"Does that mean I've got the problem of the century in my town?"

"First, let me straighten this out. Is the woman saying that the guy was in the house all the while? That he could have been there when Winters died?"

Tatum replied, "No, I didn't get that from her statement. She's apparently convinced that Winters did indeed kill himself. Even said that she had lately been concerned that something like this may happen. Said her uncle had been severely depressed, moody-obviously under some great strain."

"Maybe he knew that Bolan was stalking him," Braddock mused. "Would that be a valid theory?"

"Nothing official," the San Diego cop replied, "but I've heard a few whispers about Winco Industries. They were under investigation once- the federal boys-but apparently nothing came of it."

"You said the dogs were still alive and active when your men got there?"

"Yeah. Very much so. So you tell me, Tim. Is Bolan good enough to climb a hundred feet of sheer rock?"

"He's no fly," Braddock replied thoughtfully. "Did you test the dogs?"

"For what?"

"Drugs."

The line between L.A. and San Diego hummed through a brief silence, then the embarra.s.sed voice from the south admitted, "No. But I'll get a pathologist out there right away."

"That's how he'd do it," Braddock was thoughtfully deciding. "If it were Bolan, he'd know the dogs were there long before he started his move against the place. And he'd come prepared for them. You ... uh ... already know, I suppose, about the old connection between Bolan and Winters."

Another embarra.s.sed silence, then: "What connection?"

"We ran a total make on Bolan while he was in our town," Braddock explained. "I talked to Winters myself, part of the routine. He was Bolan's combat C.O. in Vietnam for awhile."

The silence became oppressive. Finally the man in San Diego said, "You never cleared that with me, Tim."

"Sorry, there was no time for niceties. Winters wasn't suspected of any involvement with Bolan at the time. I was just looking for background on the guy. I set up the meet at the Del Mar country club. We had a drink; he told me what he knew about Bolan, supposedly; I thanked him and left. Had a h.e.l.l of a hot war storming through my own town at the time, you may remember."

"Yeah," came the sour reply. "And now it's an odds-on favorite that I've got one coming up in my town."

"Could be. But don't push the theory too far, John. The impression I got from Winters, I recall, was that he was holding out on me. The height-weight-serial number routine. He gave me very d.a.m.ned little. Later I discovered via other sources that he and Bolan had been very close friends, forget the difference in rank."

The San Diego cop sighed heavily. He said, quietly, "How about giving me the benefit of your mistakes. If you had it to do over again, how would you have handled your Bolan invasion?"

Braddock replied, "Okay, I accept the dig. But I wouldn't change anything. Except maybe I'd move a bit faster than I did against the mob. I suggest you do that. Hit 'em with anything you can think of, but get them behind bars. And keep them there until the guy gets tired of waiting and drifts on out."

"That's a cop-out."

"Call it what you like. Just remember, Bolan doesn't stay long in one place. Part of his survival M.O. Hit quick and get out. Disappears for awhile, pops up again far away for another quick hit and git."

"You know how long I can keep these boys behind bars, Tim? Just as long as it takes their d.a.m.ned lawyers to hit me with a briefcase full of legal papers."

"Sure, I know that. So you turn them loose and grab them again as they're climbing into their cars. For spitting on the sidewalk, for making an obscene gesture, for sweating. And you keep it up until-"

"Yeah I know the routine," Tatum declared wearily.

"I don't know what else to tell you, John."

"You told me precisely what I did not not want you to tell me, Tim." want you to tell me, Tim."

Braddock said, "Maybe the Winters girl is more confused than you think. I'll say this much: it doesn't sound like the usual Bolan thing. I mean, when the guy hits your town, you seldom have to wonder if he's really there."

"So I hear," Tatum commented sourly.

Another voice entered the telephone hookup, a voice which sounded as though it were accustomed to respectful listening. "Captain Braddock. This is Chief Larson."

Braddock said, "Yes sir."

"I'm sitting across the desk from John. Excuse me for not announcing my presence earlier but I thought it better that you approach the question without official intimidation. It's time for that now. You're considered the foremost authority in the West on the Bolan problem. I'm asking you now for an official opinion. Is the Executioner operating in this city?"

Braddock sighed. "I'd have to say, yes sir, it sounds that way. He'll probably confirm it, very loudly, at most any time now."

"All right. Ill be talking to your chief but I suppose I should clear it with you first. I'd like you down here with us, in an advisory capacity."

It was getting to be a habit. Braddock had hardly unpacked from the trek to Boston.

He sighed and told the San Diego official, "I'il have to beg off, Sir. My work here is stacked up around my ears. I think we could spring another man, though-and, actually, he's been much closer to Bolan than I have."

"I don't want you unless you're willing, Captain. You won't reconsider?"

"I'm sorry, sir. The department wouldn't allow it even if I wanted to go. If you'll make the request via official channels, though, I'll see that you're provided the best man available." "All right. I'll rely on that, Captain." Tatum chimed in with, "Tim, thanks." "You bet," Braddock replied, and broke the connection.

He immediately poked his intercom and told his secretary, "Run down Sergeant Lyons for me- Carl Lyons. He should be in Organized Crime Division. Tell him to grab a toothbrush and be in my office within the hour. Then set me up for five minutes in the Chiefs office-make it urgent business conference-and request that Captain Mira of OCD be present."

"Sounds like a bell-ringer," the secretary commented.

"You better believe it. Oh-and when you're talking to Sergeant Lyons-tell him if s a Hard-case." Hard-case."

"I thought Hardcase Hardcase was dead." was dead."

"Not yet," Braddock growled into the intercom. "It's apparently alive and well ... in San Diego."

Thank G.o.d.

Thank G.o.d it was not Braddock's problem this time.

7:

DANGER'S FOLLY.

They were supposed to have gotten underway at seven o'clock and here it was eight already. If they were going to cancel these G.o.dd.a.m.n things, why the h.e.l.l didn't somebody have enough thought about them to let a guy know it was off?

Gene (the Turtle) Tarantini paced the glistening deck of the flying bridge and ranted inwardly at the sorry way things had been going lately with this chicken outfit.

He'd rather be back in the navy ... almost. Not quite. But there wasn't much difference ... when a guy got to thinking about it. Same d.a.m.n chicken outfit. Guys pulling rank all the time, giving out orders right and left, expecting you to snap-s.h.i.t every time they stepped aboard.

Let Tony Danger run his own f.u.c.kin' navy!

He stepped over to the voice tube and blew into it to attract attention down below, then he announced, "Hear this, you f.u.c.king muddy-water sailors. The admiral has not been piped aboard and it don't look like he's coming. Secure the f.u.c.king engines-hey wait, belay that. I think his imperial lateness has finally arrived."

A guy was coming down the steps from the sun deck of the marina's lounge. White bell bottoms, deck shoes, knit shirt, bright yellow nylon wind-breaker and the inevitable skipper's hat. Dark sun gla.s.ses. Carrying a briefcase.

The Turtle turned back to the voice tube and pa.s.sed the word to his two-man crew. "Look alive, you know how his feelings get hurt if we don't show no sideboys."

Then he picked up the binoculars and took a closer look.

h.e.l.l, that wasn't Tony Danger.

Too tall, too big all over. Too much of everything.

But the guy was sure headed for Danger's Folly, Folly, no doubt about that. And he sure looked like the real article. That briefcase was chained to his wrist. no doubt about that. And he sure looked like the real article. That briefcase was chained to his wrist.

Tarantini put down the binoculars and swung into the c.o.c.kpit of the big cruiser. He pulled a .38 revolver from the chart case, checked it, spun the cylinder, and replaced it.

"Watch it," he growled down to the two men who were just then emerging from the cabin. "Something's not exactly kosher here."

Bolan had picked up the outfit at the Mission Bay "Mariner's Shop"-and he suspected that Tony Danger had bought his seagoing togs at the same place; there'd been no difficulty whatever in duplicating the outfit, right down to the fancy sungla.s.ses with little anchors at the posts.

He spotted the guy watching him through binoculars from the cruiser and knew that he was being closely scrutinized.

It was a beautiful hunk of seagoing mahogany, definitely in the yacht cla.s.s. Powerful, sleek. Must have cost a bundle.

By the time he reached the gangway, two more guys in spotless T-shirts and white ducks were standing at the rail in a sort of self-conscious parade-rest stance. Each wore a navy-style white hat, rakishly c.o.c.ked over the eyes, the sidebands flaring out in the center like wings.

Bolan stepped aboard and gave the sailors an impatient toss of his head. "We're late," he growled. "Cast off, haul that gangway in."

A voice from above him snarled, "I give the f.u.c.king orders aboard here, sir."

Bolan angled his gaze toward the flying bridge and told the little guy up there, "You'll be giving orders up your a.s.s if you don't get this tub moving."

The guy grinned at him and, in a much milder tone, asked, "Where's Mr. Danger?"

Bolan did not return the smile. His voice was softer, though, in the reply. "Something's rumbling. There might be trouble. Tony's sitting this one out with th' boss. He shook the briefcase. "Do we go or don't we?"

The man on the bridge raised a bos'n's pipe to his lips and tootled a shrieking command through it.

Bolan grinned on that one and watched the crewmen scramble expertly through the casting-off exercises. A moment later the cruiser was moving smoothly through the smallcraft harbor and heading for open water.

He went up and joined the man at the conn, watched him in silence for a moment, then told him, "I'm Frankie Lambretta. Who're you?"

The guy gave him a dazzling smile and replied, "I'm Gene Tarantini. Mr. Danger started calling me "Turtle"-now everybody does. You may as well, too."

"Okay." Bolan ran his hands along Tarantini's body in a quick frisk, then growled, "Hey, I told you there might be trouble. Where the h.e.l.l's your hardware?"

The guy glanced toward the chart case and said, "In there."

Bolan commanded, "Wear it!"

"Yessir."

"Do your boys have hardware?"

"Yessir, we keep it down in the quarters."

"I can handle the wheel for a minute," Bolan said. "You go tell those boys to get dressed."

Tarantini flashed another big smile, turned the wheel over to his pa.s.senger and descended quickly to the main deck. He was back seconds later, reaching into the chart case and tucking a revolver into the waistband of his trousers. He said, almost shyly, "You're a real torpedo, aren't you."

Bolan relinquished the conn and growled, "Yeh."

"I knew it the minute I saw you. I ain't seen a dude like you since Manhattan. You don't take no orders from Mr. Danger, do you?"

Bolan made a derisive sound.

"I thought not. You're cla.s.s, Mr. Lambretta ... real cla.s.s."

"Thanks," Bolan said. He was silent for a moment, then he told the impressionable Mafioso, Mafioso, "Listen, Turtle, I might be sliding into something very uncomfortable. You know?" "Listen, Turtle, I might be sliding into something very uncomfortable. You know?"

"Yessir. I already figured that."

"I'll appreciate some close support from you and your boys, if things get to that."

"Yessir, you can count on that."

"Okay. You've got a sharp crew here. Stay that way."

"You offer odds on that, Mr. Lambretta."

Bolan punched the guy lightly on the shoulder and went below to the main deck.

The Ventura Boulevard bridge was just ahead.

In a few minutes they would be in open sea.

Where to from there?

It was a wild-a.s.s play he was making. He knew that. So ... why change the name of the game now? His entire life had become a wild-a.s.s play.

He walked toward the stern and reached into his armpit to activate the miniature shoulder phone, then turned his face to the side and shielded his mouth with a hand as he spoke into the sensitive microphone. "Gadgets."