Nightmare in New York

fortunes of the New York underworld and, moreover, to establish himself as a respected and honored member of that structure. Perhaps the patronage of Freddie Gambella contributed to this 'success' story — but the fact remains that Sam the Bomber had been a professional killer for thirty years and had never spent a night in jail.

Now forty-six years of age, Chianti had long ago come to the realization that he 'had it made.' No longer required to directly participate in the mob's muscle departments, Sam the Bomber sat in a swank office in the front of his Bronx home, a restored two-story brownstone in a modest neighborhood of identical restorations, pushing buttons that sent extortion, hard persuasion, and frequently death into the midst of his community. Sam was 'a contractor's contractor,' a muscle>-and-gun business built and preserved by rockbed reliability and guaranteed results. Though without official rank in the organization, he enjoyed the friendship and camaraderie of various chieftains, lieutenants, and enforcers of all the five families of New York — plus a reputation which was respected throughout the sprawling syndicate. Freddie Gambella was the godfather of Sam's two kids, and their wives had been close pals since Sam's marriage in 1951. So who needed formal rank when self-evident rank was draped all over him? Sam had no ambitions to ever become a Capo;it was more than enough that Capossought his advice and accepted his hospitality and kept making him richer and richer.

Sure, Sam the Bomber had it made. So why, he was wondering on that cold December day in the Bronx, had he felt compelled to get out there on the streets again, after all these years of 'softing it,' and make a total ass of himself? Overanxiety, he supposed. Bolan was a big fish. A hundred grand worth of fish, not to mention the immeasurable value in prestige for the contractor who landed him. It had been a natural thing, Sam decided, for him to go out personally on a job like that one. After all, the biggest guns in the syndicate had been blasting at that guy for months now. Boys like the Talifero brothers, Quick Tony Lavagni, Sam's old buddy Danno Giliamo, Nick Trigger, and a host of others — most of them dead now.

Sam was certain that he was the luckiest man alive to even bealive. Not many had stood eye to eye with that Bolan bastard, and fumbled, and came away to tell about it — or try to live it down — no, not many. The guy was no punk, he was no ordinary street pigeon, hell no. Sam had gone up against some pretty tough numbers in his time, some pretty damn deadlynumbers — but he had never faced such cold and awful deadliness in his whole life as he faced that terrible Saturday out at Kennedy. Hell no. That son of a bitch could stare down a pissed-off rattler, Jesus he had never seen such eyes in his whole lif e. No wonder Sam got rattled.

But Sam was more than just rattled, and he recognized that. He'd been a long time off the streets, his kids were in the fanciest boarding schools in the East, and his old lady hadn't touched a duty dish or a Monday wash in all the years they'd been married. Everybody had known that Sam Chianti had it made. Sam had known it too. Until Saturday. Yeah, Sam had gotten more than a rattling. Everything he had was a result of his reputation with a contract, and Sam had suddenly been made to feel very insecure. Word was out an hour after it happened, all over town, Sam the Bomber had personally muffed a contract. It might seem like a small thing to some people, but when a guy lived off a reputation, then the first tiny crack in that reputation could be like the crack in a dam, the whole thing could fall to hell in an awful hurry.

It was funny, he was thinking, he hadn't been a damn bit afraid of Bolan, not a damn bit, even knowing what the bastard had been doing all this time to the biggest guns hi the business. Sam the Bomber had been bigger than Mack the bastard Bolan, he'd been ten feet bigger and he hadn't been afraid of that jerk. Now he was. He had to face it. He was afraid.

He stared at his reflection in the glossy surface of the huge mahogany desk and admitted it to himself, straight out. If something didn't happen pretty fast, if his crews couldn't get a line on the bastard pretty soon… Well, Sam hated to face such an eventuality. He didn't have to face it. He'd built a business and a gilt-edge reputation on finding people and doing things for them. He had his contacts, Sam had thirty damn years of contacts, know-how and people spread everywhere in this town, every borough, every precinct — sooner or later he would find this bastard Bolan. Sooner, he fervently hoped.

Hell, maybe the guy was dead. He'd been bleeding like a stuck pig, Jesus how much blood could a guy lose and still keep going? Maybe the cops had him on ice in some morgue all this time, keeping the secret and just waiting for the organization to do something dumb. Maybe…

Chianti picked up a pencil and hurled it across the office. Maybe shitlYou didn't close contracts on may-be's. At that moment the telephone rang. He stared at it and let it sound twice more, then he grabbed it up and gave a guarded, 'Yeah?'

'Sam, this is Fred,' came a troubled voice.

The boss, his buddy, godfather to his kids, Sam this is Fred, in a tone of voice that might as well have said Sam you shithead what the fuck are you doing about this fucking contract you shithead you.

He swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat and said, 'Glad you called, Freddie. Listen, I think I got that man you wanted.'

Another Sam, over in Jersey, had gone through some embarassing shit just recently over a tapped phone, this Sam wasn't having any of that. 'Three of my engineers are out now interviewing a likely candidate.'

'Yeah?' asked Sam this is Fred.

'Yeah. They made a contact over at East Side this morning. My representative there phoned about an hour ago, maybe an hour-and-a-half, to say they'd come across something interesting. I think maybe we got your man.'

'Well I hope so, Sam,' was the drawling response. 'My board of directors are getting pretty damned edgy over this thing. They seem to think that three days is plenty enough time to at least make a contact. You know what I mean, Sam. They get nervous when these things just drag on and no word ever comes back.'

'They'll be getting some word pretty damn quick,' Chianti assured his Capo. 'I'll lay my whole reputation on that, Freddie.'

'It's already there, Sam.'

Chianti swallowed again and said, 'Yeah, I guess it is.'

'By the way, our attorneys say you can rest easy about those engineers that, uh, you know got detained on that legal matter the other day. He says they'll be back to work tomorrow.'

'Oh great, I'm glad to hear that.' Bullshit, who gave a damn about the dumb pricks who had no better sense than to get theirselves arrested like a bunch of punks. They should've known better than…

'Well, we'll be waiting to hear about this latest contact, Sam. With the greatest interest. Don't let us down, eh?'

'You know I won't, Freddie,' Chianti told the Capo.

'Give my regards to Theresa. Oh yeah, Marie wants to know about the card game tonight. You know, consideiring the business pressures and all, what d'you think? Should we call it off?'

'I guess we better, Freddie. I got too much on my mind.'

'Yeah, well, we'll try to make it for next Tuesday then.'

'Sure, things ought to be more relaxed by then.'

'I guess they'll have to be, Sam. See you.'

Chianti whispered, 'See you,' to a dead line and woodenly returned the instrument to its base. Okay, sure, he'd known it, that was how things went. From one tiny crack to a goddamned flood. Now Freddie was calling off the damned ritual card game, that tore it all, Sam the Bomber could damn well see the handwriting on the wall now. Jesus he hadto get Bolan, there wasn't no other way, Sam's whole life hung on it.

He nervously lit a cigar and, immersed in his thoughts, forgot to keep it going. It went out and he lit it again. It went out again and he heaved it across the room. Then Angelo Totti, the big bodyguard, rapped lightly on the door and poked his head inside and said, 'You got a minute, boss?'

The boss's response was uncharacteristically petulant. 'Hell that's all I have got. What the hell is it now, Angelo?'

The big man came into the room, swinging a set of car keys in front of his face. 'There's a kid out here, brought these keys in, says they're yours.'

Chianti squinted at the keys, then held out his hand for them. Totti surrendered them and watched interestedly as Chianti examined them. 'These go to one of our leased cars,' Chianti decided. 'What kid did you say?'