Brognola put on a pained expression. 'That will have to be your decision,' he said. 'Call him there if you think you must. But don't ask me to second the motion.'
Lyons unfolded a scrap of paper and stared at a telephone number written there. It had been included in the last package of information which had been passed to them by the man they had then known as Pointer.
The words 'For Red Alert Only' were above the number, then the name 'Lambretta,' followed by a Palm Springs telephone number.
'I wonder where this telephone is located,' Lyons muttered.
'I guess you'll never know until you call it,' Brognola said.
'I could give it to the phone company. They'd run it down for me.'
'By that time, perhaps the time for action will have passed,' Brognola sighed.
'Yeah,' Lyons said. He stared hesitantly at the telephone. Then he pulled the instrument toward him, acquired an outside line, began dialing, then abruptly re-cradled the transmitter. 'Dammit,' he muttered under his breath. 'I wasn't cut out for this cloak-and-dagger stuff.'
Bolan and Marasco strolled into the Capo's inner sanctum in controlled good humor. Marasco remained near the door. Bolan proceeded on, flipped a high-sign to DiGeorge, and dropped into a leather chair.
'A rest is a rest, Franky,' DiGeorge groused, 'but I didn't tell you to take all day.'
Two other men were present. One of them was familiar to Bolan; he assumed that this was Victor Poppy. He recognized the other from Andrea's crisp description. Bolan looked the man over thoroughly during a hushed silence, playing the moment for its most, then said, 'Hi-ya, Tony. When did you decide to retire from institutional life?'
DiGeorge began breathing again. Victor Poppy smiled nervously and flicked a glance at his boss. The little man in the hot seat was staring at Bolan with a frightened gaze. 'Hi, Fr . . .' His voice cracked. He choked, coughed, cleared his throat, and dabbed at eyes suddenly brimming with tears. He pounded weakly on his chest, smiled self-consciously, and settled back into the chair.
'You boys know each other?' DiGeorge asked in feigned surprise.
'People change a lot,' Bolan said quietly. 'Tony there used to be a real terror. Had half the guys in the neighborhood scared to death of him. Yeah . . . people change.'
'I guess you ain't changed a lot, Franky,' Marasco said. 'You're still lookin' like a young frisky colt.'
Bolan did not miss the reproachful glance tossed at Marasco by Julian DiGeorge. He grinned. 'Naw . . . I'm changing, too,' he said. 'Take the present situation, now. Look at me, all tired and beat. Over a simple little everyday hit. Five years ago I could've rubbed six boys like that and stopped off for a few pieces o' tail on the way home. Now all I'm doing is dragging my tail.'
Marasco laughed loudly. DiGeorge turned to him with a frown and Marasco promptly shut it off.
Victor Poppy said, 'I heard about that, Franky. Everybody in the place is talking it up. I'd like to go out there and see that.'
'Shuddup!' DiGeorge growled.
The effect of Bolan's braggadocio was already evident on the face of DiGeorge's 'gift turkey,' however. The small man was staring at Bolan with haunted eyes, nervously twisting his hands together. 'It's good to see ya again, Frank,' he chirped.
'Waitaminnit waitaminnit,' DiGeorge yelled. He pointed an accusing finger at Tony Avina. 'You was telling me not ten minutes ago that this Frank Lambretta went off to war and got hisself killed! Now what, huh?'
'Jeez, I dunno, Mr. DiGeorge,' Avina quavered.
'Lay off 'im, huh Deej?' Bolan said softly. 'Can't you see he's sick?'
'Where do you get off telling me to lay off?' DiGeorge shouted. 'Just who the hell do you think you are, Mr. Franky Lucky Phoney!'
'Who do you think I am, Deej?' Bolan asked quietly.
DiGeorge stared at him in speechless rage. Every movement, every word, every gesture of Franky Lucky since he entered that door had served to increase DiGeorge's irritability. Now this! Talking back, acting like a Capo, just like that first damn day with Andrea, just like . . . A cold knot began to form in DiGeorge's belly, clamping off the line of thought. The rage dissolved instantly. 'Okay,' he said, now in perfect control, 'you asked the question, Big Shot. Now you answer it.'
Bolan's gaze shifted to Tony Avina. 'Answer it, Tony,' he said. 'Tell Mr. Julian DiGeorge I who am. Tell him the damn truth.'
'Jeez, I don't know who you are, Franky,' Avina shot back.
Bolan became convulsed with laughter. Phil Marasco joined in, and then Victor Poppy. DiGeorge's chin trembled, then he began laughing also. Bolan got up and pounded on the wall with one hand, clutching at his stomach with the other, in a very convincing demonstration of rampant humor.
'Jeez, I don't know who I am either!' Bolan yelled and fell back into the chair gasping for breath and holding himself with both hands.
'Get this goddam turkey outta here!' DiGeorge roared between snorting guffaws. 'First thing comes up, I won't even know who I am!'
'Just a minute,' Marasco said, sobering suddenly. 'I guess I have to tell you, Deej. After all these years together, I got to tell you.'
'Tell me what?' DiGeorge asked.
'Okay, Franky?' Marasco asked of Bolan.
Bolan, still chuckling, gave him the nod.
'About Franky Lucky. He's in the family.'
'What family?' DiGeorge said, sobering and craning about to glare at Marasco.
'Vittorini,' Bolan said quietly.
All chuckling and sniggering ceased as total quiet descended. DiGeorge slowly turned about to inspect 'his boy' Franky Lucky whom he wanted to sponsor into his family and turn over the reins to some day. 'I don't get you,' he said thickly.
'I belong to the Vittorini Family,' Bolan explained.
'He belongs to Pat and Mike,' Marasco explained further.
DiGeorge opened his mouth and then snapped it shut. He looked from Bolan to Marasco and back to Bolan again. 'What is this?' he asked quietly. 'Tell me what this is, Philip Honey.'
'You know what this is, Deej,' Bolan said.
'No I guess I don't.' DeGeorge had heaved to his feet and was walking warily toward his desk.
'You know what I want, Phil,' Bolan stated softly.
Marasco beat DiGeorge to the desk and leaned against it. His hand went inside his jacket and stayed there.
'Hey what the hell is this?' DiGeorge asked, his voice shaking.
'You want me to take Deej out for some air, Franky?' Marasco said.
'He looks like he needs some,' Bolan replied. He relaxed further into his chair. 'Yeah. He needs some air, Phil.'
'You can't pull this shit!' DiGeorge yelled.
'I'm not pulling nothing, Deej,' Bolan said. He smiled at Victor Poppy. 'Hey, Victor, take your friend and go on back to Florida. Stay awhile. Get some sun. Tony looks like he could use some. And you . . .'
'Where d'you get off telling my boys when to go and where to go?' DiGeorge screamed.
'Is that guy still here?' Bolan asked, still looking at Victor Poppy. 'I thought Phil was taking him out for an airing. Huh? Is he still here?'
Victor Poppy was moving for the door, pushing Avina ahead of him. 'What guy?' Victor Poppy asked nervously. 'I don't see nobody but you me and Tony, Franky.'
'That's what I thought,' Bolan said contentedly.
'You can't pull this shit!' DiGeorge screamed.
'The hell I can't,' said Franky Lucky Bolan.
