Chicago Wipe-Out

loss she could hardly afford, considering the costume she had left. The girl was practically naked, and Bolan couldn't decide if she was shivering from the cold or from terror. Either way, something else was definitely on.

2 A foxy lady

'I'm on your s-side. Take me with you. Please!'

If she'd looked good in the sniperscope, she was downright edible in the three-dimensional reality as she moved jerkily around to Bolan's side of the car. A tall girl, pushing close to the six-foot mark, but put together in eye-gathering proportions, with those softly alluring contours that are sometimes seen on a budding ballerina who has not yet gone to solid muscle.

The costume would have been a bit much for the classical ballet crowd, though. It was made of red fur, a one-piece bit of fluff with a microscopic bottom that was hardly more than a G-string, and a thin strip stretching up each side to loop about into a decorative but entirely non-concealing swirl across luxurious breastworks. A bushy red tail reaching to her knees completed the picture — except for the head of a leering fox, done in bodypaint and peering out from the soft valley between her breasts.

Discounting the tail, Bolan figured he could hide the costume in his hand. The only other items of apparel were soft, ankle-high moccasins — and the temperature was in the mid-thirties with a stiff breeze raking in from the lake. It was no time to be recruiting a women's auxiliary — but it was also no time for any human being to be prancing about the shores of Lake Michigan in a bedroom combat suit. And she was about to cave in completely — swaying like a reed in the wind fighting to get her breathing and her emotions under control, all the while turning a deeper shade of blue. Bolan silently stowed the Weatherby and debated the question of what to do about the girl. Finally he gave her a reluctant okay with his eyes and she tumbled into the car with a shivery moan of thanks — it was not entirely certain whether she was thanking Bolan or a higher power.

He slid in beside her, snared his topcoat from the rear deck and draped it over her. Silently she bundled herself in it and drew the long, sculpted legs into the seat to cover them also, then went into a chattering case of the shakes.

The girl was still shivering when the Ferrari cleared the scene and took up a casual southward cruise along Lake Shore Drive. Bolan was in no great hurry now. He produced a quart thermos and poured his passenger a slug of steaming coffee. She accepted it with a grateful sweep of the eyes and quickly began to settle down.

When the coffee was nearly consumed Bolan lit a cigarette and handed it to her along with his first words. 'You're looking better,' he growled.

'Thanks,' she said in an unsteady voice. 'Feeling better.'

A police car with beacon flashing tore past on a northward track, weaving through the traffic on a hot call to Bolan guessed where — and followed closely by a second and then a third. His guest was huddled in the topcoat and working hard at the cigarette, exhaling with audible tremors, but she had also noted the passage of the police. She wriggled about on the seat and murmured, 'Thanks for getting me away from there.'

He grunted and tried the heater, found it mildly warm, and told her, 'Out of the frying pan and into the fire.'

'What?'

'That's you. You picked a hard taxi, lady.'

She raked him with sky blue eyes and made a stab at a smile. 'I know,' she said. 'You're Mack Bolan, aren't you?'

'Stretch your feet to the heater,' he commanded gruffly.

She did so, carefully arranging the coat to capture the warmth. Then her gaze became fixed on Bolan's profile and he felt it quietly absorbing him. Presently she announced, 'I'm a Foxy Lady.'

Bolan gave her his full attention for a moment, inspecting her with a sober gaze. He pegged her age in the low twenties. The eyes were luminous and intelligent; under different conditions she would be a girl who laughed easily. Maybe she would be capable of warmth and sincerity. She returned his stare, and nothing more — no invitation, no challenge, no bid for sympathy — simply a frank return of interest.

Bolan showed her half a smile and told her, 'Yeah, you're pretty foxy.'

She said, 'No, I mean...'

'I know what you mean,' he assured her. Bolan had not been thatmuch out of things. The Foxy Ladies had become an international trademark of female sensuality, standard-bearers of Foxy Magazineand the widely popular Lairkeyclubs. The technically nude young beauties were the symbols of a farflung male-oriented business empire — and to become a Foxy Lady was an almost certain threshold to bigger and better things for aspiring models and actresses. Sure, Bolan and several million other Vietnam veterans knew about the Foxy Ladies. Their centerfold artwork had adorned every barracks, tent and vehicle in Southeast Asia.

This one had bent toward the ashtray to crush out the cigarette. The topcoat fell away from her. She sighed and let it remain where it fell. The limited airspace of the Ferrari cabin was beginning to heat up. She neatly folded the coat and arranged it over the backrest. Then she repositioned herself to face Bolan and drew one leg onto the seat. Bolan cooly inspected the display of living flesh, then directed his eyes to the business of piloting the vehicle.

'What you see is what you don't get,' she told him in a matter-of-fact tone, paraphrasing a famous black comedian. 'That's the house rule at the Lair. It's an exercise in male frustration, I guess.'

'What are the house rules for Mafia molls?' he quietly inquired.

The blue eyes flared but the reply was just as quiet. 'Believe it or not, this was my first time at that place. I knew what Mr. Aurielli was, of course. But you have to understand... in this town, that's almost a mark of distinction. There was nothing personal between us. I'd just met him this afternoon.'

Bolan was watching for roadsigns, trying to orient himself. Almost absently, he commented, 'Okay.'

'It was an assignment,' she explained. 'It's in our contract. We get outside assignments. Not uh... not what you might be thinking.'

'Uh huh.'

'It's a public relations thing. The Foxy Ladies often make appearances at private parties. It's good for us, or so we're told. We get more exposure that way.' Her eyes flashed down to the costume. 'If that's possible.'

Bolan said, 'Okay.'

'Do you want to hear this or don't you?'

'I'm listening,' he assured her. He was also trying to find his place on a map of the city.

'Mr. Aurielli is — was— a keyholder. Do you think I'd go on a date dressed like this? In the middle of the afternoon? I was out there to serve a special meeting. Mr. Aurielli called it a board meeting. But I didn't see any other board members present, and I was already beginning to smell a rat when the shooting started. This man, the bartender I guess, had just taken my coat and was headed off somewhere to put it away. When the first shot sounded, he ran toward the back of the house. I went to the window, and by that time the shots were coming one after another and I saw Mr. Aurielli and two other men lying in the drive. I guess I panicked. I ran outside... and then I saw the men upstairs shooting at the place next door. Then the car caught fire and blew up. I heard someone yell something about Bolan— and that's when I started running. I don't know why I ran to you. I guess I just suddenly realized where I needed to be.'

Bolan glanced at her and caught a wry smile pulling at her lips. 'My suspicious and romantic mind, I guess,' she continued. 'I had suddenly understood that I was practically alone with that... that terrible man — and in some sort of a hideout. So I had already begun to panic. And I guess I thought Prince Charming had come to rescue me from my awful fate. I don't know what I thought. I just lost my head. And I ran for the arms of Prince Charming.'

'And found him to be no prince,' Bolan commented dryly.

'You carried me away in your white charger, didn't you,' she quietly observed.

'Call it a white coffin,' he suggested. 'That's what it could turn into.'