'Yeah. But I'd take book he's still around.'
DiGeorge raised a fist to his mouth and nibbled a heavy knuckle. 'Maybe you hit 'im,' he said. 'Maybe that's why he's laying low.'
'Maybe.'
The conversation was interrupted by the noisy appearance of Andrea D'Agosta. She swept into the room with a small overnight bag dangling from one hand, viciously banged the door, and dropped the bag to the floor. 'Did you tell the punk to get lost yet, Poppa?' she asked loudly.
'Not yet,' DiGeorge growled, eyeing her unapprovingly. She wore a. glittering mini-sheath with thigh- revealing slits up each leg.
'Well, hurry up!' the girl commanded. 'I'm getting lost with him, and I can't get out of this nuthouse fast enough.' Her eyes rested on Bolan. 'Come on, Frank, let's split.'
'You're going nowhere,' DiGeorge told her. 'You're staying put!'
'Or you'll shoot me if I leave, and you'll cut my throat if I stay.' She laughed shrilly and went over to put a hand on Bolan's arm. 'How about that, Frank?' she giggled. 'What do you think of a man who threatens his own daughter with a Mafia-style rubout? Isn't that the dying end?' From somewhere a small nickel-plated .22 had appeared in her hand. 'Come on, Frank. I'll shoot our way out of this joint.' She laughed even more shrilly and said, 'Don't look so shocked, Poppa. It's in my blood, see. Like father, like daughter. I was born with a right to kill.'
DiGeorge had the look of a man who could just lie down and die. Bolan twisted the little gun out of the girl's hand in almost the same motion as he hit her with the flat of his other hand. She staggered across the floor and sank to her knees, the angry red handprint standing out starkly from a bloodless background. 'Well, for God's sake,' she murmured in a dazed voice.
Bolan dropped the gun onto the desk, crossed to the girl, tenderly kissed the handprint on her cheek, and tossed her across his shoulder. 'Where does she belong?' he quietly asked DiGeorge.
'First room up the stairs,' DiGeorge mumbled woodenly. He followed Bolan to the hallway, where they were met by an obviously uncomfortable Honey Marasco.
'For God's sake,' Andrea repeated weakly, her head and torso inverted down Bolan's back.
'Drunk as a skunk,' Bolan told Marasco with a grin. He stepped around the bodyguard and started up the stairs.
DiGeorge headed up with him, then paused at the first step and turned back to Marasco. 'Oh, this is Frank Lucky, Phil. He's coming with us. Right, Franky?'
'Right,' Bolan replied without turning around. Lucky was right, he was thinking. Lucky that Julian DiGeorge could not tell the difference between a week-old and a two-week-old wound. Lucky that Bolan always seemed to be at the right spot at precisely the right time. And luckier than all, perhaps, for so much dissension in the DiGeorge household. He carried the girl into her room and gently placed her on the bed.
DiGeorge sat down beside her and said 'Thanks, Franky. I'll stay with her awhile. We got some things to talk out, me'n her. You go on downstairs and get acquainted. And, later on, you'n me have some things to talk out.'
'I'll be looking forward to that,' the Executioner assured the Capo. And then Franky Lucky Bolan went downstairs and joined the family.
Chapter Fourteen
The pointer
Carl Lyons, released from the Hardcase Detail upon his return from Palm Village, had immediately taken a ten-day vacation, most of which he spent with his wife and young son on a carefree motor trip along the Baja California peninsula. He had returned to duty on October 20th, tanned and rested and eagerly wondering about the nature of his new assignment. The life and fortunes of one Mack Bolan had been insistently tamped into the lower reaches of his mind. He hoped he could keep the maverick down there. Carl Lyons had always been a 'good cop.' He wanted to go on being one. He did not want Mack Bolan back inside his official life. With some perverse persistency of fate, however, Bolan was destined to get there again just the same.
The most interesting scuttlebutt in the bullrooms all had to do with the demise of Hardcase and the uncertain future of Big Tim Braddock. This information saddened Lyons; he had a great respect for the hard-boiled Detective Captain, if not outright affection. Lyons was, of course, in no small measure responsible for Braddock's failure to apprehend the Executioner. This was a sore point to his conscience and a constant irritant to his sense of duty and loyalty; still, Lyons continued his silent argument that even a cop's first duty was to his own sense of personal ethics. In this context of understanding, he had pursued the only course open to him in his handling of the Bolan case. Twice he had turned his back and allowed the Executioner to walk away from him. Braddock had never known of this treachery, of course, and Lyons himself simply could not regard his actions as treacherous. The life of one damn good man had hung in the balance, and even Big Tim Braddock and his ambitions had been outweighed on the scales of Lyons' ethics.
In every sense, then, Lyons was happy to be off Hardcase. He hoped never to see or hear of Mack Bolan again. He picked up his assignment, a nightwatch in Vice, and went up to check in with his new lieutenant. Lyons was welcomed to the squad, they chatted briefly, then the young Sergeant went into the bullroom with a stack of directives and memorandums which required his reading. At shortly past midnight, while still poring through the bulletins, his new partner, Patrolman Al Macintosh, informed Lyons that he was wanted on the telephone. 'Switchboard says it's an eyes-call,' Macintosh added.
'I don't know any Vice informants, Al,' Lyons replied, glaring ruefully at the imposing pile of reading matter. 'Why don't you take it.'
'Guy asked for you personally, Carl,' the Patrolman reported.
Lyons raised his eyebrows in surprise, scooped up the phone, and said, 'Sergeant Lyons here.'
'This is long distance so let's keep it brief a muffled Voice responded. 'I want you to set me up with a federal narcotics agent. I have some information they'd like to have.'
'Why me?' Lyons asked. 'Where'd you get my name?'
'Reliable source,' the voice replied. 'I can't be too careful. Neither can you. Will you set it up?'
'I can try,' Lyons said. He signalled quietly to Macintosh. The other officer went into the next room and lifted an extension telephone on the same line. 'Give me your name and number,' Lyons requested, 'and I'll get back with you as soon as possible.'
'You know better than that,' the caller said, chuckling. 'Can I get you at this same number at five this morning'
'I'll try to arrange it,' the Sergeant replied. 'I can't promise anything.'
'You try. Get me a name and number I can unload this info to, and make sure it's straight. This is hot, very hot, and it can't wait too long.'
'Why don't you just unload it on me?' Lyons suggested. Macintosh, staring at him through the open doorway, gave Lyons a wink.
The caller hesitated shortly, then: 'I don't think you want to get involved in this.'
'I can pass along anything you have to the proper person,' Lyons assured him.
'This has to do with a narcotics smuggling ring. It's Mafia, Lyons, and it's big, damn big. I've got names, dates, and routes, bills of lading, all kinds of junk. It's too much for a telephone contact. And I don't want any middle men.'
'I'll meet you someplace,' Lyons suggested, smiling across the open space at his partner.
'You're sure you want in this?'
'It's my job, Mister . . . Mister . . .'
'Why don't you just call me Pointer. You be thinking it over. I'll call back at five to complete the set. Don't mess it up, now.'
A sudden and stunning suspicion jolted the Sergeant. 'This isn't Bolan, is it?' he asked.
Without a pause the reply came, 'Word has it that Bolan is dead.'
'Oh?'
