Chapter Twelve
Fury
Bolan came out of his dreams with his teeth on edge and a queasy ball in the pit of his stomach. The snow had stopped falling and it was getting daylight. A thick blanket of white lay over everything he could see from his window. He staggered down the hall, cleaned himself up, then he returned to his room and dressed for combat. He put on the thermal suit and got into a set of fatigues, then strapped on his hardware, slipped on an OD field jacket and went downstairs. The night clerk was still on duty — manning a broom in the tiny lobby. The guy did not even look up as Bolan dropped his key on the desk and strode past to the side door into and adjacent coffee shop.
He drank a pint of orange juice standing up, then he carried out coffee and Danish in a sack. The crisp air outside and the juice inside were making him feel more human by the time he reached the garage. He spent a few minutes arranging things inside the micro-bus, then he pulled onto the snow-clogged street and wondered where the hell he was going.
Something had driven him out here, something he did not even understand. Like that night near Thang-Duc when just Bolan and two Montagnard tribesmen were in night camp within shouting distance of the Ho Chi Minh Trail, when some indefinable restlessness had urged Bolan out of his hole and he'd gone off scouting the darkness alone where he'd found the Red general holding an impromptu staff meeting under the trees. The joint had turned out to be a major command post for the Northmen, and Bolan had directed air strikes that wiped the place out. All from a restless feeling like this one.
He gave the VW its head and let it go where it could along the streets of Manhattan. It was still too early for traffic — considering the street conditions, there would probably not be too many motorists even trying it. He sipped at the coffee, munched the rolls and sought out paths where the snow removal equipment had been busy. Presently he discovered that he was heading across the Harlem River and into the Bronx.
Bolan shrugged and thought,
He took the back way in and left the VW in the alley behind the house. The sky was overcast and gray, and only the white glaze from the ground was saving the day from seeming totally dismal. A trail through the fresh snow had been walked off between the house and the garage. Sounds of activity within the latter drew Bolan to the side door; he approached with the Beretta drawn and ready.
Sam the Bomber was fussing with an assortment of suitcases, trying to fit them into the trunk of a Cadillac. He looked up and saw the Executioner standing in the doorway. Chianti's eyes blinked a couple of times and he said, 'Oh, I guess I'm surprised to see you. I guess I thought you'd be dead by now.'
'I'm not,' Bolan pointed out.
'Yeah, I see that.' Chianti went on with his packing and casually told Bolan, 'You may as well put away that gun unless you came back to finish what you started last night. I'm not armed. And I sent all my boys home. I took your advice, Bolan. I'm retiring.'
'That takes a lot of guts, Sam,' Bolan commented.
'Yeah. I heard of this guy in Washington. They say he'll put your whole family away somewheres and give you twenty-four hour protection, for the rest of your life if he has to. A fed guy, I mean.'
'Sounds like you're getting religion.'
'No, I'm just getting smart. Look, Bolan, there's only one way to retire from this outfit, and that's with pallbearers. But I've had it up to my throat and I'm at least going to try.' He dropped a suitcase to the cement floor and turned to stare levelly at his visitor. 'I'm not even scared of you no more, Bolan. If you gotta shoot me, then go ahead. I just don't give a shit no more.'
A flicker of a smile crossed his lips and Bolan holstered the Beretta. 'I didn't come for that, Sam.'
'What did you come for?'
Bolan shrugged his shoulders. 'I guess I just came to talk.'
'Well pardon me for saying so but I'm feeling kind of jumpy right now and I need to get going. We planned on cutting out at least an hour ago. Gotta go clear to Connecticut first, then swing back south, and the radio says the roads are a mess.'
Bolan told him, 'Don't let me delay you, Sam. Go on with what you're doing.'
Chianti turned away and again attacked the problem of the baggage. Bolan stepped over and lent a hand. The
A moment later he added, 'You know, what you were saying about religion. Don't get me wrong, I ain't been to Mass more'n twice in my whole life. But Theresa tells me it's not how you start that counts, it's how you end up. Look, Bolan, I ain't the same guy that went out on these streets thirty years ago. I mean, literally. I just ain't the same guy. A guy grows, you know. Listen, I ain't personally wiped nobody since the first time I laid my eyes on Theresa. God's truth. I don't think I could. A guy thinks he's losing his nerve, and I think what he's really doing is growing up. Know what I mean? A punk kid don't think much about stuff like that, but then one day if he's lucky he gets to be a man, and then he starts thinking about things like that… listen, just knowing Theresa made a man outta me. I owe it to her, she made me a man.'
Bolan muttered, 'I can believe that.'
'Yeah… well, of course, I went on with the outfit. I had to go on. But I never did no personal wipes after that. I sat on my ass and sent boys out. Somehow that's different, you know. A name on a contract, that don't mean a hell of a lot. You can kid yourself, you can say my hands are clean because hell there's no way out and I'm just doing my job so I can stay alive. And you build up all these fancy ideas to keep you going, and pretty soon you're thinking you're in a legit business. You take pride in being the best one around, and you don't let yourself think about all the hell you're doing. But listen, Bolan. Pretty soon something will always happen to make you stop and look at yourself.'
Bolan said, 'Yeah.'
'Yeah is right. I been looking at myself since you came to town. Then you came here last night, and just like a dead man I saw it all rolling past my eyes, I mean my whole life, and God I felt like crying inside. And it was too late. That was the hell of it, see. Too late. Then you tell me, go on Sam, go get some coffee and think about it. Jesus I'd already thought about it, my whole damn life in a flash past my eyes — Theresa and the kids, and what a rotten bastard I really been to have people like that caring if I lived or died… I guess you know what I mean.'
'I know what you mean,' Bolan assured him.
They finished stowing the luggage. Chianti was standing there looking at him with wondering eyes, and finally Bolan asked him, 'Where do I find Freddie Gambella, Sam?'
The guy sighed, looked at his hands, and said, 'Thirty years we been buddies. I mean, yeah, he's always been the boss, there's been no mistake ever about that… but we been buddies. He's the godfather of my kids. He sat up with me all night in the hospital when the first one was coming. Theresa was having a hard time, so Freddie sat there and held my hand all night long to keep me in my skull.'
Bolan told him, 'I'm sorry, Sam. But I have to know.'
'Well wait. Lemme tell you. We've went on vacations together, the four of us, and sometimes Maria insisted we take the kids along because she couldn't have none herself, and she said our kids were her kids. I mean, this is the kind of friends we've been, Bolan. Or I thought so. But listen. I think Freddie's going insane. I mean that. Or else he always has been.
'Listen, Bolan, last night you had a feeling for Theresa, a perfect stranger, but you had a feeling for her. Wouldn't you think the godfather of our kids would have some feeling like that? No, there ain't no feeling like that, Bolan. Freddie would throw me to the wolves, and he'd throw Theresa too, and I bet his own godkids. You wanta know where to find Freddie? Well, I'm going to tell you where, Bolan. And not because I'm afraid of you neither. You know what I been thinking? I been thinking that Freddie has been onto me for a long time. I mean, me not wanting blood on my hands. I think he's trying to
Bolan nodded understandingly and offered Chianti his notebook. 'He's got four addresses, Sam. I only want one.'
'That's the one I'm going to give you.' Chianti took the book and pencil from Bolan and laboriously printed an address in large crude block letters. He sighed heavily and returned it to Bolan, then told him, 'Look, there's
