Panic In Philly Part 12

"Those delegations are standing at the gate," Bolan reported. "Three carloads."

"So I thought you were handling it."

"We weren't expecting them here tonight. Not here. I don't know for sure just who is out there and I don't know for sure if they'll listen to me. How do you feel about fifty-fifty risks?"

"Fifty-fifty is sucker's odds," the old man said. "Right."

"But . . Johnny, I don't want no gunfights around here if we can help it."

"My feelings exactly," Bolan truthfully replied. "The cops would love to pounce in here and haul us all off to jail. We have to handle it without a fight. You want to risk that?"

"I'm getting too old to risk anything, Johnny. What do you suggest?"

"Well . . . I always believed in facing one crisis at a time."

"What does that mean?"

"Look . . . Steven . . . we both know why those boys are here. I don't think they'll listen to me. I don't think they'll even know me. But what I have to suggest is . . well, it's really beyond my authority."

"You're backing off!" the old man sneered.

"The h.e.l.l I am. I'm just telling you where I stand. Sammy here is your boy, not mine. I can't tell him to let those cars in one at a time and to take those crews down to the bas.e.m.e.nt one at a time. I can't tell him to-"

Angeletti stopped the "suggestion" with a wave of the hand. "We know how to handle it," he snapped. "Sammy!"

"Yes sir, I'm right here."

"You're in charge of this. You remember how we handled the German boys."

"Yes sir."

"Okay. You put a couple of boys down there in the pits, with choppers. Unscrew the light bulbs back there so it's dark when you turn the other lights on."

Bolan /Cavaretta suggested, "You'll want to use a Judas goat."

"Right," the old man agreed. "Use one of your smallest boys, a boy who can fall into that trench on the side."

Bolan said, "You also need to make them think you're still dumb. But you're taking no chances. You know? Crazy things have been happening around here and you want them inside-one car at a time. Now, they won't surrender their hardware, we all know that. But we don't want any gun play that's going to be heard. You're getting 'em back to the carports, then you're taking them inside for a drink. Only you take them downstairs; that's where the meeting is. You know?"

Sammy the yard boss knew. He went out, grim- lipped and ready to do-or-die for his Capo.

Bolan told Sammy's Capo: "That's a h.e.l.l of a boy you've got there."

"The very best," Angeletti agreed. "He's done this before. He knows how. You know what this means though, Johnny. It's a war."

That was, Bolan darkly reflected, precisely what it was.

With the enemy engaging itself.

Chapter 19/ The Count.

Bolan waited upstairs until the house captain returned from his errand with the departing bambina; then he grabbed the guy and ordered him to awaken Frank.

"Keep him up here out of the way, though," Bolan added. "And sober him up. I don't care what you have to do. Dunk him in the bathtub, beat the s.h.i.+t out of him, I don't care. But get him sober."

The look in the captain's eyes indicated that he would relish that a.s.signment. He went happily into the Kid's room and Bolan returned to the bedroom he'd used, picked up the tinted-lens gla.s.ses he'd worn earlier that evening, and went down the stairs in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves-the shoulder/chest rig with the Browning on open display.

He went to the library to rummage for cigarettes, found an open pack of Marlboro's on the bar, lit one and went on to the kitchen.

There he found hard bread and cheese and the remnants of the milk he'd sampled earlier. As he fed biological demands of his body, his mind dwelt on different food.

It was very clear in his mind . .. that scene below. The visiting gun crews would be led down the stairs, through the ready room down there, and into the pistol range.

The "Judas goat" would be chattering at them as he brought them in for slaughter, joking or wise-cracking about the super-security of this crazy night in Philadelphia. He would flip on the lights and make a dive for cover as the heavy door banged shut behind them.

At that instant, before the victims could even have a clear idea of where they were, two or three submachine guns would open up from the target pits back there in the darkness. That soundproofed room would be filled with a withering hail of death on the wing, and another group of stutters from the hall of horrors would find the curtain ringing down on their final performance before the footlights of the House of Mafia-and they would die as, they had lived, angrily, profanely, stupidly.

Then the Judas goat would brush himself off, help conceal the bloodied carca.s.ses of his former, amici, and strut up to bring in another troupe.

Bolan sighed and left much of his snack untouched, went instead to the screened porch and smoked in a corner, arms folded across his chest, waiting.

The first crew wagon eased in, lights off, Sammy the yard boss walking alongside, yamming it up with the driver. The vehicle halted just outside the carport; doors opened, nine men unwound themselves from confinement and staggered around getting their legs under them.

Someone out there declared in a tired voice, "First of all, I got to take a p.i.s.s."

Someone else said, "It's awful quiet around here. Thought you was havin' a war."

Sammy was telling them, "We got everything waiting for you right inside. Just go on in. Here, Tommy Dukes will show you the way. It's downstairs, that's where we're getting it together. Hey...chow, some drinks maybe while we put it together, eh?"

Bolan was watching, searching faces as they moved into the light from the house.

He stiffened suddenly, his face going to stone, and he hung the tinted lenses across his face.

The guys were coming on in twos and threes, small-talking and adjusting to a straggly single file as they approached the door.

Sammy had stepped in ahead of them, was ushering them through with chummy remarks. Bolan moved up behind him and quietly commanded, "Cut one out for me, I'll want some words. This guy just coming in-naw, make it the next one., He looks like a honcho or something."

"He is," Sammy agreed, and moved to intercept the guy.

Bolan retired to his corner, arms folded, smoking, watching.

Sammy the yard boss had Leo Turrin by the arm, telling him something and pulling him out of the procession.

A thumb jerked toward Bolan and Leo the p.u.s.s.y tossed a curious glance that way.

Without changing position or expression, Bolan called over, "The library, Sammy."

The yard boss gave directions; Leo was staring curiously at the tall figure in the corner as he moved into the hallways and disappeared.

Bolan watched the rest of the lambs through, then went to the library.

Leo was sitting on Angeletti's desk, legs swinging, lips thoughtfully pursed.

Bolan strode on past him and to the bar, moved around behind it, opened two c.o.kes.

Leo came up and stood there, gazing at him across the bar.

Bolan shoved a c.o.ke over and took off the gla.s.ses.

Turrin hissed, "Motherf.u.c.ker!"

Bolan smiled and said, "Glad I was out there." Leo was beside himself. "G.o.d I thought-looked, and I-I thought, aw, h.e.l.l no, couldn't be-you are the nerviest b.a.s.t.a.r.d I ever . . . the yard boss says you're carrying an Ace of Spades!"

"That's right," Bolan replied, smiling faintly.

"What are you doing here, Leo?"

"Ah, h.e.l.l, I was ordered to fly down here as some sort of consultant to Angeletti. Just got in a little while ago, took a cab from the airport. These crews were waiting out there . * . I just rode in from the gate with them."

Bolan repeated, "I'm glad I was out there." "Why, what's the lie?"

"The lie," Bolan explained, "is that those boys are going downstairs for a briefing. And there it is, they just got it." A m.u.f.fled commotion from below was rattling the floor at their feet.

Leo Turrin turned pale and said, "Choppers. "Right. And down they went, all in a row." Turrin grabbed the c.o.ke and belted about half of it. Then he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and muttered, "What a lousy way to make a living."

"Yeah," Bolan agreed. "But you're not doing it for that. The world couldn't pay enough for-"

"No way," Turrin growled. "Okay. What's going on? Is this another Palm Springs ma.s.sacre you're engineering here?"

Bolan said, "Something like that." He went to the window, opened it, looked out.

Sammy the yard boss was trudging back across the lawn, headed for the gate and some fresh blood.

Bolan stepped back to the bar and told his buddy from Pittsfield, "I'll have to watch them in. Can't take a chance on another. . ." The eyes flashed at Turrin. "Wils Brown is supposed to be coming, also."

"Who is Wils Brown?"

"Another guy who knows my face. Friend from back when, black guy. He was counting nickles and dimes for Arnie Farmer last time I-"

"Oh yeah, the NFL guy."

"Not any more," Bolan said. "Not since he threw a block into a Claymore mine ... in 'Nam."

"He's NFL again," Turrin advised Bolan. "Augie gave me a message for Angeletti. The football guy says go to h.e.l.l. He left the mob right after that bust of yours in Europe. He's scouting the colleges for the pro's now."

Bolan sighed. "d.a.m.n glad to hear that," he muttered.

Another car was moving up the drive.

"Stay put right here," he advised Leo, and went out for the next nose count.

The numbers, the new ones, were coming in now, fast and furious.

The Executioner meant to see that each of them was played to a cadence count.

It was war, he kept reminding himself . . . in the right here and now.

Chapter 20/ The Message.

Regardless of the way the thing eventually worked out, Leo Turrin needed to be covered.

When the last group had been led to the slaughterhouse, Bolan took Sammy and Leo upstairs for a report to the man.

He was seated in a chair at the window, calmly puffing on a cigar.

It was Sammy who told the Capo, "It's done, Don Stefano."

"Good work, I'll remember this," Angeletti said lazily. "Give your boys some wine. No-give them whiskey but not too much. And tell them there'll be an extra thousand on their books this month."

The calm gaze swiveled slowly to dwell fully upon Leo Turrin. The eyes flared with a pa.s.sing uneasiness as he asked, "Who is this?"

Bolan said, "We're in luck, Steven. This is Leopold Turrin from our friends in Ma.s.sachusetts. They're neutrals. I think Leo should take the message back to New York."

Angeletti proffered his hand. Leo kissed it. The old man became expansive then, smiling and waving the visitor to a chair.

Bolan remained standing. He flicked his eyes at the yard boss and Sammy went out.

The old man said, "I had other ideas for you, Leo, and I thank you for coming but . . . well ...no need for that now. What message would you like to take to New York for me?"

Turrin looked at the floor.

He stretched his neck, patted his throat, popped his jaw, bugged his eyes, then patted his throat again.