Chapter 8.

Out of Hand.

Bolan was pushing his luck with the war wagon and he knew it. The time had come to dump it and switch to something less noticeable. However, he had followed the Don's vehicles from the Emperor's to a sedate neighborhood on the near north side of town and satisfied himself that the old man was indeed going home-and he had one final job to perform with this disguised war machine.

There had never been any thought of mounting a frontal a.s.sault upon the Angeletti residence. There was no combat stretch in that neighborhood. Houses were too close together, too near the street where too much traffic flowed; the odds were simply too great that innocent civilians would get caught in the action.

That house did figure in certain other aspects of the war, though-and the time would never be better to take this initiative.

Bolan felt that he had to chance it.

He had engineered a tap on Angeletti's telephone two days earlier and left the splice taped off at a distribution box located a block and a half away, from the house. Using his lineman's phone, he could connect into that circuit whenever the time seemed appropriate to do so.

That time had now arrived.

He made one pa.s.s through the neighborhood in the wake of Angeletti's limousines, verified their destination, then circled about in a quick recon of the area.

And, yeah.

The cops had this place under surveillance, also.

He spotted two likely, appropriately inconspicuous cars angled off for un.o.bstructed views of the front of the Angeletti home, another on a side street where the rear of the property could be watched via a narrow alleyway.

They were not watching for Angeletti.

They were waiting for Mack Bolan.

It was a police tactic which was giving Bolan more trouble than all the others. Not that he blamed the cops. It was their job. They weren't trying to protect the enemy, necessarily-although in the curious legal-moral structure of this country the lawless had as much right to protection under the law as anyone else. But that wasn't it. The cops were probably just as happy as anyone to see these Mafia fat cats-whom they could rarely touch, themselves-falling all over their a.s.ses trying to evade the Executioner's implacable style of justice. But supposedly it was a nation of law. And the law had to prevail. Mack Bolan had to be put out of circulation.

And the law was gunning for Mack Bolan in Philadelphia.

Sure, he accepted that. It was part of the game. Bolan had never asked for a hunting license; he'd even refused one, early in the game.

But the cops were not the enemy. They were, in Bolan's mind at least, soldiers of the same side. He could not fight them. He could only hope to avoid them. And they were making that task more and more difficult all the time.

He warily circled the neighborhood, counting his chances and calculating probabilities. Then he threw the whole thing into the hands of the universe and sent the war wagon along the side street to the north of the Angeletti address.

It was a short block and a narrow street-no houses fronting, no streetlamps. Night had fallen. The moon was up, but high trees on the properties bordering to each side were casting deep shadows and enveloping the narrow lane in heavy darkness.

He could not have asked for better conditions.

With the exception of the AutoMag and the Beretta, he left his armaments in the war wagon and went up the pole to eavesdrop on a Capo.

The line was in use when he plugged in.

Someone in the household was talking to a doctor, one who presumably knew how to keep his mouth shut about certain injuries which could prove embarra.s.sing to a low-profile family like the Angeletti Mafiosi.

A few seconds after the conclusion of that conversation, old man Angeletti himself made a call to an attorney. This had to do with certain protective measures which the Don had apparently worked out some time earlier, something to do with a dummy lease which had been let on the Emperor's property, and "you know what to say when the cops come nosing around."

The lawyer a.s.sured the Capo that he could not possibly be tied, not officially anyway, to the trouble out at the Emperor's.

The third call was made immediately thereafter -a direct-dial long distance connection into a New York City exchange-and Bolan knew that this one was the pay dirt he'd been awaiting.

A cautious voice responded to the third ring with a quiet, "H'lo, yeah, who's that?"

Don Stefano's voice announced, "This is me in Philly."

"Oh, yeah, we just been talking about you." Bolan recognized this voice as belonging to one Augie Marinello, boss of all the bosses everywhere. "Listen, be careful. They found our, you know, stunt- box. So we're talking plain out."

"Yeah, I know," Angeletti replied. "How much longer before we, uh, get another one? I really need to talk to you."

Bolan understood the meaning of "stunt box". It was a rig similar to a scrambler which automatically encoded/decoded telephone conversations-a security measure against phone taps.

"Another day or two," Marinello was saying. "Maybe you better just come in."

"I can't. Listen. It's really bad here."

A brief silence, then: "That's what we been talking about."

"Is everybody there? I mean, all of you?"

"Yeh," said the unofficial Capo di tutti Capi. "We been having a session, wondering what we could do for you."

"Well, listen. You can do a lot. I want everybody that's ever seen this guy before, I mean the merest glimpse. How'm I supposed to spot a guy that n.o.body's ever seen before, huh? Listen, you got somebody that's even smelt his farts, I want that somebody here with me. This thing is getting bad."

"'There's not many of that kind around," Marinello replied quietly.

"There's a few," the old Don argued. "There's that Leo the p.u.s.s.y. You sent him all the way to London. Why not send him to Philly for a short vacation? I could use the guy. And, uh, that n.i.g.g.e.r. From Washington. You know? Our late friend Arnie's controller. What's his name, the football guy?"

"Wils Brown," Marinello said, sighing.

"That's the guy. I need 'im here."

"He's not one of us."

"Who cares? Let's not be proud. At a time like this. Right?"

"Right, I guess so," the third voice from New York agreed. "Listen, Steven-I don't wanta say too much. But . . we been putting heads together here. We're sending you, uh, some help. So relax. Uh . . . maybe you better tell me. What's going on there now?"

"That guy just now walloped the h.e.l.l out of us. You tell me how, I don't know, I really don't. I never saw nothing like this. Hey, the Bronx was never like this, not even back when."

"Anybody I know get carried out of the game?". Marinello asked.

"Not all the way. Our friend Jules is going to have some pain for a while, but he's okay. The rest was those, you know, those boys from over there. I think maybe twenty or thirty won't be with us no more."

"Gee, that many, that's too bad," Marinello said, the tone shocked and sympathetic.

"I still got plenty more, but I don't know. I mean, you know, those boys didn't stop a thing. I mean, like paper dolls. I'm not so sure about these boys, Augie."

"Yeah." A pause, then, "I guess we can talk about that later. Right now, I want you to feel a.s.sured. You know. We're not letting you down. We got a . .. listen . . . I can't say too much . . . we got a specialist on the way to you. He's-just a minute."

Bolan heard off-telephone whispers, then Marinello's voice came back directly into the line. "He's on his way there now. Driving. Look for him in about another thirty minutes."

"One guy?" old man Angeletti fumed. "Just one guy?"

"Well, one, yeah, but not just a guy, Steven. I told you, a specialist. Listen . . . relax. This guy is recommended by the very best. Our friend Mike sends his best."

Bolan also remembered their friend Mike. Talifero. Bolan had last seen their friend Mike lying in his own blood on a Vegas casino floor.

"I thought Mike was . . . is he up and around now?" Angeletti was asking, voicing Bolan's own interest in the matter.

"He's getting around some now. He's here now, right beside me. Sends you his best, Steven. You understand me."

"I understand you," the old man replied, sighing. "But one man, Augie. . ."

"Oh, we're sending more than just the one. Buffalo is sending down a delegation. We got a couple groups leaving Manhattan in another hour or two. You know, it takes awhile to round these delegations up. And with, uh, you know, our little troubles over in Brooklyn, uh. . ."

"Yeah, I know," the Philly boss said, understanding. "Well, I appreciate everything you can do, Augie. You know that. This thing is looking real serious. This, uh, specialist. Do I know him?"

A pause, then, "Mike says you do and you don't. n.o.body really knows this guy, Steven."

"Oh, that guy!" Angeletti crowed, the old voice crackling with new interest.

"Yeh. So, look, take it easy, eh? Just keep yourself covered the best you can and let nature take its course. Everything is in our favor, you know that."

"Sure, okay, you know how much I appreciate- listen, I still want those other guys I mentioned. Leo the p.u.s.s.y and the football player. And any more you might know about."

"That might be hard to engineer, Steven. But I'll try. You have my word."

"Look, it's no time to be holding out trumps," Angeletti pointed out.

"I know that. We're not holding anything out on you, Steven. You have my word. How's, uh, how's Frank?"

"Frank's just fine," Frank's papa reported. "I been real proud of him today."

It was a lie. Bolan knew it, and he knew that Marinello knew it.

"It's nice to have a son who can take some of the pressures away," Marinello was saying. "Most of 'em today aren't worth a d.a.m.n. You know that, Steven."

"Yeah, I know that," Angeletti agreed stiffly.

"Well, I know it's a comfort to have a good strong son in the house. I never had a one with legs under 'im. You know that. But . . . we gotta accept some things. Right? We gotta learn to live with pain sometimes."

It was a gentle hint from the boss of bosses to the boss of Philly. Bolan knew it. Angeletti knew it. '[he old man sighed and told New York, "Frank's coming along. Don't worry, Augie, I'm no idiot. I know what I know. Well, listen. I better hang up. I got a jillion things to do. That, uh, that specialist. How will I know him?"

A whispered consultation preceded: "Mike says you'll know him when he wants you to."

"I need more than that," Angeletti complained. "We're not taking chances on anything that moves around here. You better give me something for recognition."

A new voice came on from the New York end, a hard businesslike talker with a Harvard accent that set Bolan's teeth on edge. It was Mike Talifero, lord high enforcer of all Mafiosi everywhere. "Steven, h.e.l.lo, I've been listening in. Do you understand who it is we're sending you?"

"Hi, Mike, sure I know who you're sending. Problem is, the guy's a wild card. Never the same face two times outta the deck. I gotta know what to look for."

"Look for a Maserati."

"A what?"

"You know, a car. That's what he's driving. just let him in the gate. He can handle the ID from, there."

"Oh, I get you. I guess that's good enough. You just better hope the guy doesn't switch cars on the way."

Talifero laughed and replied, "No way. He just blew his last dollar on that bucket. Listen, Steven.. This boy is good. Give him his head. Don't try to tie him down."

"You sending him down here to take charge?' Angeletti asked soberly.

"It's the only way he works, Steven. You know that."

"Yeah. Well. I been letting Frank run herd on . . on these boys here."

"Let's be men, Steven."

"I see what you mean. Okay." The old man sighed heavily and said, "Put Augie back on."

Marinello reported, "I'm still here, Steven. Listen. Soon as this all blows over, come up and see us. We need to have a long talk."

"Yeh. Thanks, Augie. And thank all our friends up there for me. Oh, and don't forget, you're sending me more than just this wild card from Mike."

"I'll do all I can, Steven."

"Thanks. 'bye, Augie."

"Good-bye, Steven."

Bolan waited until both clicks canceled the connection entirely, then he pulled his patch out and pushed that conversation through his mind several times around.

Things could be coming to a head quicker than he'd expected. Bolan had heard about this "wild card"-a Talifero trouble-shooter who carried Commissione credentials and who acted with all the authority of that ruling Mafia body.

The guy was an elite hit-man. He was usually saved for very special jobs, like hitting outside VIP's who'd earned themselves a contract, or errant capi who refused to knuckle under to Cosa Nostra edicts. The rumors were out that this very same "wild card" had been very busy of late in Brooklyn and Jersey.

Bolan had once impersonated the guy.

Maybe, just maybe, the Philadelphia problem was deserving of an encore performance by Mack the Wild Card Bolan.