Guevici threw a delighted grin toward the rear seat. 'Maybe me'n Julio can trade places for a while.'
Rudolfi grimaced disgustedly and replied, 'How can you change places with Julio when you have never bothered to learn the language, Roller? How can you command a French crew when the only words in your vocabulary are deshabillez-vous and etendez-vous?'
Guevici chuckled. 'I don't even know those. What'd he say, Vito?'
'Take off your clothes and lie down,' Bertelucci grunted.
'Well, I guess that would get me by in there, wouldn't it, Tom? Anyway, I got better words for it than that.'
'Give me a word for Bolan,' Rudolfi quietly commanded.
'Bastard,' said Guevici, coldly.
'Remember it then. And here is another. Death. Morte, Roller, in French. Morte has two faces. Remember that also. It comes and it goes, at the same time. Make sure, when you are looking at the bastard, it is going. Eh, Vito?'
'Just let me look at the bastard, Tom,' Bertelucci said. 'You'll see which way it's going.'
The car was slowing and pulling to the curb.
'I would give ten thousand francs for such a look, Vito,' Rudolfi replied, sighing.
The monzoor was about to get that look... but it would cost him an empire.
The shiny blonde head moved up the stairway and into the shadows at the top. Her breathing lurched raggedly as the apparition in black detached itself from the darkness and arrested her forward movement. 'My God!' she hissed. 'It is you! This is insane! This is...'
Bolan tapped her lips with a finger and said, 'Quiet. Take me where we can talk.' He could not see her clearly but he could hear the uneven breathing of tight emotions, could feel the warmth of her and smell the delicate aromas of boudoir grooming, and he could not keep out the vision of that enchanting female body as he had last seen it. He followed her down the hall and into a dimly-lighted bedroom. He closed the door as she dropped to the bed and turned to regard him in a mixture of fear and female interest. She wore flimsy harem pajamas and velvet slippers, leaving very little to the male imagination, and Bolan had to look away from her as he said, 'You know why I'm here.'
Her lips moved woodenly in the reply. 'I suppose it's obvious. But it's also insane. There are a dozen of them here, armed to the teeth.'
'Don't worry about that. I want you to get the girls out before the fireworks start.'
'But how?'
'What are they doing down there?'
'Talking, just talking. Julio won't allow any bedroom action, no drinking, no nothing.'
'Who is Julio?'
'The head thug, I take it. Large man, about 35 or 40, obscene and violent. He's in charge. Celeste is thoroughly frightened by him. Her husband, Marcel, was...'
'Marcel was her husband?'
'Well, not really, but they had a warm thing going.'
'What were you about to say?'
'Marcel was always the go-between. For the payoffs, I mean. He was mixed up in many other things, also.'
'Celeste is paying mob protection?'
'Of course. Otherwise she could not stay open a night through.'
'How does she feel about this invasion?'
'You mean this one, tonight? She is very angry. With you, too, Mr. Bolan.'
'I see you found the name.'
'Of course. It is all we have heard for hours.'
'Okay, give me the setup. How many on the second floor?'
'Eight. Three or four more on the ground floor. Others are in the street outside, I'm sure of that.'
'And the girls?'
'All right below, in the party room.'
'Yeah, okay.' Bolan was deliberating the possibilities.
The girl asked, 'How did you get in here?'
'Same way I'm getting you out,' he told her. 'The roof. Go get the girls, but very quietly. It all depends on you if they live or die. I'll give you two minutes to get them up here, into something warm, and onto the roof.' He was looking at his watch. 'I'm making the hit at exactly 10:30. You'd better be clear by then.'
The girl's lips had begun to quiver. As she moved toward the door she asked, 'How about Celeste?'
'What about her?'
'She hates you. I wouldn't guarantee her reaction to your presence here.'
'Does she hate me enough to die?'
'I guess not.'
'Be sure she understands the choice, then. Have you decided how to round 'em up?'
'Something will come to me.'
'Try this. The boys down there are probably getting bored as hell. Make an announcement of some special entertainment. You want all the girls upstairs to work it out. Gay, you know? Strip-tease or something. Can you do it?'
She was vigorously nodding assent. 'Yes, that sounds good.' She hesitated in the doorway and turned back to whisper, 'Mr. Bolan, it would be such an insane waste if...' She gazed at him for a brief moment, leaving the statement incomplete, then spun out the door and along the hall.
Bolan followed her to the stairwell and again took position in the shadows. Moments later a burst of excited chatter sounded from below. The young redhead was the first one up. She brushed against Bolan and whispered, 'Merci,' and ran along the hallway. Apparently she had spread the word to the girls while Bolan was talking to the English girl. All were now racing up the stairs in a pretty good show of giggling excitement, but brushing by Bolan with whispered thanks.
Bolan was counting them through and, when Celeste and Judy appeared, he said quietly, 'You two make ten. Is that all?'
The blonde girl replied, 'Yes. Give us a minute to get our coats.'
Celeste gave him a hard look and pressed on by. This was one of the things Bolan hated about his work. He wondered how many other sad widows lay in the Executioner's shadow, but he flung the idea from his mind and steeled himself for what lay just ahead.
The roof stairway was creaking into place. Soft-footed women were wrestling with coats and quickly departing the battle zone. All but one. Celeste stood at the bottom of the stairway and gazed toward Bolan.
She thinks I'm going to get it, Bolan decided. She wants to see me get it.
It was time. He moved the safety release on the pistolet rapidly back and forth, assuring no failure, then went quickly down the stairs in a soft descent.
Three men relaxing lazily on a couch directly across the room took his first burst, the drumfire punching them deeper into the cushions as they gawked at him.
Two men at the window spun into the next burst, one of them crashing head-down into a nearby corner, the other going through the window in a shower of glass.
Bolan's death whirl continued unchecked. A bearded Frenchman in a beret, clawing gunleather, jerked his trigger prematurely and shot himself in the belly. Bolan added several more rounds for good measure, and whirled on.
Two men near the stairway had come unfrozen and had guns in hand, firing in a trigger-jerking frenzy at the fastmoving target. Bolan zippered them from right to left, then from left to right, and had to dodge back to avoid their falling bodies. He was feeding a fresh clip to the machine-pistol as he stepped over them and leapt down the stairs to the ground level.
Bare seconds had passed since the first eruption of gunfire. Two rather large men were jammed together in the doorway to the living quarters, both trying to get through at the same time. A gun hand was clear, though, and
