'Johnny Vegas says Bolan left a message for you. That's why City Jim called direct. He says you better take a vacation, and damn quick. Bolan gave the kid one of those medals — you know, those calling-cards of his. He said Johnny should give it to you, because you're next.'
Lavallo's eyes twitched. He muttered, 'Smart son of a bitch. Where the hell does he get off with — just who the hell does he think he is?'
'Who? You mean City Jim? He's just trying...'
'Hell no, I mean that smart bastard!' Lavallo yelled. 'Where the hell does he think he's at, still in New York or somewheres? He can't pull that stuff in this town, don't he know that?'
'God, I guess he already pulled it, Pete,' Rudy Palmer quietly pointed out. 'The guy's a nut, you know that. You can't figure a nut. He's probably all horsed up, you know how those guys come back from Vietnam. Popping four or five caps of horse a day and clear outta their skulls with the stuff. I think you ought to...'
'Aw shut up,' Lavallo muttered. 'Lemme think. Hell I ain't even got used to Lou being dead yet. Lemme think.'
'Well listen to one more thing first. I already sent for Nicko and Eddie. I told them to round up plenty of soldiers and get a convoy out here to take you home. I don't want you taking no chances with this nut.'
'Yeah, yeah — okay.' Lavallo was staring at the window, his eyes glazed and unseeing. 'And tell City Jim thanks if he calls back. Tell him I appreciate the personal interest.'
Palmer nodded and went to the door, then turned back to examine his boss with a searching gaze. 'There was a doll with Louis when he got it,' he announced quietly.
'It figures,' Lavallo muttered.
'And she up and disappeared. The chef says he saw her running across the grounds to meet Bolan. He says she knew right where she was going.'
Lavallo's chin quivered. He said, 'I told Lou those dollies would kill him. A man fifty-five years old shouldn't try acting like a young stud again. I warned him those pains meant something.'
'The point is that...'
'I know what point it is!' Lavallo yelled.
'Well I'm going to put a crew working that angle.'
'You do that, Rudy. And tell 'em to bring this doll to me. I want to talk to her personal.'
'I figured you would,' Rudy Palmer replied, and went on out, carefully closing the door between the interconnecting offices.
Lavallo absently patted the grip of the .45 and sank onto the corner of the desk, still staring unseeingly at the window. Shock and anger and fear and outrage all seemed to have become resolved in a consummate sadness. Louis Aurielli had been a good friend, a lifelong companion. They had come up together, through the bloody ranks of family competition to a plateau of unchallenged power. They'd seen a lot together, and done a lot together — and together they had become a lot. Now Lavallo felt strangely alone, exposed to the vicissitudes of a cruel world. And because of what? Because of a smart-ass soldier boy on a dumb vendetta. What had Louis Aurielli known of this smart-ass? What did Pete Lavallo care about him?
Okay, sure, there had been that thing at Miami Beach. And some of the Chicago boys caught hell at Miami. But Lou and Pete had been a hundred miles away at the time, and why should they take it personal about Miami Beach? Let the street soldiers worry about the blacksuited bastard, that's what they were paid to do. Not Lou and Pete. But now here was Louis dead and Pete worrying.
There just wasn't any justice.
Well... it was personal now for Pete Lavallo. People didn't go around gunning down his lifelong friends and live to smile about it. Not nobody, not Mack Bolan, not a hundred Mack Bolans.
Lavallo sat there for a long time... remembering, wondering, hating... and then he realized that the sun had gone down and that it was getting dark outside. He went to the window and pulled the blind, then turned on his desk lamp and punched an intercom button to connect him with a desk situated deep in the maze of warehouses. A nervous voice responded immediately and Lavallo asked it, 'Did that guy from Rockford show up yet?'
'Not yet, Mr. Lavallo,' came the strained response.
'Who the hell does he think he is?' Lavallo snarled. 'I told him four o'clock, and here it is five.'
'They were having an ice storm across Interstate 90, sir, up near Belvidere. Possibly he got caught in that.'
'Don't bullshit me no ice storms!' Lavallo raged. 'When he gets in,
The choked voice replied, 'He's leased fifty trucks for that job, Mr. Lavallo. I don't believe we could just arbitrarily terminate his contract, especially if an act of God is the cause of his delay.'
'Arbitrary, who the hell said anything about arbitrary? You tell that guy the contract is tore up, and if he wants an act of God, ask him what he thinks about a spanner wrench against the side of the head. I ain't holding still for no smart-ass out-of-town hauler that thinks he can walk all over L & A. And the same goes for a smart-ass dispatcher that talks about arbitrary stuff. Don't you forget that.'
'Yes sir. I'll tell him to run his fifty leased trucks up his ass, Mr. Lavallo.'
'You do that!' Lavallo punched off the connection and settled into his chair, puffing with anger.
The side door opened and Rudy Palmer stood there stiffly framed in the rectangle of light. 'The convoy is downstairs, Pete,' he announced quietly. 'Let's go home.'
'Go on down,' Lavallo said. 'I gotta take a piss, then I'll be right with you. Did anybody tell Mrs. Aurielli about Louis?'
'We're trying to locate her,' Palmer replied woodenly. 'She's usually in Nassau this time of year.'
'If you don't find her there, try that hotel at St. Thomas. She likes it there, too. Go on, Rudy. I'll be right down.'
Palmer backed out and closed the door. Lavallo smiled wryly to himself and picked up the telephone. A moment later he got his connection and told it, 'Hello, John? This is Pete Lavallo. You know, L & A Trucking. Say, uh, one of my subcontractors has crapped out on me. You know what I was saying last week about something big for your campaign fund.'
A clipped voice rattled back a brisk response.
Lavallo grinned and said, 'Yeah, well that was a drop in the bucket, I don't even count that. I meant something
A delighted response rattled the receiver.
The Lavallo grin widened. He said, 'Sure, it's the cheapest way I know to get into the trucking business. Listen, you send John Junior around in the morning, eh? We'll see what we can come up with.'
Another rattle, then: 'Oh, hell, don't mention it, John. What are friends for if they can't look out for each other, eh?'
Lavallo hung up and studied his fingertips with a smug smile. One man's ruin always meant another man's gain. And what the hell could the punk from Rockford possibly mean to Pete Lavallo?
He got into his overcoat and again checked the load in the .45 and dropped it into a coat pocket, took a quick look about the office, and went out. He thought again of Aurielli and knew that he would not accept the fact of Lou's death until he saw him lying there in his coffin, all done up for planting. Meanwhile hie had to go on. Business details had to be kept tidy. He touched the grip of the .45 — and yeah, hie had to go on.
Quickly he descended the stairway. The small office building was quiet and deserted. It mildly irked Lavallo the way the hired help all got up and ran out at the stroke of five. It would seem like they would take more interest in the business. After all, it was their bread and butter, wasn't it? Maybe he'd shake up this goddam crew, get them on their toes, and either shape 'em up or ship 'em out. That idea appealed to him, and he continued on toward the lobby in a rising good humor.
The news about Louis had really shaken him. He was glad to be pulling out of that dark mood. His ulcers got edgy when
Rudy Palmer was seated on the bottom step — waiting for the boss — tying his shoe or something. The
