Nightmare in New York

been flinging. So now he knew.

He solemnly told her, 'I wasn't even half here yesterday, Rachel.'

'I know. Even so, you flung me into impurity.'

The girl swayed away and left him sitting there staring out the window onto a crisp December day. It was a conversation he would not forget, but now he tucked it away for future reference. There were more pressing puzzles to think about. For openers, how long could he expect to sponge on the generosity and good nature of his hostesses? To how much danger was he exposing them by his mere presence there? And what sort of city-shaking gyrations was the mob putting itself through for Bolan's head? And how about the cops? Were they all just sitting back and waiting for him to show? He doubted it.

The answers to those questions were, of course, approaching critical mass. He realized in a flash, then, that the talk with Rachel Silver did have a bearing on his own mode of living. She had been speaking of sex and purity, but the application for Bolan was warfareand purity. There waspurity in warfare. A hellish kind of purity. An army gets soft and undisciplined when it's off the line; the same truth applied equally to a lone warrior. Each moment that he remained in this R and R camp, he knew, he was falling that much farther into gross impurity.

He had to get back on the line. The sooner the better. He got up, carefully made his way to the bathroom, unbandaged his wound, and stood in front of the mirror to inspect it. Paula's stitches were a bit uneven and raggedy-ended, but the flesh surrounding them seemed healthy and alive. He guessed she'd known what she was doing. Then he glanced at his face. A two-day accumulation of whiskers was akeady radically altering his appearance. He would let them grow, he decided, and try to hang on with the girls for a couple more days, at least until the wobbles left his legs. Then he for damn sure had to get back on the line. A war awaited him.

On Tuesday morning, Bolan rolled off the couch to which he had been unceremoniously deported the previous evening and was delighted to find that he could walk swiftly across the room without becoming dizzy. A bit of bounce had returned to his step and he could lift the left arm to shoulder level with only a moderate degree of agony. He consumed a twenty-ounce steak from Paula's grill and confessed to her that he felt 'ready to rassle a grizzly.'

Perhaps because of that remark, Paula decided that Bolan should be left alone thenceforth, at least during the working day, and all three girls were packed off to the salon. Evie darted back into the apartment to hang a moist kiss on Bolan's lips and whisper, 'Don't go way, huh?'

Bolan grinned and shooed her back out. Alone for the first time in days, he took a lingering shower and then gingerly tested his shoulder with a series of limbering-up exercises.

Later that morning, Paula took time from her busy schedule to go to the East Side Air Terminal and claim Bolan's luggage. She delivered it to him and found him performing push-ups on the living room floor and gritting his teeth against the pain in the shoulder.

'I guess you know what you're doing,' she told him, and hurried back out.

Bolan knew precisely what he was doing. He had to get that shoulder functioning, and quickly. Some deeply welling instinct had been working at him all morning; he knew that his time had come.

He took the bag into the large bedroom and opened it, then immediately checked the false bottom. It was intact, and so were the contents — the hot little 9mm Beretta automatic he'd picked up in France, plus the sideleather and a stack of spare clips. He double-checked the Beretta's action, then slid in a clip and chambered in a round at the ready, hesitated momentarily, then added the silencer to the muzzle and carefully installed the piece in the sideleather. Then he got into fresh clothing and buckled on the shoulder rig, wincing and readjusting the strap to clear his wound.

He left the bag lying open on the bed and carried his jacket into the living room, seeking pencil and paper to leave a note for the girls.

A small wall secretary occupied a spot just off the L-shaped foyer. It was here that Bolan was headed when the front door swung open and a guy in a brown suit stepped into the apartment. He was holding one of those clever little sliding-blade door-jimmies and softly chuckling to himself with some secret joke, and he was more upset than Bolan by the surprise encounter. The chuckle died in his throat and his eyes were bugging at the display of gunleather crossing Bolan's chest. The jimmy slipped through his fingers and he made a fumbling move toward the inside of his jacket.

Bolan's Beretta cleared leather much quicker and he commanded, 'Freeze!'

Brownsuit froze and gawked and stuttered, 'Wh-what the h-hell is this?'

Bolan said, 'You tell me.'

'Police,' the guy squawked. 'I'm a policeman.'

'Prove it.'

The intruder showed Bolan a sick smile and nothing else. 'So I'm not,' he admitted. The look in Bolan's eyes turned the smile somewhat sicker and he added, 'I didn't expect to find you here, Bolan. Not standin' on both feet, anyhow.'

'I guess not,' Bolan said coldly. They stood there silently staring at each other for a moment, then Bolan told him, 'When you stop talking, soldier, you stop living.'

Brownsuit's mouth opened and closed a couple of times before the words started, then they fell in a torrent. 'Sammie had us staking out th' baggage room down at East Side. We had a man in back. You know. Watching the bap from Kennedy, the ones that came in Saturday. We been checkin' all of 'em, and this was the last one left. This broad come in and got it and we tailed her here. That's all, Bolan. Christ, I ain't no triggerman.'

'You're with Sam the Bomber,' Bolan reminded him.

The guy nodded vehemently and said, 'Yeah, but not like you think. Only temporary, I'm on loan from Jake Sacarelli. I run girls over in Brooklyn. I never got in on no contract before.'

'So you've fumbled your big chance, soldier.'

The guy's eyes were getting frantic. He said, 'Christ, I was just following the baggage, that's all.'

'You and who else?'

'Me'n Tony Boy Laccardo.'

'And where is Tony Boy now?'

'He's waiting down by the elevator, just down th' hall.'

Bolan nodded curtly and asked, 'Okay, and who else?'

Brownsuit swallowed hard and replied, 'We got a wheelman waitin' down at the curb.'

'What kind of car?'

'Chivvy, I think. Yeah. A blue Chivvy.'

Bolan commanded, 'Finish pulling that gun out, but use the other hand, and just let me see two fingers. Pull it out and set it down easy.'

The Mafiosocomplied, then quickly straightened up and croaked, 'Christ, don't wipe me, Bolan. I got nothin' against you personal.'

'Who knows you came here, other than your two partners?'

Brownsuit must have thought he saw a glimmer of hope. He quickly replied, 'Nobody else, I swear. We been watchin' those damn bags since Saturday. We really didn't expect no payoff, it was gettin' to be a drag. Nobody knows, Bolan. And I got nothin' personal against you. Lemme go, huh? I mean, wing me or something if you think you gotta, but Christ don't cut me down cold, Bolan.'

This was the part of warfare which Bolan thoroughly hated. No man went willingly to his death, no one was ever quite prepared for the cold and utter finality of that moment, especially when he was standing there helplessly waiting for it. Bolan did not like to kill cold.

But his dilemma reminded him again of the cool words of Rachel Silver, about not taking sex but rather allowing sex to take her. To Rachel, that was purity. Well, there was purity in warfare too. A good soldier, likewise, did not take war; he let war take him. An impure or unwise soldier became just another dishonest politician, or gouging businessman, or something worse. Still — Bolan found himself squirming under his distasteful duty.

Of course, if Brownsuit had walked in and found Bolan lying half dead and helpless in bed, he would have finished trim off without a qualm, and then he would probably have hacked off Bolan's head with a penknife and carried it proudly to the Commissionein a paper sack. Even so, if this were simply a case of Bolan versus the pleading Mafioso, he would not feel so compelled to kill. It was highly important, though, to Paula Lindley and her roommates that this man die. Bolan knew what would happen to the