Nightmare in New York

'What's the brew?'

'Politics, baby. And you know how that goes.'

'Isn't it the wrong time of the year for that?' Bolan asked, but something had already started crawling through his mind.

'It's always the right time for politics. You know that.'

'Yeah, but, for a big brew?'

'Well… yeah, I guess you're right. I don't believe they have an election coming up there for… oh hell, when do they vote in New York?'

'Same as other places, I guess,' Bolan replied. 'And my nose says wrong timing.'

'Yeah. Well listen. I'll see what I can pick up. You want to call me back or do you have a number there I — '

'Til call you back. Uh, Leo. Thanks.'

'Go to hell you big slob.'

A click and a hum told Bolan that the conversation had ended. He grinned and went back to his room, and then he stopped grinning as his legs buckled under him and he had to make a grab for the bedpost to remain upright. Too much too fast, buddy, he told himself. Put it down, put it down.

He put it down, clothes and all, and he was asleep before his head met the pillow, his hand resting upon the grip of the Beretta, and his mind resting upon the ties that held important lives connected to his own. And he dreamed bloody dreams.

Chapter Eleven Majesty

At almost the same moment that Mack Bolan had entered the automat with his young friends, CapoFreddie Gambella was being awakened from a fitful sleep in his home a few miles away.

'Tommy Doctor's outside,' his night house-captain informed him in a harsh whisper. 'He's got some cunt with him that he says knows Mack Bolan.'

Gambella threw a quick look at his wife, asleep in the other bed a few feet away, and growled, 'Awright, I'll be right there.'

The captain was Angel Paleoletri, a favored veteran of some twelve years of night duty at the Gambella residence. He received his mob name from a supposed resemblance to a professional wrestler known as The Swedish Angel who was actually a Prince Charming in any close comparison with Paleoletti.

Maria Gambella openly shuddered at every sight of Angel, and she had absolutely forbade his presence in the marital bedroom. In one of the few ultimatums Maria had ever imposed upon their marriage, she had served notice to the Caposome years back that if she ever again awakened to find Angel Paleoletti standing over her bed, she would exit running and never return. So Gambella, in his own words a man who respected the sensitivities of womanhood, had discreetly moved the beds a few feet farther apart and impressed upon Angel the need for soft movements on nighttime errands into the boudoir.

Per this arrangement, Angel was awaiting his Capoin the small sitting room which adjoined the bedroom when Gambella strode out in robe and slippers, a suit of clothes slung casually over his shoulder. 'Okay, what is this now?' he asked the bodyguard.

'Tommy's outside with this cunt. He thinks you'd want to talk to her personal. You want me to let 'em in?'

'You know better, Angel,' Gambella said quietly. 'Tell Tommy I'll be out in a minute.'

'Dress warm, boss. We got a storm out there that could put out hell.'

Paleoletti slipped quietly away and Gambella took his time getting dressed, running through his mind the possible implications of this sudden break in the search for the elusive Mack the Bastard. He had known, of course, that they would tag the guy sooner or later. It wasn't possible for anything to happen in this town without the news filtering up to the king of the empire sooner or later. This was the empire state, wasn't it? Damn right. And Freddie Gambella and his friends had covertly ruled it for a hell of a long time — where rule really counted, anyway. And one day soon, maybe it wouldn't be so covert. One day soon, maybe…

Gambella had lately been given to studying world history, with particular emphasis on Europe and the royal families who had dominated that continent and much of the world for so many centuries. The feudal kingdoms particularly fascinated the Capo, the parallels were so close to this blessed thing of theirs — the families of America — and he was beginning to understand where old man Maranzano had picked up his ideas for the early organization. The old boy had been a real educated gentleman, probably the only one except for Lucky Luciano who had any class at all. Gambella had secretly felt for many years that it was a damn shame for old man Maranzano to go out the way he did — he really had the right ideas.

Freddie Gambella had those very same ideas. This kingdom was going to get better organized, by God, or Freddie Gambella would die trying. But not like the old man. Hell no. It took more than ideas to fashion an empire. More than class, too. Maybe Freddie didn't have the benefit of a fancy education but he read a lot, and by God he had the benefit of thirty-five years experience of handling these people, from soldiers to Capos.

The old ways were okay as far as they went. They just didn't go far enough. Why should they be standing still for all this damn snooping and harassment by the feds? And these damn grand juries, these punk bastards with the holier-than-anybody-look on their faces and their damn hands just as sticky as anybody else's in the world. All these big corporations — why those bastards stole with a license that nobody ever dreamed of. They conned and robbed and gouged just like any guy on the streets, and that made them part of the game, didn't it?

Freddie Gambella was not holding still for that crap anymore. Hell no. If those guys wanted to muscle, then they'd better by God start looking for a license from the kingdom, that's what. Those senators, those congressmen, all those hunky little thieves in Washington and the legislatures, all those guys scrambling after the buck had better start doing their scrambling for licenses from the kingdom. Pretty damn soon, too. The big thing was by God about to happen. And it would be a chain reaction, not just here in New York but all over. The whole world, yeah.

Gambella went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then rinsed with mouthwash, grinned at his reflection in the mirror and told it, 'I gotta tell you this, Your Majesty, you got stinkin' breath.' He laughed, went to the closet for his topcoat, put it on and came back to inspect his image in the mirror, then he set the hat on carefully so not to muss the hair that was getting handsomely silver at the temples — yeah, real majesty — and he went out to talk to the cunt.

She was a pretty thing, all round eyed and scared out of her skull, one tit hanging outside her coat and getting massaged by Earl Lattio, Tommy's top gunner.

Lattio gave him a honky kind of a smile and slid out of the car to let the Caposlide in. Gambella removed his hat and shook the snow off, then handed it to Tommy Doctor who was watching him smugly from the front seat. Then Gambella looked at the cute kid and told her, 'Put your titty back in before it catches cold.'

She just sat there quivering, the big eyes looking at him like maybe he was the big hero she'd been looking for to show up and rescue her. He let her see a friendly smile then reached over and tucked the tight little titty in for her and rearranged her coat.

He said, 'Didn't your momma ever tell you to wear a bra? They'll get all broke down and start sagging before you even so much as have a kid. What's your name, honey?'

Her lips moved ever so slightly and she whispered, 'Evie.'

'Is that what Bolan calls you?' he asked in a soft voice.

She just stared at him.

Tommy Doctor informed the Capoin that smooth college delivery, 'We've assured the young lady that our concern for Mack is the same as her's. But she's hung up on something. She simply will not