"What guy?"

Frank threw a glance at the Maserati. "That guy."

"I'll be taking him in."

"In where?"

"h.e.l.l, back to the head-shed. There's a hundred thou' on that boy."

"Sell him to me."

"What?"

"Let me take him in. For the family-our pride. It would help us in this time we're having. Don't you think? How many families has this boy made monkeys of? Just about all of them. Right? It would help us here in Philly if . . . Johnny, I'll do anything you say. But let me take him in. Naturally I'll turn the contract purse over to you."

"Oh, h.e.l.l, I don't know," Bolan said.

"I'll give you the purse and add ten of my own. Make it twenty. Whatever you think is right."

Bolan repeated, "I don't know. It's more than I money. It's like you said, pride too. I mean, you know. The boy that got this boy is going to be something special. You know?"

d.a.m.n right Frank knew.

The idea was full into his gut now and it was tearing him apart. He was shaking all over as he told the wild card from New York, "Name your price, just name it. Johnny, I've got to have this boy."

Bolan hesitated as long as the moment would allow, then he told Frank the Kid Getting Legs Under Him, "Well, I guess money isn't everything, is it? Like you say, people will be kissing your hands some day. You won't forget me when that day comes, will you, Frank?"

"Listen, you know better. Anything you ever want, Johnny . . ."

"Okay, just give me the purse. But you better give it to me now. Just to keep things straight." "You want it now? All of it now?"

Bolan stretched his neck and popped a burp into his palm. "Well, if you can put your hands on that much, yeah."

"Oh, h.e.l.l, I can. Johnny . . . does Don Stefano know? About . . .?"

Bolan a.s.sured him, "Oh you're the first to know."

"Okay." The guy was soaring. "It's between you and me, then, and it's going to stay that way. From now on it's Frankie and Johnny, right? Hey, those two names go together. Look, I got the money. I was planning another trip to Sicily and I got the cash stashed. Johnny, I'm going to give you a hundred and ten."

"That's d.a.m.n big of you, Frank. But the hundred's okay."

"No, you're going to get the extra. Listen, wait right here, we'll seal this deal right now."

Bolan halted the guy as he was starting to trot toward the house. He said, "Keep it quiet, Frank. One guys knows and it blows the whole thing."

"s.h.i.t, don't worry."

"While you're in there . . . this is important call your crew bosses. Send half to Jules, half to Carmine. Be sure and do that, Frank, because they may not have much time left."

"I will, honest to Christ, I will."

The guy hit the back door on the run.

Bolan leaned against the Maserati and rubbed his eyes.

It was an Executioner's never-never land, and a melody played by ear had never sounded sweeter.

Chapter 22/ Numbers Falling.

They transferred Bolan's side of the $110,000 transaction to the trunk of Frank Angeletti's Buick -with necessary modifications-and Bolan rode with the guy as far as the gate.

Frank was bubbling over from head to toe, already living the fantasy of "the man who got Mack Bolan"-he could hardly wait to begin the victorious trek to Commissione headquarters in New York.

For the third time Bolan had inquired and was rea.s.sured regarding the disposition of Frank's Sicilians. They were on their way, the Kid swore, half of them going to join Jules Sticatta, the other half to Carmine Drasco.

Bolan stepped out at the gate and sent the conquering hero off with a wink, and he was hurrying back to the house when a scuffle on the front lawn commanded his attention.

Some guy over there was getting the h.e.l.l beat out of him, or so it looked. Three of the yardmen had the guy on the ground and were giving it to him with fists and feet when Bolan broke into the fray and began pulling boys off.

"Lousy cop!" one of the guys yelled.

So it was. The young plain-clothes man whose path Bolan had repeatedly crossed that day now lay at his feet.

The guy's eyes blazed up at Bolan and he wasbreathing like a steam engine, mad as h.e.l.l-probably more so at himself than anything else.

Bolan pulled the guy to his feet, brushed him off, examined him for damages and found none. He'd probably have tender ribs and a sore belly for a day or so, but he'd live through it.

The dignity, though-that might be another matter.

A hardman was dangling the cop's revolver from a finger, giving Bolan a questioning stare.

Bolan accepted the gun and jammed it into the guy's holster. He told him, "You can't blame the boys for jumping you. It's your neck that's out, you know. You have no business in here. That was no annual permit you boys brought in here tonight."

Sammy had heard the commotion also and was coming running. He slowed at the sight of Bolan /Cavaretta, sized up the situation and said, "Geez, now what?"

Bolan replied, "Now, nothing The guy was just leaving."

The yard boss protested, "h.e.l.l, Johnny, if the guy has been prowling around here . . . well, I don't know."

"Nah, it's okay," Bolan said. "The guy wants the same thing we want. He's a soldier of the same side. Right? Beat it, cop. Good hunting."

The detective spun about, without a word, and headed for the wall.

Sammy's face was twisted with an inner torment. He cried, "Mr. Cavaretta, I don't think-"

Bolan snapped, "No you don't! That's my department! He goes!"

The cop went, and Bolan continued on to the house.

It was an incident he could have done without. He needed to get d.a.m.n quick to the telephone and get some more numbers into the game.

He went directly to the library and picked up the desk phone just as someone somewhere else in the house was hanging up an extension.

Bolan re-cradled the instrument, his gaze shifting to the ceiling directly overhead, then he picked it up again.

He got a no-interference dial-tone but again waited several seconds, then called the number which Drasco had left with him.

Carmine himself answered the first ring. Bolan told him, "This is me. You know what is coming at you right now, this very minute. You better be ready."

Drasco's cautious reply was rea.s.suring. "Thanks, we are. How many?"

"Forty-two all told. Half to you, half to Jules. You better call him."

"Okay. You know we appreciate it."

Bolan said, "Wait. I heard this much, also. What's that recognition signal you boys been using?"

"You mean with the lights?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, well, just two clicks high beam and hold, two clicks low and hold, another high and fast back to low."

"That's the one," Bolan said, hoping so. "Watch for that. It means something else tonight. It's their signal to each other. It means everything looks okay, crash right in."

"They'll crash, all right," Drasco muttered, and hung up.

Smiling solemnly, Bolan consulted the telephone directory and made another call, reached his party after some haggling over names and departments, quickly had his say, and hung up.

Then he went upstairs to see why the Don was playing with the telephone.

Captain Thomkins was hunched over his desk, staring glumly into a pint carton of milk. He told Joe Persicone, "When they bury me, I want them to make my tombstone out of recycled milk cartons and sandwich wraps. I've spent half my life in their company, I may as well go on through eternity that way."

The FBI man was stretched across two chairs. He shifted his feet and grunted a tired groan. "We may as well hang it up, Wayne. I think we missed our guess. I don't think we'll ever hear of the guy again."

"Don't start that," Thompkins growled. "I haven't given up yet."

As if to reward his perseverence, Bolan's call came at that precise instant.

The Captain s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone and his eyes found the interested gaze of Persicone as he said, "Yeah, yeah, this is the big cop in the dirty gray suit. Who's this?"

The eyes blinked at the FBI man as he said, "Who?"

Persicone kicked his feet clear and slid to the edge of his chair.

The cop was saying, "Sure, I know where. You say there'll be-wait! How do I know you're really who you say you are?" The eyes crackled. "Okay, fella. Hey! Do me a personal favor, will you? Get the h.e.l.l out of our town!"

The FBI agent could hear the crisp crackling of the telephone receiver, the methodical voice that rattled it.

The Captain's eyes were alternately narrowing and widening, in some weird rhythm of attentive listening.

Finally Thomkins yelled, "Wait, dammit! Did he -? He did!" He flung the telephone down and said, "He hung up on me!"

"Who did he say was calling?" Persicone inquired, knowing already.

"He said it was Mack Bolan. He said the foreign army, what the h.e.l.l ever that is, is storming the hall of horrors, whatever the h.e.l.l that is, and we should rush right out to Drasco's and Sticatta's ready to pick up the pieces."

Persicone was on his feet. He said, "Well? Are we going?"

"Well, wait, I want to. . ."

"I think we should."

"I already have a force at each place. Let me. . ."

"Was that all he said?"

"It's not all he said. I hope I got a recording of that. He says we should send fingerprints on all those mala-macaroni or something to-"

"Malacarni?"

"That's the one. What's it mean?"

"I'll tell you later. Go on, what else did he say?"

"We should send these fingerprints to Interpol, we might be very interested in the results. Joe. . . ?"

The Captain was giving the FBI man a very searching gaze.

Persicone found it discomforting. He said, "What?"-a bit testily.

"Level with me. Is this guy working with you people?"

"Bolan? You know better! Come on, what else?" Thomkins sighed. "He just said the numbers were falling. And he hung up."