'Yes, sir, with all their gear.'
Braddock released the intercom button and pinned Lyons with a stem gaze. That's what we're going to do with the nervy bastards,' he told him. 'We're going to beat them at their own game.'
Julian DiGeorge did not like this Mack Bolan business, he did not like it at all. He wished there could have been some way to avoid this showdown, some way to be rid of the Bolan nuisance without going back to the old ways. When a man reaches the age of fifty-seven, 'Deej' reasoned, he should be able to settle down in a peaceful enjoyment of the fruits of his lifetime of labor. Deej, of course, used the word 'labor' in the loosest sense; he had no actual firsthand knowledge of what the term even implied. His father had been a gun-bearer in the early Capone era and had died in a federal prison. Little Deej had matriculated early into gangland circles, serving as a messenger and bag man on Chicago's South Side at the age of thirteen. There had been no labor involved in that occupation nor in the successive moves into numbers, narcotics, prostitution, organized gambling, and finally into the family hierarchy. Labor, to Deej, meant carrying a gun. It meant police roustings and harassment and an occasional short 'Vacation' behind bars; it meant worry and anxiety, competition with ambitious opportunists within the family, and living most of his days and nights under police suspicion and scrutiny.
Deej had not labored for quite a few years. He had been 'Legit,' to all outward appearances, throughout the sixties. He had backed nearly a dozen independently produced motion pictures. He owned three first-class nightclubs and was a behind-the-scenes force in many banking activities. More than one celebrity of stage and screen owed his start to the background maneuvering of this quiet patron of the arts. Understandably, Deej did not like this Mack Bolan business at all.
Many people nowadays, especially those in the upcoming generations, had never heard the words 'Mafia' or 'Costa Nostra.' When they did, it was usually in some fairy-tale setting, a fiction, a legend. Deej himself laughed politely when the words were humorously employed by television or nightclub comics. So, understandably, Deej was highly upset with Mack Bolan. Thanks to Bolan, the words were now being heard everywhere a guy turned—and they weren't being used humorously. Already the President of the country was using this word in official documents sent to the congress. Yeah. Thanks to Bolan, Deej's peaceful enjoyment of a lifetime's fruits was being threatened. Thanks to Bolan, Deej was going to have to crawl from under that very comfortable legit' cover, if only to make sure that it was still securely in place.
There were still many facets of the DiGeorge activities that Deej did not want to see exposed to the public eye. The import business down at the Port of Los Angeles, for instance, and its warehouses bulging with untaxed commodities. The
Deej had tried to evade the Bolan showdown. He had offered to put up another hundred thou out of his own pocket to strengthen the open contract on Bolan. He had even suggested that perhaps Bolan could be bought off, perhaps even brought into the family with a full pardon for his sins. But Deej knew, from the wisdom of a lifetime of labor,' that he'd just been trying to postpone the inevitable. Bolan would have to be met and squashed. There was no evading the showdown. The guy had a hard-on for the family—it was that simple. They'd have to castrate him; they could not screw him to death or sate him with games of romance. There was only one way to castrate a guy with that big a hard-on. You had to go back to the old ways. You had to get a gun and shove it down his throat and pull the trigger.
Julian 'Deej' DiGeorge would have to become a laborer again, briefly. He had already sent his wife and his daughter and his grandchildren to Palm Springs for a quiet vacation. Now Deej would return to the salt mines for a little while. Deej had no choice. He was the big uncle of Southern California. And tonight, the family was coming to council. It would be a death council. For Bolan's death.
Chapter Thirteen
The Council
The Death Squad was waiting for Bolan when he returned from his solitary stroll along the beach. None had left; all were present. Bolan gave no outward sign of pleasure at this development, but his voice was warm and his eyes were sparkling as he said, 'All right, let's get on with the briefing.'
He produced a stack of Polaroid snapshots, which he handed to Zitka. 'Everyone take a good look at these. Pass them around. Brother and I were on site a little while ago, and we tried to cover every angle. Study them carefully. Well be going in under cover of darkness; I want you to have a good idea of the lay of the land.
'The front of the house faces west, away from the street, looking down on a gentle slope. The patio is flagstoned, runs about a hundred feet deep, seventy-five feet wide, on the upper level and is accessible from the ground floor of the house through these French doors, set into a cement-block wall. The other wall, down at the end of the patio, is only about two feet high. Beyond the wall is terraced lawn—not as steep as it looks in these pictures—three levels. The swimming pool is on the first level below the patio. The tennis court is at the south side of the house. Bocci-ball and putting greens on the north side. The driveway, from the street to the parking area at the rear of the house, is about 200 yards. The terrain is slightly uneven but generally level. There are flower gardens and a number of small ponds back there.
The only fence is up here along the street. It's hurricane fencing, eight feet high, and ends at the hedges at either side. The stone gateway stands open; there isn't even a gate. It's wide enough to take two cars. The hedges running along the north and south boundaries look very thick—and they are, except right along the ground. It should be easy enough to penetrate, if we decide to go that route. This is not a 'hard' house. It is soft, very soft, entirely vulnerable, easily reached and breached. DiGeorge obviously feels secure and respectable enough to have not bothered with fortifications.'
Bolan paused to light a cigarette. 'For that very reason,' he continued, exhaling as he spoke, 'I have an idea that his troops might break and run when the shooting starts. If they do, well give hot chase. They just might lead us to their 'hard' house. I feel certain they have one, somewhere in the area.'
Zitka spoke up. 'You get any feeling for the interior layout of the house?'
Bolan wagged his head. 'No, and I doubt that we'll need it. The way it looked to Brother and me, they're going to hold their council outside, on the patio. They were setting up the bars and stocking them when we were out there.'
'Italianos like a bit of beef and beverage with their business meetings,' Andromede commented with a smile.
Fontenelli shifted about restlessly. 'I been wondering when the Italiano bit would start,' he muttered.
'Hell, I didn't mean anything like that,' Andromede replied quickly. 'Some of my best friends are Italianos.'
Deadeye Washington guffawed loudly. 'Where've I heard that line before?' he howled.
'Sometimes I wonder if I'm on the wrong side,' Fontenelli grumbled.
'Okay, knock it off,' Bolan commanded in a mild voice. 'This's no race war, and it sure as hell is no vendetta against the Italian people.'
'What the hell you think the Mafia is?' Andromede said, grinning.
'It's Dago Power, man,' Washington said gleefully.
Everyone except Fontenelli laughed.
'Hey, kid, cool it,' Andromede said. 'We're just having fun.'
'I got a better reason than anybody here to hate them bastards,' Fontenelli persisted. 'They give the whole Italian race a bad name.'
'Shit, I love the goddamn Italianos!' Andromede declared emotionally. 'Especially the women! Oooo, them goddamn lovin' women! Didn't I tell you I was going back to Jersey with you someday? Didn't I?'
