War Against the Mafia (2 page)

Just
knowing
the enemy isn't enough. They have to
prove
he's the enemy, and even then sometimes he slips away from them. What is needed here is a bit of direct action, strategically planned, and to hell with the rules. Over in 'Nam we called it a 'war of attrition.' Seek out and destroy. Exterminate the enemy. I guess it's time a war was declared on the home front. The same kind of war we've been fighting at 'Nam. The very same kind."

On August 18th a sportsman's shop in Pittsfield was burglarized. The owner reported that a high-powered hunting rifle, a deluxe scope, some targets, and several boxes of ammunition had been taken. An envelope of money sufficient to cover the loss had been left on the cash register. It was just a midnight sale with no salesman present," the shopkeeper told police. "Evidently nothing else was disturbed and, from my standpoint, no crime has been committed."

On August 19th the watchman at a deserted stone quarry several miles from Pittsfield investigated the sounds of gunfire in one of the back canyons of the quarry. "I didn't go all the way down in there to talk to the guy," the watchman later reported. "He wasn't hurting anything or anybody. He'd set up this target range and he was plunkin' shots into the target from about a hundred yards out. Some sort of high-power rifle, sounded stronger'n a.30-06 but you know those rock walls build up sound, so I couldn't really say. I watched him for a little while. It looked like he was doing something to the gun every now'n then, you know, adjusting it or something. He'd fire five rounds, then fiddle with the gun, five more rounds, then fiddle some more. Must've been out there a couple hours, but I didn't go down in there to say anything to him. It's a perfect place for target practice. He wasn't hurting nothing. I get in some pistol practice around here myself. What's there to hurt?"

Another entry from Bolan's diary, dated August 19th, reads:

"The Marlin realty surprised me I had never used a.444 before. I'd guess the muzzle energy at about a ton and a half. Enough there, anyhow, to bring down a grizzly. I should not have any trouble with the
rats
I have in mind. I sighted it in at a hundred, a hundred and ten, and a hundred and twenty yards, and the corrections are calibrated onto the scope. No sweat I softened the lever action some, little too much tension there for the rapid-fire I need. I am going up to the drop tomorrow and verify the range, though, using the scope. I want no error."

On August 21st, Bolan wrote:

"Okay, I have located and identified the first bunch and I am ready. The police lieutenant told me all about TIF. That is Triangle Industrial Finance. They're a licensed loan outfit okay, but they use loan shark tactics and they've found a way to gimmick the law and get their rates up sky-high. The law can't touch them-but
The Executioner
can. My recon is complete and target identification is positive. Laurenti is the wheel, the OIC of the local setup. Every night at 1750 hours his car is parked at the curb in front by the man called
Mister
Erwin. The other
Mister
is a troop called Janus-
Mister
Janus. Must be some kind of a joke. The only ones they call "Mister' are the ones with side-arms. They wear them in shoulder holsters. The one who looks like a salesman is named Brokaw. I believe he runs the office details. The college-boy type is Pete Rodriguez. He's an accountant, and as big a louse as any of them. The five of them leave the office at 1800 hours every night, give or take a minute or two, and go out to their substations to pick up collections from their legmen. Later they make personal calls on slow accounts. But not tomorrow night! The Executioner has a little collection substation of his own all set up, on the fourth floor of the Delsey building. It's a perfect drop. I ran my triangulations last night and again tonight. It will be like picking rats out of a barrel. The setup sort of reminds me of the site at Nha Tran. The targets will not have any place to go but
down-
to the ground. And that's just where I want them. I'll take the two 'Misters' first. That will plug the possibility of return fire and cut down on wild lead flying around. No problems I can see. I will have plenty of time for Laurenti. I timed out at six seconds on the dry run tonight and that was figuring them to scatter in all directions after the first round. I think I will better that time tomorrow because I do not believe these troops have been under fire before. I will probably be half done before the reaction even begins. Well, we will see. We will see, Pop."

On August 22nd, eight days following the interment of Bolan's dead relatives, five officials of a loan company were gunned down on the street outside the company office in Pittsfield, Bolan's home town. The following is an account of the incident by an eyewitness, a news vendor whose stand is located on the corner near where the shooting occurred:

"These five guys come outta the loan company. It's about closing time. Two is kinda arguing about something. One is carrying this satchel. They're standing beside this car, parked there at the curb in front of the office. One walks out inna street. Going around to the driver's side, I guess. Then he stops right in his tracks and kinda jerks around. His head snaps back toward me. I see his eyes, he's that close, and they're wide and surprised. I see blood spurting outta his neck. I see all this before I even hear the first shot. It comes from up high, up the street some place. It booms, sort of rolls down between the buildings, you know, like a echo, like a big elephant gun or something. I can't tell where it came from, not exactly, just some place up the street. It's all happening so fast. I mean, faster'n I can tell it. These guys on the sidewalk are standing there, just froze and gawking at this guy while he falls in the street. Then another one, his hands jerk up to his head just as his head starts flying off in all directions. My God, it just explodes, and I can see pieces flying every which way. The other guys are starting to scramble. One dives for the car. The other two are trying to get back inside the building. And these shots just keep rolling off, like a string of firecrackers, that fast, I mean just bing bing bing, like that. Only there's five bings. I've thought real careful about that, I know there was just five shots, like a rhythm, pow pow pow pow pow, see, just like that. And there's five dead guys strewn about there, and I mean just dead as hell. They all got it some place above the shoulders, every one of them. Gory, man,
gory."

A plainclothes policeman, in an off-the-record remark to a newsman, said of the killings, "I just can't get very excited about a gang killing. And, of course, that's what this is. We've known for a long time that this outfit (the loan company) had ties with the Mafia. We just never could get anything to take into court. As long as they keep it this clean, I mean with no innocent bystanders being involved, they can knock each other off all they want to and you'll see damn few tears in
my
eyes. Yeah, it's just the underworld purging itself. It smells like gang war to me."

The officer was correct in one respect-but quite wrong in another. The attack did indeed signal the beginning of a war, but one side was strictly a one-man campaign. Duty-killer Mack Bolan had found a new battleground for an age-old cause, and had declared unconditional war on the best-organized crime syndicate in the history of the world. Note this brief entry in Bolan's diary, dated August 22nd:

"Scratch five. Results positive. Identification confirmed

by unofficial police report.
The Mafia,
for God's sake. So what? They can't be any more dangerous or any smarter than the Cong. Scratch five, and how many are left? A hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand? So-I've got another unwinnable war on my hands. So it isn't the winning that counts. It's the fighting it that goes down in the big book. The big book will say that Mack Bolan fought the good fight That's the only kind that counts. Now to find Leo." Executioner Bolan was taking on The Mafia.

The gold lettering on the frosted glass door read: "Plasky Enterprises." A tall man in a military uniform paused momentarily with one hand on the door, then pushed on inside and closed the door softly behind him. It was a large office, divided into small pens by a network of wrought-iron railings. Each "pen" contained a modern desk and a small table set at a right angle to the desk. Two simply upholstered metal chairs were stationed at each table. At the moment, each of the pen-style offices was vacant.

A pretty brunette occupied a reception desk outside the network of wrought iron. She was doodling on a scratch pad, the secretarial chair swivelled so that it faced the front door, her body twisted at the waist with the upper torso leaning over the desk, a silken expanse of long legs crossed at the knees and attractively displayed from a tight-fitting skirt that reached only to about midthigh. She looked up with a bored smile, not bothering to rearrange her position at the desk.

"Good morning," the visitor said. The voice was deeply pleasant and suggestive of an accustomed authority.

"Everybody's out," the girl told him, flashing her eyes toward the empty desks as though to confirm the truth of her statement. "... if you'd like to wait..."

He showed frank interest in her legs, from the hem of the skirt on down, and said, "I'm Mack Bolan. Mr. Plasky said he'd see me at nine." He glanced at his watch. "It's nine now."

"Oh, well, I think maybe Mr.
Plasky
is in," the girl said, gazing at the visitor with a newfound respect. She picked up a telephone and punched a button at the base of the instrument, all the while viewing Bolan with cool appraisal. "There's a Mr. Bolan here," she whispered into the mouthpiece; then, still holding the receiver to an ear, told Bolan: "Go on in "

The tall man angled a glance toward a door at the far end of the room and raised his eyebrows quizzically. The girl merely nodded, then giggled into the mouthpiece of the telephone and gasped, "Oh, Mr.
Plasky!"

Bolan grinned as he pushed through a swinging gate in the wrought iron. He walked past the row of office-pens and opened the wooden door to the private office, glancing back at the brunette as he went in. She was still giggling delightedly into the telephone. He closed the door and turned his attention to the man behind the desk. The chair was swivelled so that Plasky's back was toward the door. His feet were crossed atop a low window-ledge and he was half-lying in the chair, the telephone clasped loosely to his head. He was telling the receptionist an off-color story, and vastly enjoying the telling.

Bolan dropped into a leather chair and lit a cigarette. Plasky ended the story with an explosive laugh, then launched immediately into another, swivelling about and raising his voice to share it with his visitor. Despite the high-humored jocularity of the moment, Bolan was aware that he was being sized up, and he did some sizing himself. Plasky was a heavy man, but not soft, thick of chest and shoulders. The hand clasping the telephone was a powerful one with stubby, squared-off fingers well manicured. Bolan aged the man at about forty. The hair was light brown, nearly blonde, and carefully barbered. A chiselled, ruddy face completed the not-unhandsome picture.

Bolan grinned with the punch line of the story and could hear the delighted shrieking of the brunette rattling the diaphragm of the telephone receiver. Plasky dropped the instrument, the genial lines of his face instantly reforming into a cool composure as his eyes locked onto his visitor's.

The day's contribution to employee relations," he explained in a suddenly businesslike voice. "You're Bolan, eh?" he asked, with hardly a pause.

The visitor nodded.
"Mack
Bolan. I won't be in town long. Figured I better get this business settled."

Plasky fussed with a manila folder that lay unopened on his desk. It was good of you to contact us," he said. "Course-you understand our circumstances. Uh-we're an
auditing
firm. You understand that. The unfortunate -uh-circumstances-over at Triangle Industrial..."

"I won't be in town long," Bolan repeated. "I was told that you are temporarily in charge of the Triangle accounts."

"Wasn't that a terrible thing?" Plasky muttered. "Five good men-imagine that-some nut, some lunatic, and five good men-wiped out-just like
that!"
He snapped thick fingers in emphasis. "I-uh-I've got your father's book here, Mr. Bolan," he went on, in subdued tones. He flipped up the front cover of the manila folder, stared briefly at something inside, then closed it again. "Frankly, this account is in a mess. Your father is in serious arrears."

Bolan produced a small spiral notebook and tossed it onto the desk. "Not according to this," he said. "That's my father's record. He borrowed four hundred dollars eleven months ago. He has repaid five hundred and fifty. And I have reason to believe that other payments, not recorded in his book, have been made by other members of the family. Obviously your books are in error."

Plasky smiled blandly and spread his hands, palms up, on the desktop, ignoring Bolan's notebook. "Loan companies are not charitable institutions, Mr. Bolan, and let me assure you-we do not make errors in our books. Each account is double-audited, and-"

"He borrowed four, he repaid five-and-a-half. The debt should be paid."

Plasky was working diligently at the smile. "Your confusion is understandable, soldier." He was reminding Bolan of his lower place in the order of intelligence. "Like I said, financiers are not charity-minded. They rent out their money. It's a simple rental arrangement. If you rent a house or a car, you expect to pay your rent each month and also to return the property-
all
of the property-when your rental period has expired. Right?"

Bolan merely nodded.

"We rented your father a sum of money. The rental period specified was ninety days. If your father had returned our property at the expiration of that period, and if his rent was all paid up at that time, the debt would have been settled. But he did not. Naturally, in any business arrangement, there are certain penalty agreements to be invoked when one of the parties defaults. So many people fail to understand the financial structure of the business world. Now all your father has managed to do is to barely keep up the
rent
payments and to pay some of the penalties. He
still
has
all
of the property he rented-in this case,
our
money. We want it back. Are we so unreasonable?"

"Five hundred and fifty bucks is pretty high rent on
four hundred
bucks, isn't it?" Bolan observed softly.

"You're forgetting the penalties," Plasky shot back. He smiled. "All right, you're an intelligent man, Mr. Bolan. Sure, our interest rates are high. We provide a service at a risk that few financiers would be interested in. Why didn't your father borrow this money from a bank? Huh? You know the answer to that. No bank would have risked a nickel on your father. We did. We risked four hundred dollars on him. Frankly, soldier, your old man was a bad risk. Naturally our interest rates have to take that cruel fact into account And, of course, we don't
force
anyone to do business with us. We-"

"You keep saying 'we,'" Bolan interrupted. I thought-"

"Plasky Enterprises is associated with Triangle, of course," Plasky said. "Shall we get down to business now? Are you prepared to settle your father's account?"

"As far as I'm concerned it's already settled," Bolan replied mildly. I just came in to tell you that"

"Our business is with your father, Mr. Bolan," Plasky said, coloring furiously. "He'll have to talk for himself."

That'd be a pretty good trick, Mr. Plasky. He was buried ten days ago."

There was a moment of silence as Plasky whipped the cover of the Bolan account open and closed several times. Finally he said, "We'll just refer the matter to our legal department. We can tie up the estate, you know."

"There's no estate and you know it," Bolan told him. "The debt is paid, Plasky. He got four, he returned five and a half. The debt is paid." He rose to leave.

"You don't know what you're saying, fella," Plasky sneered, rising with him.

Is your
legal department
going to pack up their brass knucks and follow me to Vietnam?" Bolan asked, his tone faintly mocking.

"Vietnam?" the other man echoed.

"I got emergency leave to bury the old man. I'll be going back in a couple of days. By the way..." Bolan sat back down.

"Yeah?" The ruddy face was further flushed with suppressed anger.

"I saw those guys get it."

"What? What guys?"

"The guys down at Triangle. I saw them die."

"So?" Plasky's hands were clenched together on the desk.

"I think I saw the guy that did it."

An electric silence settled into the atmosphere of the sumptuous office. Plasky's knuckles cracked, emphasizing the silence. "Did you go to the police?" he asked presently.

"And get involved in a mess like that?" Bolan's tone clearly implied that such an action was unthinkable.

"My- uh-associates would be interested in your-uh -observations."

"Like I said, I'm going to Vietnam in a couple of days," Bolan replied.

"I- uh-could set up a quick meeting."

"I want some fun and frolic before I go back to the jungle rot," the tall man mused. "I don't want to get tied up."

"I guarantee you all the fun and frolic you can handle," Plasky replied quickly, reaching for the telephone.

Bolan's hand stopped him. "Then there's this other thing," he said.

"What other thing?"

"This strained customer relation thing. I say the Bolan debt is settled."

"Of course! Of course it's settled!"

"I want the note."

Plasky dug into the folder, produced an imposingly legal-appearing paper, and slid it into Bolan's hand. The tall man glanced at it, then settled back in his chair with a grunt, folding the paper and placing it in a pocket. Plasky's stubby forefinger stabbed into the telephone dial.

"Do you believe in fate, Bolan?" Plasky asked, obviously highly pleased with the turn of the morning's events.

"Yeah. You'd never believe how much I believe in fate, Mr. Plasky," the tall man replied.

And The Executioner smiled.