telegraphed the end of the engagement. Taillights were winking through the front gate even as Bolan gained the porch.
He let it go, returning to the slaughterhouse within.
Bodies were draped around the furniture, but Bolan ignored them as he went in search of Ike Ruby. He found him stretched out behind the shattered remains of the oaken dining table. Slugs had stitched him across the chest, and each pained breath brought blood welling up from mangled lungs to soak his torn pajama top.
The guy was dying hard. His vision was going in and out of focus as he squinted up at Bolan, words of warning rasping in his throat. Ruby obviously thought Bolan had been sent by Kaufman to help out, and he was determined to get his message out before it was too late.
'Tell ... tell Moe ... couldn't reach Weiss ... couldn't tip him off ...'
The guy's head was lolling crazily about, breath wheezing in his throat and burbling through the holes in his chest at the same time. 'Tell Moe.'
'I'll tell him,' Bolan assured the corpse, and then he quit the place, quickly retracing his path to the warwagon.
Ruby's dying plea echoed in the Executioner's mind as he fired the warwagon and left the neighborhood behind. Tell Moe that I couldn't reach Weiss. A fragmentary message, sure, the garbled last words of a delirious and dying man, but suddenly as clear as crystal to the Executioner.
Another piece of the Arizona jigsaw puzzle dropped jarringly into place. A picture was forming in Bolan's mind, a confused and admittedly incomplete picture, to be sure, but a chilling one all the same. The game was assuming unexpected proportions, and new players were coming out of the woodwork on every side — most recently a dark and deadly face which Bolan vaguely recognized but could not immediately identify.
Bolan drove on, his jaw set in grim determination, mind intent on the dying concern of Ike Ruby. The Executioner had a message to deliver. To a United States senator named Weiss.
Chapter 6
Connections
Senator Abraham Weiss liked to describe himself in campaign speeches as a self-made man. It sounded good to the voters. Of course, there were always a few spiteful and politically motivated critics to dispute the claim. Weiss liked to describe those critics to the voting public as scavengers, with their stories of how he had inherited the family business from his late father, without investing either his own money or original creative ideas. That was nonsense. Hadn't it been Abe who, mere days after his father's funeral, had expanded into marketing and shipment, too, forging close ties with the local Teamster leadership? And wasn't it Abe who had used his business and political connections to place brother David on the Board of directors of Greater Southwestern Savings and Loan, thereby broadening the Weiss empire into real estate investment?
The same bleeding hearts and sob-sisters who blasted Abe Weiss for his business investments were constantly harping about his political connections. They were always pointing to his friendship with Moe Kaufman as if there was something wrong with one lifelong pal contributing to the other's campaign fund. They blamed Weiss for following Moe's suggestion that he run for County Supervisor back in '49 and blasted him for delivering a eulogy at old Gus Greenbaum's funeral in '58. But what the hell, hadn't Gus been a fellow servant of the people and former mayor of Weiss' own home town? The sniveling vultures especially loved to pick at Abe for accepting Kaufman's financial support In three successful Senate campaigns, making wild charges about corruption and conflict of interest.
Weiss publicly dismissed those charges with the contempt they deserved, always ready to explain his swelling bank account as the result of life insurance dividends, and the resultant patronage to Kaufman's handpicked men as mere coincidence. What could be more natural than for lifelong friends to see each other socially from time to time, whether at home in Phoenix or during an expense-paid visit to one of Moe's hotels in Vegas? What really upset his opponents, Weiss told reporters, was his longtime stand against creeping socialism and his staunch defense of innocent businessmen facing criminal harassment by agents of the Justice Department's task force on organized crime.
Mack Bolan was familiar with the accusations against Weiss, and with the senator's protestations of innocence. More importantly, Bolan was familiar with the facts behind the charges and countercharges. Abraham Weiss was a 'made man' from the word go, most lately the prime mover behind a Senate inquisition aimed at Hal Brognola and his fellow federal warriors against the Mafia. Bolan could discern the fine hand of puppet-master Moe Kaufman in those Star Chamber proceedings and in other Capitol Hill maneuvers which 'coincidentally' served the interests of the Phoenix mob.
Ike Ruby's dying words had been merely the confirmation of a certainty, yet they added sinister new dimensions to the Arizona game. For if Moe Kaufman felt it necessary to 'tip Weiss off' about impending events, there might be much more at stake in Phoenix than an old-style street war between ethnic antagonists.
Bolan was well aware that Weiss had been mentioned by the press of late as a long-shot 'dark horse' contender in the next presidential race. A tenuous lead, sure, no more than a pipe dream perhaps, but still food for thought. A 'made man' in the White House? Sure. Why not?
Between them, Kaufman and Weiss surely had the savvy and political connections to insure 'favorite son' backing for the candidate. And beyond that? If Kaufman remained in good standing with the national organization, the full weight and influence of the Mafia and its minions might be thrown behind the white knight from Arizona.
But how did Kaufman stand with his former amici in the Mafia? Was the latest thrust by Nick Bonelli and company merely a local power play or much more?
Sinister implications, Yeah, even without the full story.
Part of the answer lay with the captured battle map of Phoenix and the marks around the state capitol, where Weiss maintained an office. And it took the Executioner less than five minutes with a Phoenix phone directory to confirm the residence of Abraham Weiss as target number four on Bonelli's campaign chart.
Abe Weiss was part of the Phoenix game plan whether or not he'd become aware of it. So was another whose dark face nagged at Bolan's photographic memory, a ghost from the past — a wraith skillfully sidestepping efforts to catalog.
Even the game itself remained to be identified — and for that he would seek the help Of Honest Abe Weiss, the unconscious player. And perhaps, in the process, a serpent would be uncovered.
He punched the bell and waited while melodic chimes sounded patriotic notes deep within the rambling structure. Footsteps approached instantly and the door was opened a crack by a Chicano houseman. Bolan pushed the door fully open and stepped inside to the guy's spluttering protests.
There was a cool entry foyer sporting potted cacti, a low-ceilinged hallway dividing the structure with heavy Spanish doors to the left and right, an atmosphere of solidity and wealth.
'Message from Kaufman,' Bolan snapped at the houseman. 'Tell 'im.'
The guy was torn with indecision. 'The senator doesn't like to-'
'Tell 'im!' Bolan snarled, adding to the discomfort.
The houseman's unhappy eyes gave it away, flashing uncertainty toward a closed door on the right.
Bolan shouldered the guy aside and let himself in. It was a large, plush den, decorated with antique guns and stuffed hunting trophies. An oval doorway at the far end led to a secluded dining area-breakfast room, maybe with double-doors opening onto a shaded patio.
The senator was having a late breakfast on the patio, newspapers from several major cities stacked neatly on the table at his left hand. His was a face known around the world — hard blue eyes glaring fiercely through steel-rimmed glasses, that stern jaw and prominent chin, the shock of iron-gray hair neatly adorning the handsome head. The guy did not look like a Jew.
He looked like a Nazi stormtrooper.
That famous chin thrust itself toward the intruder and those dissecting eyes crackled as the familiar voice demanded, 'What the hell is this?'
The breathless houseman inserted himself between them. 'He crashed in, sir. Do you know him?'
