“In other news...”
Bolan shut it off.
“You didn’t say anything about the four dead men.”
“Right, I didn’t. Let’s leave it at that. When you identify them you’ll find them all to be Mafia soldiers connected to Carlo Nazarione, who claims he has no organized-crime affiliations.”
“At least we know better than that.” The cop shrugged. “Hell, I won’t push to find out who you are. I’ll never be able to thank you for what you did for me today. Now, one ride downtown, then I want to get showered and dressed and back out to that motel.”
As Bolan let the chief off fifteen minutes later, the cop stared at him a moment. “Have we met somewhere before? Something about your face seems familiar.”
“Thanks. I used to do some modeling — a lot of those rugged outdoor-type print ads. I did a lot for one cigarette company.”
The chief nodded. “Yeah, that was probably it.” But as the car swung away and the cop hurried through the private entrance into the police department’s top-brass area, he knew he had not seen the man’s face in an ad. It was on a Wanted poster. And the guy wore the same black suit. It would come back to him. Damn, he wished he could remember.
He went down the short hall to the chiefs’ men’s room with its lockers and showers. He undressed before anyone else came in, stuffed the bloody clothes into a plastic bag and then showered off the blood. He had never seen so much blood in a shower before. Wrong. That bathtub suicide when the drain plugged.
Half an hour later the chief was dressed and heading for the motel in the passenger side of an unmarked car. When he and his driver arrived he took command of the investigation. As he pushed through the crowd behind the police tape he remembered who the man was who had saved him — Mack Bolan, the Executioner, the one who was at war with the Mafia and wanted by the FBI and in dozens of states!
5
After Mack Bolan dropped off Assistant Chief Jansen, he stopped at a phone booth that had a directory in it and found the address of a small printing firm. He located one close by but passed it up when he saw a one-man operation down the street.
Inside, the place had the musty, slightly alkaline odor of paper stock mixed with the acid tang of the printer’s inks.
A short, bald, middle-aged man with half glasses came from behind a rotary press that was hissing with every turn.
“Morning!” he said, smiling. “What can I do for you today?”
“I need a business card. On the front I want a name and a phone number, and on the back the nearest thing we can find that resembles a five-dollar gold piece.”
“Easy. And you need it in five minutes.”
“No, that’s the easy part. I don’t want it for two hours.”
“Should be a snap. Cost you as much as five hundred of them would.”
“I’ll give you fifty dollars.”
“Good, that’s what five hundred costs.”
Bolan wrote out the name and the number, and the little man pawed through one box after another. He turned, holding a piece of plastic that had something engraved on it.
“Found something I can use. I’ll set the type and burn a plate and we should be in business.”
“Brown ink on the front and gold ink on the back, right?”
“Cost you another thirteen dollars for cleanup on the press, if you want a good job.”
Bolan gave him a fifty-dollar bill and a twenty, and said he would be back.
His next stop was a phone booth, where he consulted a list of numbers that Nino had given him. He found the Baltimore godfather’s number at the top of the list. He had to go through three men before he got the Baltimore capo on the phone. Bolan had heard Augie Bonestra from Brooklyn testify on TV a few months back. Now he imitated his voice.
“Yeah, this is Augie up in Boston. Hear you got Bolan down there.”
“Right, Augie.”
“I sent a man down early this morning. Want him to watch how you handle the Bolan thing, case he ever comes my way. Guy’s name Lonnie Giardello. Can handle himself. Sent him down and then forgot to call. Should be there in an hour or two. Let him see what’s going on, Carlo.”
“Sure, Augie, no problem. I hope he brought a card.”
“He’s got one of mine. Good talking, Carlo. I got to get moving.”
They said goodbye and Bolan hung up. He grinned. He was not sure how close Augie and Carlo were, but there had been no hesitation about accepting the voice as genuine.
Now for the rest of his outfit.
Bolan went back to his small hotel and changed clothes. He wore a brown pin-striped suit, a red tie and a brown snap-brim hat that he’d bought in a men’s store. He looked like your average hoodlum soldier. Or maybe a little conservative. He could pass.
Back at the print shop the old man was blow-drying the ink with a hair dryer. He showed Bolan three cards. The Executioner picked out one and cut the other two up into strips with a small paper cutter and put them in his pocket. He thanked the printer and left. In his car, he signed the card boldly: Augie Bonestra.
There was no problem finding the fortified mansion where the boss of Baltimore lived. Bolan brought from the hotel a small bag packed with a few clothes to hide six charges of C-4 plastique with radio timer-detonators. He caught a cab to the big house, headquarters of the Mafia empire in Baltimore.
The cab stopped at the massive iron gate. A soldier ambled out and looked inside.
“Giardello?” he asked.
“Yeah, from Brooklyn. How did you know I was comin’?”
“Hey, this is Baltimore. We know everything. Crawl out and pay off the hack. It ain’t a far walk from here.”
The guard pointed Bolan to the side entrance and said someone would meet him there. A small man with sharp features and a sniffling nose opened the door, showed him to a bedroom and said Don Nazarione would like to see him when he was settled.
Bolan grinned, playing the part.
“Hell, how about now?” He adjusted a .45 automatic in his shoulder leather and walked behind the small man along the hall. The mansion was what he expected — overdecorated, plush, expensive, ostentatious.
They went up a small elevator to a huge office forty feet long on the third floor. On that level there was a putting green — a golf-green carpet with four holes and miniature flags. Across the green sat Carlo Nazarione behind a large, old-fashioned cherrywood desk with massive carved feet. An IBM computer sat on the edge of the desk with a daisy-wheel printer beside it.
The don was not what Bolan expected. He stood six-four, had the classic Italian dark good looks, a full head of black wavy hair and was not more than forty years old.
“So you’re the hotshot from Augie?”
“Yes, sir.”
The capo came from behind the desk and Bolan walked up to him, went down on one knee and kissed the offered ring. He stood and stepped back, waiting as he knew he should for Nazarione to lead the conversation.
“Did Augie send me anything?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” Bolan reached in his pocket and took out the card. He handed it to the Mafia chief who looked at it casually and pushed it into his pocket.
“You’ve done some research into this problem?”
“Yes, sir. I’m the Boston expert on the bastard.”
“Good. You can tag along. You want something special, talk to Vinny here.” He pointed to the thin-faced
