'He will,' Bolan said coldly. The gaze rested fully on the senator. 'The message is urgent, Weiss. Tell the guy to get lost.'
A shifting of senatorial eyes was all it took. The Chicano disappeared. Bolan dropped into a chair and crossed his legs, casually settling in.
'It better be good,' Weiss growled.
Bolan lit a cigarette as he replied, 'It's not. Ike Ruby is dead. It's a war. They hit Moe's place, too. Luckily, he wasn't there. But they took his kid.'
The unreadable face turned in famous profile as the eye contact was broken. There was no other readable reaction. After a moment, the eyes still averted, that voice known around the world inquired softly, 'Why are you bringing this to me? I'm not a policeman.'
'Come off it,' Bolan replied quietly.
'Who the hell are you?' Weiss asked, still not looking at him.
Bolan introduced himself with a marksman's medal, dropping it with a flat metallic ping on an egg-smeared plate.
Then the guy looked at him. Searchingly, coldly — more curiosity than anything else showing in that harsh gaze.
'So,' he said simply.
Bolan said, 'I think you may be next on the hit list.'
'Let's talk about it,' Weiss said, the voice coldly cautious but giving nothing. 'Maybe we can come up with, uh, an accommodation.'
Bolan's grin was pure ice. 'Wrong reading,' he said. 'It's not my hit list. I think it's Bonelli's. And I think you need a friend.' The guy was quick. 'Meaning you?' he asked, coming right back with it.
'Wouldn't that be ironic?' the Executioner said quietly.
'I guess it would,' replied the senator who had been demanding Mack Bolan's scalp for these many months in the hallowed halls of congress.
'Don't let it worry you,' Bolan said. 'I wouldn't kiss you, Senator, with Augie Marinello's dead lips.'
'So what are you doing here?' the guy asked tightly, cold hatred in his gaze.
'Looking for handles,' Bolan replied truthfully.
'You won't find any on me.'
'Puppets don't have handles,' Bolan said. 'Strings are the usual controls, aren't they?'
'You son of a bitch, you-get out of here! Who the hell do you think ...'
The anger spluttered off into rigid self-control. Those sky-blue eyes receded behind slitted lids — and, for a moment, Bolan thought he caught a glimpse of the Arizona viper in its native lair. The guy took a deep breath and asked his visitor, 'Okay, what's your game? What do you want here?'
'I want you out of the game,' Bolan replied coldly.
'Fine. Be assured, I want the same. Now get out of here. I'll give you a ten-minute head start before I call the police. But that's my final offer.'
Bolan chuckled with ice on the teeth. 'Here's a matching offer. I'll take Bonelli out if you'll take Kaufman.'
'You're insane.'
'No more than you. Maybe I don't fully understand the game yet, but I think I'm beginning to. And I believe that you are the prize.'
'I'm the what?' Weiss snapped.
'The name of the game is Puppeteer. And you, Mister Righteous, are the prize puppet. Bonelli will own you or he'll take you out and put in one of his own. How does that sit?'
It was not sitting too well. 'You say they tried to hit Moe?'
Bolan nodded. 'Pure luck saved him. He was out at a time when he is usually always in. Like you, Weiss, he's a man of vulnerable habit. They'll get him. Bank on that.'
The guy had already banked it. 'If what you say is true-'
Bolan made a disparaging sound and replied, 'I didn't risk walking in here to trade nothing but insults.'
'But my God! This Is ridiculous! It's crazy!'
'Who ever called them sane?' Bolan said quietly, referring to the Bonellis of the world — a meaning not lost on his listener. 'If they want you, they'll have you. You signed it all away, yourself, Weiss, when you gave it to Kaufman. You've been fair game from that moment. You're a piece of property, a chunk of meat to be owned and traded and sold on the open market. And Bonelli has decided to take you.'
'We'll see about that,' the senator replied stubbornly.
'You see about it,' Bolan said, rising to leave. 'But your only out is to go public. Ruin yourself politically. That would sever all the strings. Then you could call your soul your own. And I doubt that you'd draw more than a year in one of the federal country clubs. I hear life can be pretty nice there. You could write a book, make a fortune.'
He was moving off.
Weiss called after him, 'Wait a minute-wait! Let's scratch backs. I can be a good friend to have. I can make things a lot easier for you. Get that fucking wop off my back and you can write your own ticket with me.'
Bolan paused in the doorway to send a withering gaze along the backtrack. 'I should live so long,' he said quietly and put that stench behind him.
He'd given the guy honest counsel — but then, of course, puppets were not particularly renown for standing alone. That one back there would not even contemplate the thought, nor had Bolan thought for a moment that he would.
He had the guy wired for sound, though, and he knew also that Honest Abe would lose no time seeking reassurance from the puppeteer.
Back in the warwagon, Bolan immediately summoned the wires on Abe Weiss, activating the surveillance system for simultaneous recording and live-monitoring. He got there in time to pick up and record for future reference several different telephone numbers as the senator searched via Ma Bell for his friend and political benefactor.
Weiss struck pay dirt on the fourth try. 'I've been looking all over for you. What's happening?'
It was Kaufman's voice in the return. 'Don't use any names. Keep it cool.'
'Right, sure. God's sake. What is It? Are you laying low?'
'Sort of, yes. Listen, you better do it, too. I've been thinking about calling you. It's heat from the south, I think. I don't know what the hell it's all about, but you better cool it until I find out. Don't-'
'Dammit that guy Bolan was just here!'
'What?!'
'Yeah! I'm afraid that-'
'Say nothing else! Hang up, hang up!'
'Wait! I think he's on our side! It's the wops he hates! We could use the guy!'
'Hang up, dammit. I'll send you some comfort. Don't call again!'
Kaufman's voice was replaced by a loud hum.
Weiss swore softly into the line and also hung up.
Bolan was about to turn off the live monitor when another distinct click signaled the presence of a third party on that line.
So. Bolan's wires were not the only ones in Phoenix. He thought he knew, now, where to find Moe Kaufman.
He sent the warwagon tracking toward Paradise, homing on the corrupt connection that bound the state of Arizona in political slavery. He would sever that connection by whatever means necessary. And — no, Sharon — no promises at all.
Chapter 7
