Chicago Wipe-Out

'I guess I knew what I was doing,' the girl murmured. 'We — the girls at the club — we were talking about you just the other night. They had that special from New York on Channel 4, and we were talking about your — uh — battles there. Someone said you'd never come to Chicago. The people around here are kind of crazy — or have you noticed that? They seem to be proud to be the crime center of the universe. Anyway, I suppose all this was in my mind — and the shooting started — and I heard that man on the roof shout your name. I guess I knew where I was running. Still I guess I didn't know for sure until I saw you walking toward the car in that black suit. Then it all came together. The Executioner hadcome to Chicago.'

Bolan said, 'And right in the nick of tune, eh?'

'I guess that's how I thought of it,' she admitted. 'Very egotistic, huh. Just the same, you didsave my life back there, you know.'

'Not quite,' he told her.

'What?'

'Look, I believe your story,' he said. 'I could just as easily disbelieve it, but I haveto lean your way. And you have to lean with me. Now you think carefully and answer the same way. How many people knew you were going to that joint with Aurielli?'

She blinked her eyes rapidly and replied, 'Lots of people. It was an assignment. I told you. I was sent...'

'Okay. Now what do you suppose is going to happen when the mob begins looking into the thing? They're going to discover there's a chick missing from the woodpile. They're going to wonder what happened to the chick and they're going to wonder if there was any connection between her and Bolan. These guys don't miss any bets. They're as good as any cops anywhere when it comes to polling evidence together. They know their business, and they conduct it with a notable absence of tenderness. Sooner or later they're going to start wondering about a certain Foxy Lady. And if they develop any suspicion whatever that maybe this lady helped set up that little slaughter out there this afternoon, then that lady will be not very long for this world. Are you leaning with me?'

She was. Bolan had to believe that the reaction was genuine. Her eyes fluttered, the veneer of sophistication cracked a bit further, and she exclaimed, 'Oh wow! That's what you meant by 'out of the frying pan and into the fire.' '

Bolan assured her, 'That's exactly what I meant.'

'So what do I do now?' she asked in a small voice. 'Go back?'

He shook his head. 'It's too late for that. The cops are already swarming the joint. No, you have to go on. But we have to build you a story. You panicked and ran, a guy picked you up and took you into town. You...' The look in her eyes stopped him. He asked, 'What's wrong?'

'It's no good,' she replied miserably. 'They saw me. Two men. I saw them watching me from the kitchen window as I was running. They had to know where I was headed.'

Bolan said, 'Well damn it.'

'I guess you could take me to a police station,' she suggested in a frightened voice. 'I could ask for protection.'

He shook his head. 'That wouldn't buy you a thing. Not if these people decide to get to you.'

'Then take me home,' she said, suddenly flaring with defiance. 'I live in Elmhurst. I'll call the club and tell them what happened, and I'll just go on as though nothing had happened. If the mobsters come to me, I'll just tell them exactly how it was. And they can like it or lump it.'

Bolan was obviously neither liking nor lumping it. His face was etched with trouble lines, and again he said, 'Well damn it.'

Perhaps he was remembering the gruesome remains of what had been an equally beautiful and innocent girl, left behind in a New York morgue; or maybe he was thinking of an exotic French actress who had offered him Eden on the Riviera and who had found in return nothing but an echo of Bolan's hell — or a valiant little Cuban exile who had given her blood for his in Miami and died in agony with a blowtorch at her breasts. And perhaps he was viewing the entire procession of beloved dead.

He turned tortured eyes to the latest most likely candidate and told her, 'like it or not, Foxy, you're a part of my jungle now.'

It was all Bolan needed to make his job doubly impossible... another defenseless ally to worry over. He jerked the wheel viciously into the exit to an east-west arterial and left Lake Shore Drive behind. He had found his orientation.

This new development called for a change in the battle order.

And Bolan knew precisely what had to be done next.

3 The deal

'For God's sake, Pete, where you been? I been looking all over for you!'

The king of the highways, Pietro D. (Pete the Hauler) Lavallo regarded his 'Executive Vice-President' with a superior smugness and a condescending smile. 'While you been running around looking for me,' he replied, 'I been out nailing down a deal.' He went on to his desk and dropped, tiredly, into a massive chair. 'So what's your problem, Rudy? What're you so lathered-up about, huh?'

Rudy Palmer (neeColombo Palmeiri) was swaying nervously from one foot to the other. His eyes went to the wall behind his boss's head as he said, 'I don't know just how to tell you this, Pete. I got some bad news.'

'Well just tell it and let me figure out how bad it is, huh, Rudy?'

'Louis Aurielli is dead.'

'Did you say dead?'

'Yeah. He's dead, Pete.'

Pete the Hauler's eyes shaded into a dull gaze while the message tried to locate a level of acceptance in the gray matter behind those eyes. Disbelief registered there even as he was replying, 'Hell, I warnedhim. I toldhim those pains were trying't' tell him something. You mean he's really dead?' He snapped his fingers. 'Just like that?'

'No!' Palmer exclaimed. 'Not like that. I mean his brains are splattered all over Lakeside. Him and about a dozen boys. City Jim says bodies are strung all around the joint, just shot to hell.'

Lavallo slowly pushed his swivel chair away from the desk and eased to his feet. As if in a slow-motion reflex he opened a drawer and picked up a .45 Colt autoloader, checked the clip, and placed it on the desk. Then he went to the window and stared out upon the warehouse complex that surrounded the modernistic office building. In a barely audible voice he asked, 'And where does City Jim come into it?'

'Hell, I guess they got half the police force out there, that's where he comes into it. He said to tell you...'

'Hesaid?' Lavallo snarled, whirling away from the window. 'You mean he called personal?'

'Yes he did, and let me tell you about it, Pete.' Palmer took time to light a cigarette, exhaling with the burst of words. 'You remember a Lakeside soldier called Johnny Vegas? Tall skinny kid, always doing card tricks?'

Lavallo cried, 'Get to it! What the hell happened out there?'

'This Johnny Vegas is the only soldier left alive up there. He says it was a Bolanhit. He says he stood eye-to-eye with the bastard and...'

Lavallo had scooped up an ashtray from the desk and thrown it the length of the office. It struck the far wall and shattered, dislodging a heavy plaque.

Palmer yelled, 'Calm down, Pete! God, listen to what I got to tell you!'

'Alright. I'm listening.' Lavallo picked up the .45 and thrust it into the waistband of his trousers. 'I'm