Chicago Wipe-Out

storm of their own. Unofficially referred to as 'The Quad Council,' these four represented the invisible power structure which had welded the city and its environs into an impregnable stronghold of criminal corruption. Its members were referred to only as City, Labor, Industry, and Syndicate.

In this meeting were worked out the various lines of responsibility, the 'action interfaces,' and the dimensions of effort to be thrown into the upcoming war. From this meeting were fielded generals with strange sounding names leading troops with even stranger talents, and a general of all the generals was named to directly oversee the war effort on behalf of the Quad Council.

This lord high enforcer was one Lawrence 'Turkey' Rossi — usually known as Larry Turkor, simply, Turk. The term Turkey, in general Mafia parlance, is used in relation to a particularly gruesome method of torture-interrogation or torture-revenge in which the victim is systematically reduced to a mindless mass of mutilated and writhing flesh, or 'turkey,' though conscious and screaming for mercy right into the moment of death. Its practitioners develop a high degree of skill, and Larry Turk had received his nickname in recognition of his own high development of this delicate art, acquired during his earlier years of advancement along the rungs of power.

This appointment to lead the counter-war against Bolan represented a new challenge, and perhaps a new pinnacle of achievement, for the ambitions of Lawrence Rossi. Forty-one years of age and a two-time 'graduate' of the Illinois State Prison at Joliet, Larry the Turk had arrived at the high moment of a vicious career. And it must have seemed to him that all roads from this point led straight up.

On this night of the storm, however, the turkey-maker was to discover that even the most sublime roads always travel in more than one direction. Even in Chicago.

* * *

Bolan let himself into the motel room and deposited his parcels on a table by the door. The room was lighted only by a sliver of illumination from the bathroom door and the glow from a television screen.

The girl was sprawled casually across the bed on her forearms, her attention, absorbed by the television set, a bath towel draped carelessly over her bottom. The Foxy Lady costume lay on a luggage rack at the foot of the bed.

Bolan took in the towel-draped highrise and quickly shifted his focus to a less disturbing scene, the murmuring television. His own image was being displayed there as a blown-up artist's sketch while an off-camera voice was giving a resume' of the New York battles.

The blonde head swivelled slowly about and she regarded him quietly across a rose-petal shoulder which was glowing fetchingly in the reflected light from the television screen. The voice was small and maybe a bit weepy as she told him, 'I thought you'd deserted. I've been lying here feeling sorry for myself.'

'Had to stop and see a guy,' Bolan explained.

'Yes, I know.' A shadow seemed to move across her eyes. 'They just reported the... man... at the trucking company. They said it's connected to the executions at Lakeside. Is it?'

He said, 'Sure,' and tossed a flat box onto the bed. 'Better check the fit.'

She ignored the box. Again that shadow crossed her eyes as she asked, 'Did you really slit his throat?'

Bolan shrugged. 'Dead is dead,' he muttered, and strode into the bathroom. He called back 'Get some clothes on,' and banged the door shut.

Sure he'd slit the throat, and he'd punched hot metal into a dozen other men this day — beautiful lady. He had noted that look in her eyes, that dawning revulsion — somehow he had never become accustomed to that look. He supposed he never would, no matter how often he saw it. Well, so what? — he had it coming, didn't he? It was a proper reaction.

So too someone had to be the butcher. Bolan could live with it. A guy with a genius for math should not shrink from numbers... a dancer should dance, a singer should sing, a painter should paint, and an executioner should... Bolan knew what he had to do. He knew where his talents lay, and let the revulsion fall where it would. He could live with it.

He flung away the entire train of thought and began undressing for the shower. The Beretta and sideleather went on a towel rack just outside the shower stall, and Bolan went in beneath the stinging spray, lifting his face directly into the invigorating assault. He remained there a long time, eyes clenched, breathing through his mouth, luxuriating in the bombardment — and then he became aware that the door to the stall was open and be felt eyes on him.

They were solemnly glowing eyes and they belonged to the Foxy Lady... and there were no shadows or veils there now. In her hand was a cosmetic jar and upon that divine body was nothing but the painted likeness of a red fox.

Soberly, she said, 'Thanks for remembering the body cream.'

His mind traveled the several corners of the world before he replied, 'Okay.'

'I'll wash your back if you'll cream-off my paint.'

He said, 'You're on,' and pulled her into the stall.

Soft arms went about him and the resilient body-bountiful welded itself to him in a shivery embrace. Her lips nipped at his shoulder and she moaned, 'I'm Jimi James, let's get that into the record.'

Bolan ran his hands along the luxurious flesh of her back as he told her, 'Pleased to meet you, Miss James. I'm still Mack Bolan.'

'Oh, and I'm glad, I'm glad,' she whispered, and her mouth found his, and Bolan knew that she was glad. And so was he. Revulsion he could live with, sure — but this was something to live for.

If revulsion had indeed been present some moments earlier, it had certainly given way now to something more moving than violence, more jarring than a chunk of muzzle-heated metal, and infinitely more sublime than unending warfare. A man and a woman had found an exalted bond that surpasses all human definitions. And as the storm forces gathered about and above the landscapes surrounding them, there was engendered between them and by them a storm of an entirely different sort...

* * *

The sign on the specially constructed door read Communications, Ltd. — inside were rows of semi-enclosed tables, each equipped with a telephone and other devices helpful to the bookmaker's trade. This was the headquarters of a wire-betting service, a national operation covering race tracks and sporting events throughout the country. Tonight it was covering a different type of event; this was the Chicago nerve center for the War against Bolan. Several dozen men manned the telephones, displayed information, and passed along reports and instructions pertinent to the task at hand.

Larry Turk was holding court with several of his crew chiefs in a turret of desks and wirecages at the rear when someone observed, 'Here comes Pete the Hauler.'

Turk muttered, 'What the hell does that guy want to be... ?' He jammed a cigar into his mouth and lit it while the portly underboss made his way along the line of wiremen.

Lavallo was puffing slightly as he rounded the corner into the turret. He gave a little hand signal and said, 'Hi Turk. How's it going?'

'Fine, just fine, Mr. Lavallo. What can we do for you?' This was polite notice that the Caporegimewas neither wanted nor needed here.

'I'm just too nervous to sit around and wait,' Lavallo admitted. 'I thought maybe I could lend a hand.'

Turk's eyes went to the ceiling. This was a delicate matter. At the moment, he was kingpin. Tomorrow, or next week, one day soon, Pete Lavallo's great rank could squash a dozen Larry Turks into nothingness. He told the underboss, 'That's great, Mr. Lavallo. Not much happening right now, though. The guy's crawled into a hole somewhere, I guess.'

The trucker dropped into a chair. 'I'd rather be here than sitting around wondering,' he muttered.

Turk exchanged glances with a crew chief. He told Lavallo, 'We were just reviewing the strategy. We, uh, got a whole invisible crew tailin' you around, Mr. Lavallo. If you're gonna spend the night here, we need to put those boys someplace else.'

Lavallo's eyes showed his surprise. 'Nobody told me that,' he said.