just passin’ the time,” Plasky replied meekly.
“Well, crack your knuckles or something,” Seymour growled. He studied his watch for a moment. “The others will be here in a few minutes.”
Turrin heaved up out of his chair and went over to the bar, half-filled a tumbler with bourbon, added an ice cube, then carried it back to his chair, sipping glumly. “The trouble,” Turrin said presently, “is that you people don’t know this guy. I do. I know him. And I’m shakin’. Believe me, I’m shakin’. This guy is a military machine, believe me. I had a sergeant like him once, just about like him. He scared the shit outta me, too. And so does Bolan. I’m telling you, this guy—”
“Damnit, shut up!” Seymour screamed emotionally.
“No, no I’m not gonna shut up,” Turrin went on stubbornly. “You gotta know who you’re dealing with. Now look at it, just look at it. The nerve of this bastard. In the space of—what—three or four hours?—he hits us bing! bing! bing!—just like clockwork. He burns down my prize palace, completely wrecks an eight-thousand dollar automobile, scares the living shit right outta me, smashes Jake’s leg, completely terrorizes and demolishes the whole damn place—” He paused to sip nervously at his drink. “—then he slips away and turns up a few minutes later at my house—my house, mind you, has a chatty little ratfink conversation with my wife, and God that’s a whole ’nother story—” He laughed nervously. “—then, pow! he shows up at Seymour’s shack, dyes the swimming pool red, tosses in a couple of bath houses and the carved-up bodies of Paul and Tony, cuts off the phones and lights, slashes up the beds—just to show us what could’ve happened if somebody had been in them, I guess—and unloads five slugs into Walt’s fancy oil painting. Now—that should be enough to hold anybody for a week—but no—he ain’t done yet. He cruises down to Triangle, burns all the loan records, locks Thomas in the vault, and walks away with a quarter-million of our buried bucks. I had a sergeant like that once. He took it into his head to screw every whore in Singapore, without paying yet, and he damn near did.”
“Are you now finished with your eulogy?” Seymour asked coldly.
“Yeah. I’m finished. And I think we oughta suggest to the council that we all blow this town for a while. We all need a vacation anyway. I been promising the wife I’d take her to Acapulco for a swing. Let the contract boys take over, and we can come home after it’s all settled.”
Plasky laughed nervously. Seymour was glaring at Turrin with cold contempt. At that moment the double doors were swept open and four men entered, forming a sort of honor guard for an older man who walked in between them. The three men already present rose quickly to their feet. The four-man guard force deployed themselves about the room, one remaining in the open doorway. The fifth, a man of about 60 with white hair and a kindly face, shook hands with the other three, his warm eyes and firm grasp reassuring them. He took his place at the head of the table.
“Well, now, what is going on, eh?” he asked mildly, his eyes shifting from Seymour to Plasky to Turrin and back to Seymour again.
“It’s this nut, Bolan,” Seymour replied in a choked voice. “The hit didn’t go off. I guess he got the drop on the two boys from Philadelphia. Anyway, he got them instead.”
“Yes, I know about that,” the white-haired man said calmly.
“Well, now he’s gone berserk,” Plasky put in. “He’s been making hits all over town. He hit my operation and walked away with the bag-drop—a quarter of a million dollars.”
“He burned down my prize palace and terrorized my wife,” Turrin said, staring at his fingers.
“He killed two of my boys,” Seymour groused. “Raised hell with my house, too.”
“Raised hell?”
Seymour nodded. “Put dye in my pool. Destroyed two cabanas. Cut through the power cable and the telephone line. Slashed up all of my beds.” He shrugged. “I’d call that raising hell.”
“Shot up his oil painting, too,” Turrin added with a half-smile. “You know the fancy one over the mantel, the Chairman of the Board type picture.”
“Is this one soldier, or is this one army?” the man asked, raising his eyebrows.
“It’s one lunatic!” Seymour said savagely. “Listen, Sergio, we got to do something about this nut!”
“So what have you been doing?” the one called Sergio inquired.
The three men exchanged embarrassed glances.
“Besides hiding, I mean.” The old man coughed delicately. “Has the organization grown so soft? So soft that one man, one lone man, can send the entire organization scampering into holes?”
“This’s no ordinary man,” Turrin said defensively. “I had a sergeant once that—”
“Oh for God’s sake shut up about your goddamn whore-hopping sergeant!” Seymour cried.
Turrin jumped to his feet and shook his fist at the other. “One more word outta you about my whores and I’m gonna shove one right square up your ass, Mr. Comptroller—you understand? Right up your ass!”
“Sit down and shut up, Leopold!” Sergio snapped. “Why take out all your anger on one another? There is a common enemy—is there not?” He shook a finger at Walt Seymour. “And all this is your ultimate responsibility, Walter,” he added. “Can you see this? The first mistake was yours. You let him in, and gave him the opportunity to know us. Can you see this? And now the advantage is his. He can go to the ground now and dare us to sniff him out. This is costing a lot of money, a lot of money.”
“I suspected him right from the start,” Seymour growled. “Plasky’s the one brought him in. I figured he was some sort of plant. I’ve just been waiting for him to hang himself.”
“You dumb shit!”
Turrin snarled. “Who the hell do you think he’s hanging? Himself?”
“Shut up!” the old man roared, showing his fire. “The dumbnesses have been done and they are finished. Understand? They are finished! One more, just one more, and we will bring The Family together in full council and some dumbnesses will end up in the river! Do you understand? Do you?”
“Yes, Sergio,” Turrin replied meekly.
“Well?” The old man’s eyes were blazing full glare on the other two.
“Sure—sure, Sergio,” Seymour said quickly.
“I understand, Sergio,” Plasky assured him.
“Twenty years ago I would not sit at the same table with such rabbits,” the old man said scathingly. “All right, listen to me. I have issued the open contract on your Bolan. But you cannot rest behind that. Now you have money, you have brains, you have power, and you are Mafiosi! Now why should Sergio care about this Bolan-eh? Is Bolan after Sergio? No. No. Bolan is after Walter, and Nathan, and Leopold. Eh? Bolan does not even know of Sergio. Right?” He snapped his fingers at one of the background men and made a drinking motion with his other hand. The man swung around to the bar, poured a glass of wine, and moved quickly to the table with it, placing it before the old man. He sipped it. The others remained silent. The man who had brought the wine went back to his station. Sergio sipped again, then placed the glass on the table. “Just the same,” the old man continued, “Sergio has put one hundred thousand dollars on the line for your necks. The Family cares, you see. Just see that you are deserving of that care. Eh?”
At that instant the picture-window at the far side of the room seemed to explode and fall apart. The man who had just served Sergio grunted and fell forward onto his face. The glass containing the wine disappeared, but the wine remained to form a pool on the surface of the table. The delayed cra-ack of a high-powered rifle galvanized the paralyzed men at the table, the four of them taking to the floor beneath the table, their faces contorted with the fear of a personal doomsday. The distant explosions were rolling in unceasingly now and the thwack of big-calibre bullets plowing into floors and walls told eloquently the story of cause and effect.
War Against the Mafia Page 9
