I'm telling you I can get Bolan for you.'
'Why?' the Italian asked suspiciously. 'You're already my best right hand, right here. I admit, you been smart staying out of this other mess. So now why you stoppin' being smart, Wils? Huh?'
Brown shuffled uncomfortably and hunched his shoulders forward in a thoughtful stance. 'Well, I been thinking. I'm not no part of nothing, you see. I'm just me, Wils Brown, and I'm whatever I can make for myself. Right? How much can Wils Brown make for himself, Tony, if he gets Mack Bolan for you?'
Brown had come up with the one convincing argument which Quick Tony Lavagni could understand, and with which he could identify. He was quietly studying the idea and scrutinizing his central controller, obviously seeing him in an entirely different light than ever before. 'There's a hundred thou contract on Bolan,' he explained slowly. 'Arnie Farmer has added another hundred thou if he can get his hands on th' bastard while he's still alive.'
Brown smiled solemnly. 'Well now, see? Wils Brown would kiss Jesus himself to be a part of that purse, Tony.'
'I got an interest in anything going in my territory, Wils,' Lavagni carefully pointed out.
'Okay, I'd give you a split,' Brown agreeably replied.
'And Arnie himself, he's got an interest too.'
'He pays out with one hand and takes back with the other?'
'That's business, Wils.' Lavagni was deep in thought.
'Like Uncle Sam.'
'Yeah, same idea, like taxes you know. Okay, I guess we better go clear this with th' farmer. Get your coat, Wils.'
Brown grinned. 'You gonna take me to the big man, eh?'
'Yeah,' Lavagni replied, frowning. 'But listen, you gotta be respectful. You can't talk to him like you talk to me. You call him Mister Castiglione, for God's sake none of this Arnie Farmer yuck, you hear?'
'I'll call 'im Mister God if that's what he wants, Tony.'
'Allright.' Lavagni suddenly smiled brightly. 'Th' Judas kiss, huh? God damn, Wils, just wait 'til Arnie Farmer hears about this!'
3
Grounds for Deception
Arnie 'The Farmer' Castiglione reigned over the entire Eastern Seaboard underground from south of New Jersey to Savannah, his empire embracing docks and fields, feeder cattle and packing houses, politics and labor, gambling and prostitution, and virtually all human endeavors which lent themselves to unscrupulous exploitation and manipulation. All this was ruled from the baronial estate known as Castle Farms in a lush Virginia valley not far from Washington.
Castiglione had suffered a painful thigh wound in the battles of the Miami convention — actually, he had been shot in the buttock while scrambling up a wall to safety — and his mood had been something less than jovial during the following weeks. The wound was not healing properly. Soreness remained. He was required to sit on pillows and to inhibit his usual restless activeness. Every twinge of physical discomfort the Farmer experienced was accompanied by the pained growl, 'That fuckin' Bolan!' — or, 'Kill 'im, I'll kill 'im!'
Arnie had grown up in the concrete jungle of New York and had never realized there was a land out there beyond the pavements until he was nearly 12 years old. Now he prided himself as owner of vast unspoiled acreages, a country gentleman and horse breeder. He rode in parades and horse shows, and his Appaloosa stock was considered among the finest in Virginia. He had found acceptance and respect in the genteel society of rural Virginia, and had served on various public commissions and was active in several philanthropic foundations. This was the image most highly prized by this self-educated product of East Harlem, and it was an image that had cracked and all but dissolved in the aftermath of Miami. Castiglione was one of the unfortunates who had been 'busted' by the Dade County Force, fingerprinted and jailed and released on bail and still awaiting a court appearance on a variety of charges. Worst of an, his theretofore secret connections with the Mafia were being written about in newspapers and magazines around the country, and a Virginia crime commission had announced their interest in the Castiglione empire.
Yes, Arne the Farmer had deep and lasting reasons for hating the guts of Mack the Bastard Bolan, any one of which could produce heat enough to roast the Executioner's carcass over an open flame. Arnie would gladly instrument the body to get a recording of every shrieking nerve down to the final death pulse, to keep and treasure forever and to entertain himself in moments of boredom. This very idea seemed right at the surface of Arnie's mind as he told Tony Lavagni, 'I don't want this boy to die easy and alone somewhere, Tony. A quick kill is not my idea of justice, not where this boy is concerned. I want him dying slow and knowing it, and feeling it, and twitching around for a long time. You know what I mean, Tony?'
Lavagni assured his boss that he did know, and added, 'That makes our boy Brown here a special case, Mr. Castiglione. So far we been lucky just to get a shot at the guy, but Wils here can walk right up to 'im, see, sort of get him off guard. We're thinking of a Judas kiss, Mr. Castiglione.'
The Farmer winced and moved his wound into a more comfortable area of the pillow. 'You've said that three times already,' he reminded his Washington Caporegime. 'I don't like that expression, Tony. I don't want you to say it again. Okay?'
'Sure. Sure, Mr. Castiglione.'
'Okay.' His gaze traveled to the huge black man. 'This Bolan has had his face fixed. How do you figure to recognize him? How do you figure to make it like buddy-buddy with a guy you haven't seen since his face was fixed?'
Brown paused a moment before replying. He had developed an instant hate for the Capo. This cat didn't like being close to black men — a thick atmosphere of repulsion hung in the air between them. Brown squeezed his knuckles and said, 'I'll have to play it cool, that's all. I've seen his pictures, I know about what he looks like now. If I can just get close to him; I figure he'll come to me.'
'What makes you think that?'
Brown shrugged massive shoulders. 'It just figures, man. This cat's all alone with the whole country after him. Can't trust nobody, can't lay his head nowhere and close both eyes at the same time. He needs a friend. I'm a friend. If he sees me, he'll come to me.'
Castiglione was thinking it over. Silence enveloped the big open-beamed room of the fabulous ranchhouse. Brown's gaze shifted to the window, and he watched the horses moving lazily about the rich pasture. Those horses had it better, he was thinking, than most black men he knew. Then Castiglione broke the silence. He said, 'Okay, but we have to work this thing out. You know, plan it — and I mean carefully. This Bolan is no punk, I guess we found that out for sure at Miami Beach.'
Brown said, 'I'll want a firm understanding about the reward money.'
Castiglione replied, 'How much you figure it's worth?'
'What is this, man?' the Negro said in an angered tone. 'You cats already decided how much it's worth. You've spread the word all over the country, a hundred thou for Bolan. Now Tony tells me you added another...'
The Farmer said, 'You won't deserve all of that. A contractor handles everything himself, like any businessman. He handles his own expenses, pays his own help. What's left is his profit. You understand profit. In this case, I'm the contractor. I'm hiring you. Now how much do you figure your part is worth?'
'Forget it,' Brown snapped. He stood up and said, 'Get me out of here, Tony.'
Lavagni was staring steadfastly at the floor, unmoving. Castiglione sighed and said, 'Sit down. It hurts my ass to look up. I see you don't like to negotiate. Take a lesson from a pro, Wils. Always negotiate, don't just rush off mad because the other guy says something you don't like to hear.'
The black man replied, 'Allright, I'm negotiating. I want the whole bundle, I want it all.'
'You won't deserve all of it. We're going to back you, put up all the expenses, and that includes an army of rodmen. We're going to plan your moves, spot you, and work the setups. All that means time and effort and money.
