King got into the patrol car.
Ricca leaned in the captain’s car window.
“Kill him, Ricca. Do it tonight. He’s ready to break. He could take both of us down. Use a bad car wreck, hit-and-run and into the bay somewhere. Make it look good.”
“I get a bonus?” Ricca asked.
“Two thousand. Now get it done!” Captain Davis scowled at the uniformed patrolman as he returned to the squad car. It would not be long before Ricca himself would have to be taught a lesson, Captain Davis decided.
7
It was early evening when Bolan finished making the phone calls. He could not find Jo Jo Albergetti at his office or any of his usual hangouts. Bolan took a chance and drove past the Albergetti home in a classy residential district. Lights were on in the downstairs windows.
He parked three houses down, got out and walked back to the house where he punched the doorbell. He heard the six-note chime inside and waited.
The woman who opened the door held a glass in one hand. She looked at him, took a sip from the glass, then opened the door wider. She was obviously drunk, and Bolan could tell that she had trouble focusing. She wore a filmy negligee that hid very little of her body.
“Hi, I’m Angela. You looking for a good time?” She pulled open the garment, and thrust a thigh forward. Bolan concentrated on her face, hoping he would be able to get some answers.
“Is Jo Jo here?”
“Not so you could notice. But you’re here and I’m lonely. Why don’t you come in and we’ll have some laughs, get friendly.” She shrugged out of the negligee, then drained the glass in one long swallow.
“You know where your husband is?”
“What does it matter?”
She smiled. She was shapely, blond and hungry for him.
Bolan stepped back.
“Do you know where Jo Jo went?”
“Yeah, some damn pool tournament at the Billiard Palace. Now come inside and let’s play house.”
The Executioner returned to his car, glad Angela was Jo Jo’s problem, not his.
The Billiard Palace was a high-class pool hall with a sunken area for tournaments. A sign inside the door indicated that tonight a small tournament of eight ball would be played. It was an open tournament costing fifty dollars to enter, single elimination on a draw from a hat, a straight ladder tourney, winner take all — so said the sign.
Eighteen men and two women had signed up, so there was one thousand dollars in the pot. All the sharks in town would be there.
Bolan slid into a chair behind a small crowd and watched a shooter drop the four ball on the break, get a good spread and run the table. The opponent didn’t get a shot. Bolan walked closer to the tournament board. Jo Jo had played and won. He would be around somewhere. Bolan had not met him but knew he was short, balding, of a ruddy complexion and always wore a red plaid cap on his head.
Jo Jo held court at the end of the bar. Three men around him were listening to his story of the game.
“Nothing to it!” he said too loudly. “Just skill and talent and you win every time.”
The Executioner edged into the group.
“Like to buy the winner a drink,” he said.
Jo Jo grinned, then shook his head. “Nope. Can’t afford to get sloshed. Have to shoot again in about half an hour, and I got to be rock solid.”
Bolan moved in closer.
“That was a great game, Jo Jo,” the Executioner said.
“Damn right!”
Some of the group moved away. Bolan finally stood beside Jo Jo and grinned. “Carlo said I should look you up.”
Jo Jo was suddenly wary. “Yeah? Why?”
“I’m just passing through — a driving vacation. Stopped by to pay my respects to Carlo.”
The others had faded away. They spoke in low voices.
“Oh, hell, fine. Everybody’s a little touchy right now, this damn Bolan character being in town.”
“Heard about him. Somewhere we can talk, private? My friend on the coast wants to talk to you, if you’re interested. Don Nazarione said he wouldn’t stand in your way.”
“A move?”
“Where can we talk?”
Jo Jo began walking toward a room that contained an ornate pool table. Around the walls were easy chairs, a wet bar, a big-screen tv and another door on the far side. After Bolan entered, Jo Jo locked the door.
“You said West Coast, right?”
“True. My don has heard lots of good things about you. He’s heavy into the gambling end and wants somebody to head up that division. Be like a vice president, about eighty or ninety men working under you.”
“You’re talking big bucks. A draw and a percentage?”
“You bet. My don knows how to treat his people. And then there’s all those beauties on the beach to consider, too.”
“Southern California?”
Bolan grinned and drew the silenced Beretta 93-R from his shoulder leather.
“No, Jo Jo, southern hell. You’re getting careless in your last few hours. I’m a friend of Elizabeth Hanover. If you say ‘Who?’ I’ll shoot you down right now.”
“Hey, I didn’t have nothing to do with that. Franconi did that on his own.”
“He’s your chief enforcer.”
“Yeah, but he’s on a long leash.”
“Not anymore.”
“Yeah, I heard.” Jo Jo shivered. “They said they never found nothing of him but his teeth. What a way to go.” He frowned. “That was you! You’re Bolan the...”
“Bastard,” the Executioner filled in. “You’re right. Want me to roll over and play dead so you can collect that five million dollars head money?”
“Look. I didn’t know nothing about that girl. I swear! Franconi’s been in trouble that way before. He’s wild. No way you can blame me for what he did on his own!”
Suddenly Jo Jo broke for the rack on the wall and pulled down a pool cue. He grabbed the tapered end and swung the heavy handle.
“Now you’re getting smart, Jo Jo. Going up against a silenced Beretta automatic with a pool cue.”
The hoodlum swung the cue viciously at Bolan’s chest. The Executioner jumped out of the way and shot him in the shoulder. The Mafia lieutenant dropped the cue, momentarily held his arm, then scrambled for the cue, which Bolan’s boot held to the floor. When he reached for it, the Executioner kicked Jo Jo’s head, smashing him backward on the floor.
“You’ve been calling the shots too long, Jo Jo. You’ve forgotten how to roll with the punches.”
Bolan put the Beretta away. He lifted the pool cue and held it in both hands.
“On your feet, scumbag.”
Jo Jo shook his head to clear it as he began to struggle up. When he straightened, a wicked-looking blade materialized in his fist. He lunged at Bolan, snarling.
Bolan used the stick to parry the thrust, then feinted forward with the tapered end. Jo Jo Albergetti tried to step back, but was blocked by the billiard table.
Bolan used the opening he sought and brought the tip of the cue down with lightning speed. The wooden lance pierced the mafioso’s chest, entering his heart. Bolan’s two hundred pounds of might powered it forward. The
