California Hit (10 page)

He said, "I don't think that's... I mean, I think I got a right to discuss this with you."

"You got no rights! I give you a job! You do the job! You damn sure better do the job, Franco!"

And that was it. The nutty old bastard hung up on him.

And a whole new style of thinking and acting had suddenly entered Franco's life. If he had just known which five were holding those pieces of paper. Hell, it could be anybody. They could be from back East, they could be from anywhere in the damn world! But he didn't know, and there wasn't time enough left to track them down. They would be tracking Franco down the minute the old man bit Bolan's dust. God! An estate contract!

Ten minutes after the conclusion of that telephone conversation, Franco Laurentis, the torpedo's torpedo, was conducting a full scale council of war at the top of the joint. He had all his boys in there, and there wouldn't be any shitting around with style now.

The sly old fox was not dead yet, and he'd sure put it over on Franco. That was something that just had to be faced. It was a new game.

There was only one thing for Franco to do now.

He had to stop Mack Bolan before Mack Bolan stopped the old man.

There was nothing else he could do.

He would have to turn in Bolan's head, or else die without no damn style at all.

The torpedo's torpedo was not going to die without no damn style at all.

The gunleather was strapped to the side-railing of the bed and Bolan's hand was resting loosely on the grip of the Beretta Belle.

Another hand, a softly delicate one, was trying to come between Bolan and his Belle.

He opened an eye halfway and quietly commanded, "Don't."

She was lying partly across him, the velvety tenderness of her presenting the sweetest of burdens, one arm coiled down around his gun arm.

She whispered, "I thought you were asleep."

He told her, "I was."

"Well, that's some alarm system you've got there."

She moved away from him. The bedsprings creaked as she came to a kneeling position behind him.

Bolan voluntarily released the Beretta, as he rolled over to fix her in the binocular vision of both appreciative eyes.

"Do you always sleep with a hand on your gun?" she asked him.

"Until I get tired of living, sure."

"I'm sorry. I didn't understand. I just didn't want you going into a bad dream or something and shooting up the joint."

He said, "Okay."

"You really don't trust me, do you."

He said, "No."

"Even after..."

"Especially after," he told her.

Her eyes crossed in perplexity. "Boy, you sure live in a grim world, don't you."

"Like you said, I'm weird."

She wrinkled her nose and replied, "Sort of nice weird, though. Mack... are you wide awake?"

He assured her that he was.

She said, "I want to bare my chest."

Bolan grinned. "I like it just the way it is," he told her.

"You know what I mean. I want to get straight with you. No more mistrust. Okay?"

He said, "Suit yourself."

"Wouldn't you like to trust me?"

He tipped his head back and said, "Sure I would."

"Well listen to me. Wo Fan and Franco Laurentis are hooked together somehow."

Bolan's eyes flickered and he said, "Do tell."

"You already knew it, huh."

"I've been wondering."

"Well you can stop wondering. They definitely are. It's one of those marriages of convenience, I believe, but they definitely..."

"And the old cop?"

"Barney Gibson?"

He said, "Uh huh."

"Do I have to get that bare?"

He said, "No."

The girl sighed. "Well, I will. I have been in the employ of Barney Gibson."

"Who else have you been in the employ of?"

Her gaze fell. "Anyone who has the price, I guess," she admitted.

"And what is the price?"

She said, "Depends on the job."

"What is the nature of the work?"

"Intelligence."

Both eyes narrowed as Bolan asked her, "You telling me you're a private eye?"

She threw her head back and laughed, as though grateful for the break. "Not really. I'm not licensed." The eyes flashed wickedly and she added, "But I have a law degree and I once worked for Mr. Hoover."

Bolan groaned.

She asked him, "You have something against Mr. Hoover?"

He replied, "Just his womenfolk. I think women's lib must have pulled a secret coup on the federal level. Do you know how many federal dolls I've..."

Quickly she said, "I don't want to know, don't tell me. Anyway, I said I once worked for him. I've been freelancing for two years."

"Without license."

"Right, without license. I'm not public. A license would hamper me. I'm not a detective, Mack. I'm a spy."

He said, "Okay. What's the tie-in with Barney Gibson then? He paying you out of his own pocket?"

"Possibly. I wouldn't know if the city has a payroll code for paid informers."

He said, "I see."

"I've also been on Wo Fan's payroll, watching the operation at China Gardens."

"For what?"

"I don't know for what. I just watch and listen. Every night I file a written report of everything I've seen and heard."

"That business about the counterfeit art pieces?.."

She wrinkled her face and admitted, "I made that up."

The girl leaned forward suddenly and kissed him, lightly. It turned into a heavy one, and she pulled away gasping.

"Don't get me started again," she warned.

Bolan chuckled. He lightly caressed a silken arm and told her, "I don't have to trust you, Mary. I like you, and that's enough for now."

"Not for me," she said soberly. "What about instincts? Don't they count for anything? Can't you just know that I'm on your side now?"

He arched an eyebrow and said, "Now?"

She shrugged delicately. "I'm straighting it, I'll straight it all the way. I suspected that Wo Fan had an unholy interest in the Mafia even before I ran into you. Franco Laurentis tried to grab me by the rear one night. When I told him to get lost, he got real cute about our 'common interests' and he actually dropped Wo Fan's name on me. I mentioned the incident to Wo Fan the next day. He became very upset and started throwing out excited instructions, in Chinese, to his bully boys. I didn't know what he was saying, but..."

"You don't kapish Chinese?"

She smiled tolerantly. "Do you kapish Polish?"

He grinned back. "No. How'd you know about my Polack background?"

She told him, "I know a lot of things about you, Mack Bolan. Or I thought I did, until this morning. Anyway... the next time I ran into Franco Laurentis — it was a couple of nights later — he came over and made it a point to apologize to me for his behavior. Which, if you know anything about that dude, you'll know is way out of character. But he was using the apology as a cover up. His real purpose was to make me think he'd been kidding about Wo Fan. About 'common interests,' I mean."

Bolan said, "Okay, I see it."

"So... anyway... when I ran into you at the Gardens last night, I... Well, I'm a working girl, you know." She gave him a rueful-smile. "Have to pay the damn bills, you know. I guess I... had you in about the same running class as Laurentis and the rest. I mean..."

"I know what you mean," Bolan assured her, sighing.

"I knew that you'd been billed as the all-American folk hero, but I figured... well, you know what I figured. I know what these public relations people can do with an image, and the press is no different. I had you figured as a glory guy. You know. Soldier-of-fortune type, making a big name and a big game for yourself by running around making big noises at the mob."

"I know what you mean," he assured her.

"Will you please let me bare myself in my own way?"

He chuckled. "Right on."

"Well then I came into this... this place." She shivered. "I saw how you... how you had to make it. I mean, the super security, the constant grinding race to just keep that one step ahead of the world. Oh hell, Mack Bolan, I felt so miserable for you, I could have just cried!"

Bolan told her, "Hey, it's not all that bad."

She said, "The hell it's not. I know better. I know it now. And I almost... I almost set you up for them. Did you know that? I came within an inch of setting you up for Franco's assassins."

"What makes you think they weren't after you?"

"Well I..."

He said, "They wouldn't have come after me that way, Mary. I never have thought that they expected to find me there. That was supposed to be an easy hit, girl. Why do you think I insisted on dragging you out of there?"

She shivered again and said, "Well — damn, damn. Sure, Laurentis started worrying about his slip to me. I'll bet you're right."

He said, "Sure I am. And then you threw it back at me. Bugged out. I figured you as good as dead. Maybe that's why I..."

"Why you what?"

"Never mind. Why did you leave, Mary?"

"Conscience, I guess. Suddenly I just couldn't stand myself."

Bolan could appreciate that.

"I mean," she went on, "I just had to get out of here. I went back to my place, hoping that Captain couldn't locate Wo Fan anywhere. Then I got to thinking about Cynthie and Panda, and it worried me sick."

"What did?"

"The fact that they had seen you at my place.

Listen, Mack. Those girls work for Wo Fan. Indirectly, but they do. And they know it. It's part of the convenient marriage I mentioned. Wo Fan and Laurentis are entertwined in several ventures in this town. And I got to thinking..."

"Yeah," he prompted her.

"If they started talking it around about seeing you there... At my place. And Laurentis knew about my connections with Wo Fan. And if Wo Fan didn't want Laurentis to know that he was trying to arrange another marriage, with you. And if..."

Bolan was laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"Not funny," he said, "just entertaining. It's nice to watch a China doll's mind busily whirring out a web of intrigue. But I think you're probably right."

She jerked her head in an adamant affirmation. "Darned right I am, and those two empty kids could be in a whole lot of trouble."

"Yes, they could," Bolan mused. "I warned them to keep quiet. But they probably won't."

She agreed. "Anyway, I tried to find them. I called everywhere I thought they could have gone."

Bolan said, "She mentioned something about a houseboat. In Sausalito, I believe."

"They wouldn't have gone over there. They're shooting a picture. It's too hard for them to run back and forth when they're shooting. They crash around town all the time they're shooting."

"How'd you get mixed up with those kids, Mary?"

She sniffed. "They're not as bad as they talk it. Panda is pretty mixed up, about sex and what her's is, I mean, but... well, they're okay kids. I met them through Wo Fan, at a business bash he was hosting a few months ago. They were, uh, paid guests."

Bolan said, "I see."

"I was not."

He chuckled. "Where do you go from here, Mary?"

"Into the woodwork, I guess. How about you?"

A faint smile pulled at his lips. He said, "I've got this war."

She wrinkled her nose at him and said, "Tough. You're a tough guy, Mack Bolan. Can I tag along and load your guns for you?"

He sighed. "Hell no."

"Well... I knew better than to ask. Mack..."

"Yeah?"

"You'll have to kill Wo Fan."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He's a nationalist, and my sympathies, of course, go with that cause. But he's running with the wolves now. And he's turned into a wolf himself. I suspect — no, I feel it in my bones. Wo Fan and Laurentis are up to something sneaky. I believe they are trying for a coup in the San Francisco underworld. An unholy alliance. Laurentis will help to keep the commies out. Wo Fan will help to put down the ruling Mafia family, and Laurentis will move in. I think that's it. I think that's what it's all about."

Bolan was thinking it over.

"Like Wo Fan suggested, it's a big conflict," she added quietly.

Bolan said, "And a complicated one. My war is a bit narrower than that."

"Well you'd better broaden it."

"You believe Wo Fan is a real threat? To me?"

She nodded. "Like I said, he's a wolf now. He'd stop at nothing. If Laurentis learns that Wo Fan has been in touch with you... and if Wo Fan decides that it would help his cause to turn you over to Laurentis... well, I'm just saying, lookout lover. That's a hard old world out there."

Bolan consulted his wristwatch. It was a few minutes past noon. He sighed and told her, "End of detente."

"End of what?"

"Do you know the place where those girls shoot their pictures?"

"Yes."

"One more thing. Where does Barney Gibson fit into all this?"

"I'm not sure," she replied slowly, thinking about it. "He's had his problems with the mob. For years. I think he's trying to pull them down."

"On his own?"

She nodded. "Way I read it. I think he doesn't trust various people in his own department."

"Could you set up a meet between Gibson and me?"

Her eyes flared. "Whatever for?"

"A secret meet, a secure one. Could you do it?"

She stared at him with wondering eyes for a long moment, then she daintily nodded her head and told him, "I guess I could."

He said, "So do it."

Quietly, she asked, "Does that mean you trust me now?"

"That's what it means," he growled.

She squeezed his hand. "Great. That's really great."

So it was great.

The R&R was ended.

It was time, once again, to come out shooting.

It was an incredibly beautiful and peaceful spot, and Bolan had to wonder how often the native San Franciscans actually visited the place.

It was called the Japanese Tea Garden, and it occupied a relatively small area of Golden Gate Park. Winding footpaths through exotic shrubbery, pygmy trees and authentic Japanese statuary led the visitor beside reflecting pools and across an arched bridge where you could take your choice of an open-air tea house, a temple, or a shrine — and, yeah, this was a place where a guy could go to meet his soul.

At the moment, though, Bolan's primary interest lay in a meeting with a grizzled old maverick cop who just maybe wouldn't mind a bit of official larceny, if a greater cause were thereby being served.

Bolan was betting that Barney Gibson was that kind of cop. He was, in fact, betting his life on the idea.

He watched from behind the cover of purple sunshades and a poised teacup as the girl and the cop made their prearranged meet beside the pool. Gibson had not yet been told the reason for the meeting and — watching them now — Bolan knew the precise moment when that reason was revealed.

The big guy stiffened, but just across the shoulders. He did not break stride nor was there any other gross reaction, but Bolan knew.

They were talking about it now. Mary Ching, selling the Executioner. Not, he hoped, selling him out... just selling him.

And the cop was buying. That face became immediately evident. The pair strolled on, into the enfolding garden, and just as they disappeared from view Mary hung a white flower in her hair.

Bolan promptly left his table at the tea house and went around the other way, on an intersecting path.

He got there first, per plan, and watched them approach.

Gibson was one of those guys who could fool a casual observer. On the surface he simply looked overweight, grumpy, a bit dull — maybe even a bit dumb. The head was too large, the jaw too overslung, the eyes bloodshot and masked with indifference.

But that was just the surface man.

Bolan had learned to read men, just as he read Jungle signs and trails. Men, after all, were a jungle product.

All the deeper signs of Barney Gibson revealed him as definitely a cop of the old school. He wasn't a constitutional lawyer, he wasn't a civic moralist, he wasn't even a law officer. He was a cop. He wasn't there to protect anybody's civil rights, he was there to protect his town; to keep it straight; to keep it safe. He would bend the law — even break it — to do his job as he saw it.

Yeah, Bolan had known a couple of cops like Barney Gibson. Flaming, stubborn anachronisms who absolutely refused to get in step with the times. And there was still room in the world for a few Barney Gibsons.

There was no introduction, nor did the two men shake hands. Both pairs of hands, in fact, were pointedly kept in full view. The Captain said, by way of greeting, "So you're the guy. What d'you want with my town, Mister?"

Bolan solemnly told him, "Your town has a rotten smell, Captain. I sniff Mafia every step I take."

"So what's new?" the cop growled.

"Me, I'm new," the Executioner replied.

The Captain snorted. "You're practically dead, fella."

"A dead man can do things," Bolan said. "Things a living man wouldn't even think about."

"I guess you're right there. What've you got in mind?"

"I left a couple of samples around," Bolan said.

The big guy grunted. He stared at the Executioner for a moment, then admitted, "Yeah, I saw your samples. Pretty impressive. Those were just samples, eh?"

Bolan said, "Well, call it a pattern."

"I like your patterns, Mister. But somewhere else. Not here. Gives the town a bad feel. Look. I wouldn't have come if I'd known what was up. I can stretch, but not that much. You turn around and walk away from here. And keep going until you're clear out of town. That's as far as I can stretch."

"The thing is going to split wide open, Captain. Whether I leave it or not."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Things have become too good here. For the mob. It's time for the thieves to start falling out. They've already started."

"You have some definite knowledge of that?"

"I have," Bolan assured him. His gaze flicked to Mary Ching. "Mary can fill you in later, I don't have the time. But you better believe this. A full scale mob war is brewing here. It involves not only the organization boys but their fellow travelers as well. That means blood in the streets, and maybe a lot of innocent blood with it."

"Go on."

"So my way is much cleaner."

The shrewd old eyes were sizing him up, wondering, measuring, taking a vote. The ballot fell in the box, and Captain Gibson told the Executioner, "Okay, I'm still listening."

"I'm thinking of a clean sweep, from the bottom to the top. I'll take the top and leave the bottom for you."

"That's damn nice of you."

"Be realistic," Bolan argued. "You'll never wrap up the big boys and you know it. And as long as they're up there, this town will be crawling with torpedoes and leeches of every variety. When the big boys fall, the influence falls with them. You'll need to set up annexes to your jails to handle the load."

"So why tell me about it?" The guy was interested, though, definitely interested. "Why don't you just go ahead and do it. Why consult me first?"

"I might need your help."

"Uh huh, I guess I saw that coming."

"Nothing open, nothing that would put you on a spot. I just want you to pass a few words around for me."

"And what are those?"

Bolan smiled, for the first time during the meeting.

"Would you say that we've come to an agreement in principle?"

The cop smiled back, and it was a hideous thing. He wasn't used to smiling, and it moved all the wrinkles the wrong way. "You might say that."

"Okay," Bolan said. I'll be in touch with you through Mary."

"Why not get it all on the table right now? I'm here, you're here, let's have it."

"Not yet," Bolan told him. "I'll be in touch."

"Hell, you've got me dangling, fella. What the hell have you got in mind?"

"You'll know very soon," Bolan assured him.

He grabbed Mary's arm and they left there in a hurry.

Yeah, very soon. The whole thing would be cracking... very soon now.

"Say that again," requested Leo Turrin's troubled voice, all the way from Pittsfield.

"Something wrong, Leo? You don't sound too good," Bolan decided.

"No, I'll tell you later. I'm just not sure I heard you right. What was that again?"

"I said I want you to get a message to Augie Marinello."

"In your name?" the Caporegime asked.

Bolan said, "No, just in my spirit. Don't make the impression that it came from me."

"What do you have in common with the Lord of the East?" Turrin wanted to know. He still sounded troubled... almost cold.

"Blood, maybe," Bolan said, chuckling. "He's still the big boss?"

"More or less," Turrin replied in that curiously masked tone. "What he says at council usually turns out to be the way things go. What kind of a message, Sarge?"

"I want him to know there's a conspiracy brewing on the west coast. Top drawer stuff. Big enough to wreck the whole arm. The shot heard 'round the world, that sort of thing. Following?"

"Yeah. What's the pitch?'

"A new coalition," Bolan replied.

"Coalition of what?"

"Try the ChiComs with Daddy DeMarco as a starter. How does that grab?"

"Easy, easy," Turrin said. "I've told you things have been in the wind."

"But you didn't tell me what sort of things, Leo."

"Right, well... hell. Okay. Here's the way I'm reading. The boys hate the hell out of the commies. You know?"

Bolan said, "I know. But business before pleasure. Right?"

"So right. Business before anything. I hear they've been trading. Mostly in narcotics, but other things too. Uh, Mack... what coalition?"

"It's only in my mind, right now. But it could be for real, Leo. It could be. I'd like for Marinello to think it is for damn sure."

"Why?"

"Because I want him to shake the hell out of Daddy DeMarco."

"Okay. What's the plot?"

"The plot is simply this. DeMarco is Mr. King's boy... even more, maybe, than he's the organization's boy. And Mr. King has big ideas for the West Coast.

With trade routes to the Chinese mainland now almost a certain event in the near future, Mr. King is moving swiftly to dominate the entire import picture, and the exports to China as well. Not just narcotics, not just contraband, but the big sweep, everything. The picture forming?"

The man in Pittsfield was evincing definite interest now. "Yeah. Keep going. Uh, you're saying this Mr. King is coming out in competition with the regular mob setup."

"Right, in direct competition. Would this suggest a conflict of interest to your mind? Concerning DeMarco and his close ties with King?"

"Sure. Is this for real?"

"It could be. There's a certain old Chinese gentleman here who is definitely worried about something pretty close to that. So worried, in fact, that he has already formed a counter-coalition."

"Who with?"

There's a dime-store hood here called Franco Laurentis. Know him?"

"That guy. Yeah. Crazy Franco. They call him that because he's always had a Napoleon complex. Thinks he was born to rule the world or something, or so the story goes."

"Perfect," Bolan said.

"Yeah, well, he's also DeMarco's enforcer."

"Even better yet. He's pulling something cute on the old man, Leo. It sounds like he's trying for a takeover — or something very close to that. Uh, get this name now, Daniel Wo Fan." Bolan spelled it. "Local Chinese honcho, very strong ties with Taiwan. He and Franco have been cozying it. They're interlaced in various projects around the bay area. I believe Franco has made an agreement with Wo Fan... to kill the ChiCom trade."

Turrin whistled across the connection. There was a momentary silence, then he said, "The guy must really be crazy if he's trying to cross DeMarco. The Don is old, but he's a hell of a long ways from dead. He's eaten guys like Franco Laurentis for casual snacks."

"That's the whole idea, Leo."

"Yeah, yeah, I get the drift. Well... hell, it's a great idea, Sarge. I would guess that Franco is the head torpedo in charge of stopping you. If, uh, if he's thinking of crossing the old man, this would be his golden opportunity."

"Exactly what I'm thinking. You know what to say to Marinello now, Leo?"

Sourly, Turrin replied, "I do. I just wish I could be out there to see the results."

Bolan said, "Well... if I get luck, Leo, I'll give you a blow-by-blow account."

"Do that. Listen, wait, don't hang up yet."

It was coming now, the trouble in Leo Turrin's voice. Bolan asked him, "You ready to tell me about your problem now?"

"Yeah. I've, uh, got something disturbing to tell you, but..."

"But what?"

"I don't want you to get all upset. I mean, maybe it's nothing at all."

A chill chased itself down Bolan's spine. He said, "Let's have it."

"Well, Johnny and Val have taken off somewhere."

Something ticked loose in Bolan's brain. He said, "Since when?"

"Since I tried to get in touch this morning. I wanted them to know I'd talked to you. They... just aren't there, Sarge. No one at the school remembers seeing either of them since early last night."

Bolan's guts were coming unglued. "Their clothes, Leo, what about..."

"Hard to tell. They left some behind, yeah, but there's no way of knowing if they took any away with them. I mean..."

Bolan's ears were roaring. Woodenly, he said, "You mean they could have been snatched."

"It's possible. But there are a lot of other possibilities, too. You remember I told you Val was agitating for a meet. They could have bugged out of there early this morning. The Frisco news was all over the television — you know how the home town follows you. I mean, I think maybe they're headed that way, Sarge. I think Val just decided, hell, to set up her own meet."

Bolan muttered, "I don't believe Val would do that. Not with Johnny along, anyway. She knows what a risk it is. No. I can't buy that, Leo."

The panic was edging clearly into Turrin's voice now. "God, I've been living with my ear to the ground all day, Sarge. I haven't heard a rumble from the boys. Not one. If somebody got to them, then they're being mighty damn quiet about it"

Bolan's voice was very cold and lifeless as he said, "Leo, please keep that ear busy. If you hear anything, the tiniest whisper, get word to me immediately."

"Okay, you know I will. What's the best path?"

"Call that television correspondent in New York. We have an arrangement. Just tell him it's a windmill emergency. He'll understand, and hell get the message on the network newscast. You know the guy?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"Okay."

"Sarge... Mack... Goddammit. I'm sorry."

"Not your fault, Leo. I guess I've always known this might happen someday. I..."

"We don't know for sure it's happened yet."

"Right, you're right. Uh, thanks for — thanks, Leo. Keep alert, eh?"

"I will. And I'll get this other thing into Augie Marinello right away."

"I'll appreciate it"

"Yeah."

Bolan hung up. He stared thoughtfully at his hands for a moment, then he left the phone booth and rejoined Mary Ching on the sidewalk.

Her eyes searched his face, then she slipped a hand into his and said, "It didn't go well."

"It went swell," he told her.

"But you're wearing the death mask."

"I am?"

"You are. Was it a hard sell?"

"It was an easy sell," he replied quietly.

"What, then?"

"A personal matter. Forget it, let me do the worrying."

"Nothing's changed?"

"Nothing," he assured her, "is changed. The hit is on."

"What's next?" she wondered aloud, still giving him the searching gaze.

"The porno girls."