wondered how it went. He would hear some of it on the evening news. But he could not find a good news station on the car radio.
Just after ten that evening he arrived at the front gate of Nazarione’s mansion, told the guard his name and requested to see the capo. It was an emergency. The sentry went into the gate house and used the telephone. He emerged a minute later, nodded and opened the heavy gate by pushing a button. Electric motors rolled the steel framework to one side.
“Mr. Nazarione said you should come right up to the house. Leave the car in the lower parking lot and go to the front door.”
“Thank you,” Smith said. Some of his old confidence was coming back. Things were not as bad as he thought or Carlo never would have let him in. The guard did not even search him.
He swept up the curving, beautifully landscaped drive and turned into the lower parking lot, which was about fifty yards from the front door and the small upper parking lot.
Chief Smith locked the far door, got out of the car, locked the driver’s side and was about ready to pocket the keys when he felt someone touch his shoulder.
Smith snapped around, surprised, startled. Behind him was a man almost six and a half feet tall, with a hulking kind of brutish body that he had grown to recognize over the years. An enforcer!
“I’m Chief Smith. Mr. Nazarione said I was to come up to the front door and then see him.”
His confidence slipped when the huge man grinned.
“Yeah, that’s what the man told you. He told me something different.”
The big man swung a huge fist. Chief Smith saw it coming, wanted to move out of the way but couldn’t. The heavy knuckles slammed into the side of his face. His head snapped back and his glasses flew off. Then he saw another fist coming; it jolted into his right eye, and the world became dark and dull. Soon something else hit his face, and the whole scene wavered and switched from dark to deep black.
Chief Smith felt something touch him. It was soft, then sharp and pointed and piercing his skin.
“He’s coming around,” a voice from the blackness said.
“No damn fun if he don’t!”
“Smith, you bastard, wake up.”
Strong hands pulled him to a sitting position, and he nearly tipped over. He struggled to open his eyes. They refused. A sharp slap on the face brought him from dreamland.
He sat on a rough wooden floor. The room was chilly. He was in a circle of light with nothing but blackness beyond.
“Well, look who’s here — our wonderful chief of police, that bastard Smith.” The voice was harsh, irritating, frightening. Smith tried to remember where he had heard it before. No luck.
He blinked. This was not right. Carlo had sounded friendly.
“I’m not supposed to be here. Didn’t Carlo tell you guys? I’m on your side. I have been for two months now. Tell Carlo that I’m here, would you please?”
“Carlo ain’t here.”
“We’re wasting time,” a third voice said.
“We got all night.”
The third voice argued. “You might have all night, but I don’t and neither does the machine. I have to start it in just under ten minutes so it can finish by 4:30 A.M. when the first trucks come.”
“Yeah, hell, okay.”
A small penknife sliced through the air and hit Smith over his kidney. He swore softly, dived to the floor and doubled his legs up to his chest, then turned and threw up.
“Guy can’t hold his lunch, let alone his booze.”
A bucket of ice water sloshed over the writhing form. Smith stopped retching and shivered.
“Strip,” one voice told him. Smith kept shivering on the floor. The iron tip of a cattle prod, wired for electricity, touched his bare neck. Smith stiffened and vibrated like an automatic cement finisher.
“This guy has no staying power at all,” a voice said.
“Hell, no. Remember that guy who took over a hundred jolts before he finally passed out? This sucker ain’t good for more than two or three.”
“Get his clothes off,” the impatient voice demanded.
Hands reached in and jerked at buttons, belt and shoes. Two minutes later Smith lay naked on the wet planking, the intense stream lights still blasting into his eyes every time he looked up.
The cattle prod touched Smith’s scrotum and he screamed in pain as the electricity jolted through his genitals.
“Damn, but he’s sensitive. Smith, you bastard. Stand up and hold out your left arm, or you get the cattle prod again.”
Smith stared in the direction of the speaker. Then he stood and held out his arm.
A baseball bat swung down sharply against the white, hairless forearm. The crack of bones breaking came almost instantaneously. Smith roared in pain and terror as he dropped to his knees, cradling his broken arm against his stomach. His scream ended but the pain remained and he swore again and again.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” a different voice said.
“Smith, you bastard. This is just a sample of what happens to guys who double-cross the family and Carlo Nazarione. They get pounded around.”
Another bucket of ice-cold water sloshed over Smith and his whole body shivered and shook.
“I worked with you guys. I never... never finked out!”
“What about those dozen guys you got slaughtered on that simple little pickup job?”
“I explained that to Carlo. I never knew this Bolan character was around. So he rescued me. Why didn’t you let us go? I would have been at Carlo’s gate half an hour later.”
The cattle prod touched Smith and he jerked away but it followed. Then he attempted to hold out through the shock waves, but at last screamed and fell to the floor on his back, protecting his broken arm.
“We’re wasting time,” the heavy voice said again.
“Yeah, sure. But he has to know. He has to know why.”
“I didn’t do nothing! I was coming over on your side. Why do you suppose I been getting all those Mafia guys off on easy plea bargaining?”
“Sure, and then you sell us out, bring in the Executioner, and the bastard rips us to shreds!”
“So now he knows. We’ve got four minutes.”
“Okay, okay.” One of the men in the shadows took out a knife and threw it. The five-inch blade plunged deeply into Smith’s bare thigh. He shrieked with pain, but before he could remove the knife, a dark blur jumped into the light, pulled out the blade and returned to the shadows.
Smith looked up, his pain etching a grotesque mask on his face, then passed out.
“Just as well,” a voice said. “Help me get him over there.”
Three men lugged the unconscious form to the side of a large metal tank, and laid him in a metal box five feet long, eighteen inches wide and two feet high, one of sixty such boxes in the huge tank.
“Hell, play your games,” one of the voices said.
The man who had been rushing everyone pushed two buttons on a panel, then two more and the metal forms inside the big tank began to move slowly forward.
The boxes were in three rows, each twenty boxes long. The first three came to a series of high-pressure nozzles. A finger touched a button and chilled water gushed from the nozzles into the containers. They filled and the next three empty tanks moved into place.
The casket-shaped box containing Chief Smith was next in line. He came to as the container ahead was filling with water.
One of the men took out his .45 but the others shook their heads. The cattle prod touched Smith’s bare shoulder and he pulled away, bellowing in pain and anger.
Then he saw the nozzles and the water surging into the tank ahead of him.
He tried to stand. A baseball bat swung around and slammed into his back. He slumped into the box. He tried to crawl out, but the cattle prod and the bat touched him again and again.
Chief Smith screamed as his container moved forward on the cog machinery and the heavy chain. When the
