Baltimore Trackdown (6 page)

“Okay. Johnny King, the other guy in blue with me yesterday on that warehouse killing, is wetting his drawers. He’s so strung out I can’t get him even to report back to the station. He’s weird. Keeps playing with a crucifix and mumbling. He says you didn’t say nothing about nobody getting killed yesterday. He didn’t sleep last night, and he’s off his rocker. Keeps confessing that he helped set up the lieutenant. Keeps yelling our names. I don’t know what to do with him.”

“You in your marked patrol car?” Davis asked.

“Yeah, where I been sitting for the past hour. Dispatch is ready to ream my ass.”

Davis zipped up his pants and looped the tie back around his neck.

“Tell me where you are, and don’t move. I’m on my way. I can reason with King one damn way or another. Where are you?”

Captain Davis wrote the cross streets down in his little book, and put a wide knot in his tie. He bent and kissed Francie’s lips as she lay on the bed.

“No playtime?” she asked.

“Postponed, Francie. Later.”

“Anytime,” she said and rolled over. “Business, I guess.”

“You bet, Francie. Takes one hell of a lot to get me out of your bedroom this way.”

She waved, and Capt. Harley Davis walked out of the apartment.

Twelve minutes later he approached the corner where Officers King and Ricca sat in the prowl car. He parked behind them beside a fireplug. He waited. Both officers got out of their car and came toward his.

“Get in back,” Davis said.

They both crawled in and Davis turned, his face angry, his voice controlled with effort.

“What the hell is going on here?”

King looked up, his eyes wary, his voice unsure.

“Captain, I’m no angel. I turned the other way a couple of tunes when I shouldn’t have. I’ve seen prisoners get roughed up for no cause, I’ve seen evidence jimmied around because I knew damn well the assholes charged were guilty. But I’ve never been part of any murder.”

Davis’s face mellowed. “Aw, shit! Is that what you think? I figured you had something important. Didn’t Ricca tell you? We were walking along the aisle of the warehouse when we discovered a sneak thief. First thing I hear is this handgun blasting away. I get out my piece and return fire. The bastard wasn’t more than three feet from us when he blew away Paulson, missed me and darted behind some boxes and ran out the back window. Hell, I thought Ricca explained it all to you. We had a damn two-eleven going down!”

King rubbed his face with one big hand. Then he looked at Ricca. “No kidding?”

“Hey, I been trying to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen to nobody, just pissing and moaning about Lieutenant Paulson.”

“That’s the way it happened, Ricca?” King asked, grabbing the other officer’s arm.

“Damn right. I thought you heard when the captain explained it to Chief Jansen.”

“Hell!”

“Yeah, you been screaming up the wrong damn pole for nothing. You better apologize to the captain for dragging him out here like this.”

“Captain, what can I say?” King mumbled. “It just looked like a setup, and then when Lieutenant Paulson got shot...”

“King, no problem. Don’t worry about it. We have to keep on top of things. And I’d appreciate if you forgot whatever you were thinking, all right?”

“Yeah, Captain, sure. I just wiped it out of my computer banks.”

Captain Davis reached into his pocket and peeled three twenties from a gold money clip.

“King, this is for all your worry. Go out to dinner and dancing with the wife somewhere. Forget all about this.”

The men nodded and stepped out of the car. Captain Davis looked at Ricca.

“Ricca, you have anything on that gambling operation you spotted on Thirty-fifth?”

“A little.” He looked at King. “Johnny, get the rig warmed up. I’ll be right there.”

King got into the patrol car.

Ricca leaned in the captain’s car window.

“Kill him, Ricca. Do it tonight. He’s ready to break. He could take both of us down. Use a bad car wreck, hit-and-run and into the bay somewhere. Make it look good.”

“I get a bonus?” Ricca asked.

“Two thousand. Now get it done!” Captain Davis scowled at the uniformed patrolman as he returned to the squad car. It would not be long before Ricca himself would have to be taught a lesson, Captain Davis decided.

It was early evening when Bolan finished making the phone calls. He could not find Jo Jo Albergetti at his office or any of his usual hangouts. Bolan took a chance and drove past the Albergetti home in a classy residential district. Lights were on in the downstairs windows.

He parked three houses down, got out and walked back to the house where he punched the doorbell. He heard the six-note chime inside and waited.

The woman who opened the door held a glass in one hand. She looked at him, took a sip from the glass, then opened the door wider. She was obviously drunk, and Bolan could tell that she had trouble focusing. She wore a filmy negligee that hid very little of her body.

“Hi, I’m Angela. You looking for a good time?” She pulled open the garment, and thrust a thigh forward. Bolan concentrated on her face, hoping he would be able to get some answers.

“Is Jo Jo here?”

“Not so you could notice. But you’re here and I’m lonely. Why don’t you come in and we’ll have some laughs, get friendly.” She shrugged out of the negligee, then drained the glass in one long swallow.

“You know where your husband is?”

“What does it matter?”

She smiled. She was shapely, blond and hungry for him.

Bolan stepped back.

“Do you know where Jo Jo went?”

“Yeah, some damn pool tournament at the Billiard Palace. Now come inside and let’s play house.”

The Executioner returned to his car, glad Angela was Jo Jo’s problem, not his.

The Billiard Palace was a high-class pool hall with a sunken area for tournaments. A sign inside the door indicated that tonight a small tournament of eight ball would be played. It was an open tournament costing fifty dollars to enter, single elimination on a draw from a hat, a straight ladder tourney, winner take all — so said the sign.

Eighteen men and two women had signed up, so there was one thousand dollars in the pot. All the sharks in town would be there.

Bolan slid into a chair behind a small crowd and watched a shooter drop the four ball on the break, get a good spread and run the table. The opponent didn’t get a shot. Bolan walked closer to the tournament board. Jo Jo had played and won. He would be around somewhere. Bolan had not met him but knew he was short, balding, of a ruddy complexion and always wore a red plaid cap on his head.

Jo Jo held court at the end of the bar. Three men around him were listening to his story of the game.

“Nothing to it!” he said too loudly. “Just skill and talent and you win every time.”

The Executioner edged into the group.

“Like to buy the winner a drink,” he said.

Jo Jo grinned, then shook his head. “Nope. Can’t afford to get sloshed. Have to shoot again in about half an hour, and I got to be rock solid.”

Bolan moved in closer.

“That was a great game, Jo Jo,” the Executioner said.

“Damn right!”

Some of the group moved away. Bolan finally stood beside Jo Jo and grinned. “Carlo said I should look you up.”

Jo Jo was suddenly wary. “Yeah? Why?”

“I’m just passing through — a driving vacation. Stopped by to pay my respects to Carlo.”

The others had faded away. They spoke in low voices.

“Oh, hell, fine. Everybody’s a little touchy right now, this damn Bolan character being in town.”

“Heard about him. Somewhere we can talk, private? My friend on the coast wants to talk to you, if you’re interested. Don Nazarione said he wouldn’t stand in your way.”

“A move?”

“Where can we talk?”

Jo Jo began walking toward a room that contained an ornate pool table. Around the walls were easy chairs, a wet bar, a big-screen tv and another door on the far side. After Bolan entered, Jo Jo locked the door.

“You said West Coast, right?”

“True. My don has heard lots of good things about you. He’s heavy into the gambling end and wants somebody to head up that division. Be like a vice president, about eighty or ninety men working under you.”

“You’re talking big bucks. A draw and a percentage?”

“You bet. My don knows how to treat his people. And then there’s all those beauties on the beach to consider, too.”

“Southern California?”

Bolan grinned and drew the silenced Beretta 93-R from his shoulder leather.

“No, Jo Jo, southern hell. You’re getting careless in your last few hours. I’m a friend of Elizabeth Hanover. If you say ‘Who?’ I’ll shoot you down right now.”

“Hey, I didn’t have nothing to do with that. Franconi did that on his own.”

“He’s your chief enforcer.”

“Yeah, but he’s on a long leash.”

“Not anymore.”

“Yeah, I heard.” Jo Jo shivered. “They said they never found nothing of him but his teeth. What a way to go.” He frowned. “That was you! You’re Bolan the...”

“Bastard,” the Executioner filled in. “You’re right. Want me to roll over and play dead so you can collect that five million dollars head money?”

“Look. I didn’t know nothing about that girl. I swear! Franconi’s been in trouble that way before. He’s wild. No way you can blame me for what he did on his own!”

Suddenly Jo Jo broke for the rack on the wall and pulled down a pool cue. He grabbed the tapered end and swung the heavy handle.

“Now you’re getting smart, Jo Jo. Going up against a silenced Beretta automatic with a pool cue.”

The hoodlum swung the cue viciously at Bolan’s chest. The Executioner jumped out of the way and shot him in the shoulder. The Mafia lieutenant dropped the cue, momentarily held his arm, then scrambled for the cue, which Bolan’s boot held to the floor. When he reached for it, the Executioner kicked Jo Jo’s head, smashing him backward on the floor.

“You’ve been calling the shots too long, Jo Jo. You’ve forgotten how to roll with the punches.”

Bolan put the Beretta away. He lifted the pool cue and held it in both hands.

“On your feet, scumbag.”

Jo Jo shook his head to clear it as he began to struggle up. When he straightened, a wicked-looking blade materialized in his fist. He lunged at Bolan, snarling.

Bolan used the stick to parry the thrust, then feinted forward with the tapered end. Jo Jo Albergetti tried to step back, but was blocked by the billiard table.

Bolan used the opening he sought and brought the tip of the cue down with lightning speed. The wooden lance pierced the mafioso’s chest, entering his heart. Bolan’s two hundred pounds of might powered it forward. The Mafia lieutenant was dead within ten seconds.

Bolan left him where he fell, the cue sticking out of his chest straight into the air. He dropped a marksman’s badge on Jo Jo and checked the far door. It led to a hall toward the rear of the building. A few moments later he found a back door into the alley and went out.

He was at his car before anyone noticed Jo Jo’s absence.

It was nearly an hour later when a waitress went into the private room and found Jo Jo.

Don Carlo Nazarione sat at the big desk in his office on the third floor of his mansion and shook his head.

“How many men we lost on the Chief Smith hit? Ten? Are all of them dead?”

The other man in the room, Ardly Scimone, his second in command, stared at the godfather.

“I’m afraid so, Don Nazarione. Five shot, the others dead from hand-grenade fragments, and the fires. It has to be the Executioner again.”

“He’s cutting us into hash! Why can’t we stop him?”

“We could call for help from the commission.”

“Hell, yes, but by the time reinforcements get here we’ll all be dead. How many men did we lose on that try against Jansen?”

“Four.”

The tall man stood and walked around the putting green, elevated to allow for the holes with their small flags.

“Well, we missed him, but there’s a chance that they got the head man, Smith.”

“If that’s so, then one of our men could move into the chair.” Pacing, he lit a cigar and puffed.

“We’ve still got the resources and the men to pull off the grab. We’ll continue. Keep everything on schedule. We’ve got the two inspectors and the two city councilmen on the payroll. They’ll do what we tell them. And we have a hand-picked candidate for the new chief when we need one. Yes!” Nazarione smiled.

“So keep everything moving. We’re going ahead. Ard, let me know of any problems. We have two more days. Let’s hope nothing else goes wrong.”

Nazarione saw Ardly out and descended in his private elevator to the “home” apartment on the second floor. This was sacred territory. No stairs led here, only the private elevator. Here Carlo Nazarione became a family man.

His wife, Sydney, smiled at him. She was his rock. Here he was totally away from business. None of the hardmen ever came here. They were not allowed. Only personal servants — and just three of them — were admitted. It was essential to him to keep his family and business separated.

Tall and blond, Sydney was not the good Italian girl he was supposed to marry. But she had been good for him, good to him and never thought about another man. Their two children, fourteen and sixteen, were away at school.

“Hard day? “she asked.

“Seems they’ve all been hard lately. But I want to forget that. What are we doing tonight?”

“A movie, the one everyone’s been talking about — I got a video cassette of it. We can see it right here.”

Carlo laughed. “You know just how to pick me up when I’m down. I hope it’ll always be this way.”

“It will. Soon the kids will be grown and gone and you and I will be old and gray and we’ll sit on the beach in Acapulco or maybe Greece.”

He kissed her forehead and led her to a soft chair in the living room where an enormous TV screen covered one wall. He adored Sydney but did not share her faith in the future. He lived in such an intense world, with so many pressures. The police and the government were easy to battle. Now he was suddenly faced with an enemy who thought the way the family did and who fought with intense savagery without holding to the strict ethics of the police.

Carlo tried to throw off the black mood. Then he thought about all his men who had died in the past two days and a tremor darted up his spine.

No! It could not be. He would not let it happen. He had let the Executioner invade his headquarters once with that fake story about his friend Augie Bonestra. That would not happen again. They had Mack Bolan right there! They should have killed him a dozen times, yet he had escaped, laughing at them, and knowing a lot more about them. Carlo would never let anything like that happen again. Security was of the utmost importance.

Carlo prayed that it was not too late, that he had not made a fatal blunder, one that could not be corrected.