War Against the Mafia (5 page)

Bolan was being worked into the routine that Turrin called "girl-watching." He had been outfitted in expensive civilian clothes and provided with a snub-nosed.32 calibre pistol, a license to carry same, and a shoulder-holster with a snap-out feature to carry it in. The clothing and the hardware had come from Bolan's future earnings; the gun license had appeared through some magical means wholly unknown to Bolan.

"It's legal, it's legal," Turrin assured him. "It ain't broadcasted, but it's legal, and if the question is ever raised about you carrying a gun, they'll find your license all duly recorded and all that jazz. So don't worry about it. We take care of those little details. Nobody gets nothing on the organization."

Turrin was operating behind a front called "Escorts Unlimited." The offices were swank and convincing and the "social" rooms of the "clubhouse" beyond reproach. He had a genuine computer match-making service, complete with certified programmer and staff.

"We make a little off the front," he confided to Bolan, "but just about enough to break even on the rent and salaries. We even carry a mortgage on that razzle-dazzle computer." He laughed. "Financed through Triangle Industrial Finance Company, that great little friend to free enterprisers."

Bolan discovered that his official job tide was "security officer." He was on the legal payroll of Escorts Unlimited, and from his weekly $250 would routinely be deducted the social security and income taxes. "You can even have U.S. Savings Bonds taken out if you want," Turrin explained, "-but listen, don't worry about those legal deductions. We make all that up. You get an expense account, nontaxable, so don't worry. You come out all right. But we're legal, see. Strictly legal."

The undercover operation even had an air of legality about it. The various facets of organized prostitution in the city and surrounding suburbs were programmed into the computer and coded to insure against inadvertent loss of security and deliberate snooping. The program code for the call-girl operation, for example, was listed under "Dates Available by Prior Arrangement Only"- and the program "key" for specific informational or assignment "sorts" and "print-outs" was activated only by a secret code letter. The same file, sorted electronically and activated by the standard program code, would produce only a print-out on the legitimate dating service. Another operation was listed under "Dates by Spontaneous Selection," and a similar one as "Organized Social Activities"-covering, respectively, street girls and house girls.

"We use the machine, sure we use it," Turrin told Bolan. "Why not? The damn thing is foolproof, and you got no idea yet the
size
of this operation. I got hundreds of girls working the undercover end of things, and why should I try to keep all this stuff in my head, or in a secret set of books someplace. Listen, I got a 'destruct' I can punch into that computer and in
one second
there's not one incriminating record in the file-not one that anybody can get to, anyway. It wipes out everything but the legit operation. Hell, why shouldn't I use it? That's progress, Sarge-hell, that's sheer progress. My programmer calls it APPS, for Automated Prostitution Program System, and he's proud as hell of the thing. Hell, he's a scientist, that guy, a real
scientist.
The sweet part is that none of these people in the office, nobody but me and my programmer, know anything about the
real
business. The damn machine has even got
them
outsmarted. Not one of 'em could really testify to anything. It all looks on the up and up to
them.
So a guy calls in, see, and says he's John Smith of Ace Industries, and he's hosting a sales meeting. He wants us to send him a dozen hostesses to give the place some glitter. One of the office girls takes the order. If this guy is on the level then that's all there is to it. The girl runs the order through the program and she gets a list of names and phone numbers. She goes down the list, making the calls, until she fills the order. And everybody's happy. The sales meeting gets some pretty models to pretty things up and Escorts Unlimited has a happy customer. But-
but-
if this John Smith is in
the know
and he wants some bedsprings tigers for his little get-together, then he's got a
code
in his order that automatically triggers the computer to a
different
list. And he don't even know what the code is, it's just something my field man has rigged into his account number. Get the picture? The damn thing is foolproof. We change the program codes every day-
every damn day-
so
we run things right up tight and we know who we're dealing with all the time.

"Another case. Say a guy is in town just for the night, and he wants some company. He lets it be known, just like a guy would in any town. You know, a word to the desk clerk or a waiter or a bellhop. You know the routine. In a matter of minutes one of my field men is on the horn, talking to one of the office girls. He places an order for a model, and he knows the program code to use. Sometimes in less than ten minutes a girl is on the job, and we got a happy client, and a totally dumb staff clerk who would testify on a stack of Bibles that all she ever did was call a free-lance model who's listed in our computer service. See? It's clean, it's clean as hell.

"We're pretty well protected from the girl end, too. There isn't much to tie her back to us, if she ever gets careless or unlucky. It's happened a couple of times, and we get very indignant, see. Imagine that! A
prostitute,
perverting our sacred service to ply her shameful trade!

Get the picture? We been took by the girl, see, and naturally we can't be responsible for anything like that."

"That doesn't say much for protection for the girl, does it?" Bolan inquired.

"Aw hell, they just get their wrists slapped. If it looks like she's in real trouble, you know, like they're gonna throw the book at her-why, we get her a lawyer-under the table, you know. We pay legal fees, or some of 'em, and we'll advance the money to cover fines. We take care of our girls. Unless they're
way
outta line. You work for the organization, the organization works for you. Remember that, Bolan the Bold. When the girls are okay to come back to work again, we run 'em into the computer with a new name and a new district and that's that. But you can see the security of the thing, can't you? I mean, we're
covered, S
arge."

Beside Turrin and the programmer there were five other organization men in the operation, these five respectfully classified as "sales representatives" and referred to as "field men." The job title sounded better than "pimp" but the effect was precisely the same, even though much of their contact work was in the rarefied strata of big business, conventioneering, and politics.

"These are sharp boys," Turrin reported proudly, "-most of them are better educated than me. They can move around in the best circles, and in fact they
got
to. They hardly ever see their girls, and probably not one girl in ten would know any of these guys if they saw 'em at the same party, or even in the same bed. The field men work on a commission, so they're go-getters. They don't have a lot of contact with the street girls or the house girls, and damn little to do with their own party girls and call girls. We're
up tight
all the way, Sarge."

"With everything run so impersonally," Bolan probed, "I suppose you never have contact with any of these girls either, eh?"

Turrin winked and smiled knowingly. "Don't worry,

my sergeant, you'll have all the female flesh you can stomach." He laughed "I make personal contact when I feel the need to. Not so much with the girls on the top end. Oh-" He frowned "-sometimes a certain personal touch is called for. Sometimes I take a personal interest in a new girl, to get her started off right. You know." He laughed again. "But I got a wife and three kids, you know. I mean, I don't lay around with whores
all
the time."

Bolan dug his elbow into the other's ribs. "Hell, I bet you got a dozen fillies on your personal list right now," he persisted.

"Oh, I don't know..." Turrin sobered, then grinned suddenly. "A guy can go ape at first, if he don't use some will power. And that's bad. You either start to lose your appreciation, or you start to lose your head. And
that
is
real
bad. Sometimes a girl is referred over from one of the other operations. In those cases, I take a personal interest, get her logged into the computer, that sort of thing, you know. That's outside the regular recruiting channels. Sometimes I'll take a personal interest in the kid, help her get off with her best cheek forward, you know what I mean." Bolan knew what he meant, and a muscle twitched in his cheek Turrin was not looking at his companion, however. "But I don't get into no entanglements," he continued. "Know what I mean? You can't get emotionally straddled with these girls. You know what I mean?"

Bolan nodded. "I think so," he said curtly.

"Besides, these girls getting fifty to a hundred bucks a toss get to thinking they got a gold-plated ass or something. I don't really like 'em. When I feel like cutting up a little, I go down to one o' my houses."

"You have those, too," Bolan observed wryly.

"Oh, sure. Really, I understand that end of things a lot better." Turrin grinned. "I
like
it better. That end is run entirely different. We got a madam for each house, just like the olden times. She runs her own books. We keep her supplied in girls, she runs the house, runs her own books, and feeds the money back in to the field man in her district. She works on commission, too, just like the field man, and he gets an override on everything she makes."

"Sounds like very big business," Bolan commented.

"You'll find out just how big," Turrin replied, "if you stick close to your C.O. Listen, we got ten women who do nothing but recruit girls. And you'd be surprised where we get some of them from. College campuses, factories, office buildings-" He raised his eyebrows, "-suburban
homes-
one gal we took on last month had just come off her honeymoon. We got chorus girls, models, would-be actresses and even some part-timers who really
are
actresses. Listen, every woman who
is
a woman has got at least a little whorin' streak in her. A lot of our call girls are part-timers. You know-they do other things, too.
All
of our party girls are part-timers, moonlighters. Hell, some of 'em wouldn't say
'fuck'
if they was getting gang-banged. Nicey-nice, you know- but not too damn nice to pick up some extra coin here'n there." Turrin frowned. "For
my
part, I'll take the good old honest whore. Well-" He paused, frowning even deeper. "You'll go outta your mind with the turnover we got in this business, Sarge. Understand something, and make sure you understand it. We have no competition in this town. Or anywhere around. If a girl is selling it within fifty miles of where you're standing, then she's selling for the organization and she's working for
me.
We-"

"I'm glad I understand that," the executioner said brusquely.

"Yeah- well, we don't even allow no amateurs to operate. We bust 'em fast, damn fast-and they either join our team or they get the hell out. That means we gotta fill the demand if we don't want a big payroll of nothing but broad-busters. I mean, there's no profit in that sort of thing. You understand that. I want you to understand me too, Sarge. I might not talk Yale or Harvard, but I'm a businessman and I know my business and I run my business all the way. Understand? All the way. No loose gooses around here, and just because I'm a good guy
some
of the time don't mean I'm an idiot. You better understand that. And just because I
like
you don't mean I won't
bust
you if you get outta line. You got that understanding?"

"I have that understanding."

"All right. You understand this, too. It's more profitable to keep the demand filled than to run around bustin' amateurs and chiselers. We got the high class hotels and motels pretty well covered with our computer call girl services, and we even got a few high class clubs and dining rooms as clients. But we got walking girls, too- we call 'em field girls. They operate strictly free-lance, some of 'em using their own pad as home base, and we trust 'em to play their finances square with us. We spot-check from time to time, but generally we use the honor system with the walking girls. They cover the little bars and clubs and some of 'em even serve as house girls for the crummy little hotels. We let 'em operate and we give 'em the protection of the organization. But they all belong to us. Understand that. Every damn one of them. Get the picture?"

"I get it," Bolan assured him.

"We treat our girls good. No strong-arm stuff as long as they keep in line. And we don't try to own 'em. They want to get out, they get out-but once out, they stay out, and they all know that. They're working for theirselves, see, and they all know that too. The organization does all their contact work-'cept for the field girls-and they get our full protection.
And
they keep the heavy share of the take. Like I told you, we're a democracy for the bold and the brave."

"Yeah, I remember," said Bolan the Bold.

"All right, come on," Turrin said, suddenly sniffing. "I'm going to show you one of our house operations."

"I was wondering when we'd get around to the girl-watching," Bolan replied.

"You don't know what girl-watching is yet," the vice-lord of Pittsfield said chummily. "Come on, I'm taking you to my home away from home. I keep it stocked with the best stuff in Pittsfield, and I dare you to keep your eyes on and your hands off. And you gotta do just that You gotta do
just
that."

It was a large house in the suburbs-nothing overly elaborate from the outside view, and certainly nothing to cause it to stand out from the other irregularly placed estates on the tree-lined street. An iron gate stood open, allowing ready access to the macadam drive. A gardener worked quietly in a flower bed near the front of the acreage of neat lawn. Numerous trees and shrubs dotted the landscape, all but hiding the house from street observation. A six-foot iron fence completed the isolation, there being no gate other than the automobile gate at the drive. Bolan looked again at the "gardener," deciding he was too young, too alert, and too near the open gate to be anything other than a disguised guard. Turrin brought the front wheels of the convertible to a temporary rest upon a slight lateral ridge in the driveway macadam, counting to five under his breath, then grinned at Bolan and gunned on along the curving drive toward the house. "We're up tight," he muttered. "There's a pressure switch buried in that hump. Always give it a five-second count, or you'll panic everybody in there." He nodded his head toward the white-painted structure looming in front of them. "We call the place 'Pinechester.' And it's legally chartered as a private club."

"Looks nice, but deserted," Bolan commented.

"Little early," Turrin grunted. "Don't get much daylight business. Most of the girls sleep until late afternoon, less they wanta get in some sunbathing or swimming or something." He noted Bolan's raised eyebrows, and added, "Yeah, there's a pool around back, nice one. This is one of our higher class houses. It's my pet, really. The girls here all treat me nice. They wanta stay here. Sheer luxury, huh."

Bolan had to agree. They passed a double tennis court and a golf-putting green. "How many girls?" he wanted to know.

"There's twenty-two bedrooms," Turrin replied proudly. "Sometimes we have more girls than that, sort of rotate days off and get the most out of the property. Real businesslike, you know." He glanced at his companion. "We sell memberships to this place. Like I said, it's a club.
Run
like a club. But the membership fee just gets the member in the door. Or he can use the pool and the other outdoors stuff at no extra charge. Then every so often we throw a party-by printed invitation
only-
and that costs the guy a
bundle.
We always got a waiting list for our parties." He pulled the car into a five-stall garage, killed the motor, and turned to Bolan with a huge grin. "We got half the aldermen in Gwinett on our party list. And the other half
trying
to get on," he added, chuckling.

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. Well 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 vicious 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.