But there were no messages for 'Joe Petrillo.'
He proceeded on to a telephone booth at the far side of the lobby and made a coin call to his unlisted 'cold drop' in Pittsfield, an automated answering system.
The connection was made and he fed in the verbal coder which would trigger the electronic brain to a release of messages stored since the last check-in.
There was but one, very brief — but the one which Turrin had been anxiously awaiting all day.
'This is Striker,' announced a familiar voice. 'Tap me at the floater, Seattle, two thousand and two hundred.'
That was it, but it was plenty.
Turrin hung up and gazed at his watch. Twenty-two hundred meant ten o'clock. What the guy really meant, though, was ten minutes
'Floater' was, of course, the mobile number in the guy's vehicle.
You didn't simply pick up a phone and call Mack Bolan — not even if you happened to be the guy's only contact with the straight world. You called at ten past ten, if that's what the man wanted, then you called every hour after that until you connected.
It was now nine fifty, Seattle time.
Turrin went into the smoke shop and bought some cigars, then returned to the lobby in time to intercept the dumb but loyal tagman, Jocko Frensi.
'Go on up with the stuff,' Turrin instructed him. 'I'm going to hang around and make a few calls without switchboards. What's our room?'
'Ten hundred,' Fresni reported with a woebegone frown. 'Man says it's the best in the joint, but I dunno, it's only got one teevee. Uh, don't you think I better stay down here with you?'
'Naw, it's okay. Go on. You look beat. Boys on the same floor?'
'Yeh. We can open the doors and connect with them if we wanta. Pers'nally, boss, I don't wanta.'
Fresni had once ridden some of the best mounts in thoroughbred racing circles. That was years ago. The little guy's last horse died under him, literally, and Jocko damn near died with him. He'd never been right in the head, since. Fast man with a blaster, though, and as loyal a bodyguard as would be found anywhere. And he really did look beat.
Turrin stepped over to his chief torpedo and told him, 'See that Jocko goes right to bed. You guys leave 'im alone. Stay in your own damn rooms,'
'Yeh, sure,' the guy growled back. 'We're going to get some broads, anyway. What're you going to be doing?'
'Nosing around. Stay close to the rooms.'
'You want a broad?'
Turrin seemed to be considering the idea before he replied, 'Guess not. What do they call that — jet lag? Hell it's about one o'clock back home.'
The head cock laughed and said, 'You're getting old, Leo.'
Turrin allowed that land of familiarity. Many bosses didn't. But Leo had a loyal crew. They knew what they could and couldn't — there was no need for squeezing their tails in the bargain.
He chuckled and tipped the bellman in advance then watched men and luggage into the elevator before turning away and looking for somewhere to kill another fifteen minutes.
His wandering took him outside to sample the air. The damn town was pregnant. It was about to give birth to something, that was sure. That atmosphere was loaded with something more than moisture.
He went back inside — located the bar, the coffee shop, barbers, main dining room — then found his way back to the pay telephones at precisely ten-oh-nine.
He dialed the mobile operator, gave her the number, and sat back with an eye to the sweep second hand of his watch.
Bingo — he got the connection at precisely ten-ten.
'Yeh, who'd you want?'
'Guy name Striker, also known as Tony.' Which meant there was no gun at Leo Turrin's head.
'That was quick,' Bolan's normal voice replied. 'I just filed the request thirty minutes ago and hauled down for a long wait.'
'Got it twenty minutes ago. I'm in town. What's on?'
'Damned if I know,' the big one replied soberly. 'I was hoping you could tell me.'
'All I know is, for sure, about two hundred descending for head. You got a spare one?'
Bolan chuckled, but it was a dry sound — like steel on steel. 'Not lately. Two hundred, eh? Heavy?'
'You'd better believe heavy. Best in the west. What the hell're you up to?'
'I think we'd better meet. I don't like these mobiles.'
'Know what you mean. Okay. When and where?'
'How flexible are you?'
'Not very. I'm in party. But you name it, I'll be there. Somehow.'
'Okay, let's give it a couple of hours. Make it three. Pick you up at the science fair building, by the fountains. Say one o'clock.'
'Okay. Uh, Bigpush may want to come along. Okay?'
The Bolan voice flattened somewhat as he inquired, 'He here, too?'
'Supposed to be. We haven't connected yet but probably will before one.'
'What'd he bring?'
'Fifty. Maybe another fifty, shortly.'
'Come to play, or to watch?'
'To play, I think. With a big worry.'
'Okay. Bring him if it's his idea.'
'Gotcha. Say, man. Stay hard.'
'You too.'
Turrin patted the telephone and hung it up, then crossed the lobby to the message desk for another check- in.
And, yeah — it was there that time, Brognola's side of the equation.
He strolled back to the phone booths, casually tossing a dime and reflecting on the crazy life he led.
At the edge of a knife, sure — balanced precariously between two worlds, and none whatever for himself.
So why'd he do it?
Why did singers sing and dancers dance? Leo Turrin was no philosopher. A guy simply did what he did best.
Bolan turned away from the mobile phone and lay a friendly gaze on his guest of necessity, Margaret Nyeburg. 'Feeling better?' he asked, unnecessarily. It was quite obvious that she was.
The lady was perched atop his plotting table in the war room, fresh from a renewing if brief shower — legs crossed and feet drawn up under her, dwarfed and childlike in Bolan's dungaree jacket which was the only thing between them at the moment. Lovely, vulnerable, strongly appealing. Bolan found himself regretting even more strongly than ever his earlier involvement with the daughter. Some things just wouldn't work. A mother-daughter situation was one of those things.
A mug of scalding coffee was cooling precariously between her thighs. Bolan moved it, noting her silence, and said, 'I guess you are. Feeling better. Eh?'
She sniffed and said, 'I just hope I haven't caught a nasty cold. You're a strong young man, Mack. Thank you. That's silly, isn't it? How can I thank you?'
He'd caught that 'young man' coder, and understood. She was telling him to keep away. He intended to.
He told her, 'We're alive. That's thanks enough.'
'For you, good. For me — well, it seems the least of consolations.'
He growled, 'Hey, hey.'
