San Diego Siege

Vegas when the boom began there. In the late fifties he relocated to San Francisco, later gravitating to Los Angeles for a lieutenancy under Julian DiGeorge, who eventually sent him on to San Diego to boss that arm of the family.

So, sure. Except for a few nervous moments here and there, the world was looking rosy indeed for this late-blooming syndicate boss. The nervous moments came from increased anti-crime activity at the federal level — the damned Strike Forces — and a growing awareness among local citizens regarding the interconnections between the straight and the kinky communities.

And, of course, there was that Bolan bastard.

Bolan had almost torn things for good when he went on the warpath against Deej. The repercussions from that conflict had been felt clear down into San Diego ... and to points beyond. Lucasi himself had been enroute to Palm Springs when Bolan finally lowered the boom on DiGeorge there. And he'd seen, at first hand, the aftermath of a Mack Bolan hit. Yeah, he still had nightmares sometimes over what he'd seen at Palm Springs.

Goddamn how relieved Bennie had been when Bolan started churning up the turf back east.

Lucasi had thought he was rid of the bastard.

The son of a bitch had been everywhere. He'd hit Miami. He'd hit, for Christ's sake, even over in France and England — and for damn sure Bennie had thought the guy would stay over there somewhere and lay low.

Like hell he did. He hit the five family area, New York, like some crazy avenging angel, and just tore the living shit out of that place. All five families!

Ben had thought, then, well okay. Go ahead, you crazy bastard. Keep living like that and you won't survive to head west again.

Lucasi had been wrong about that, too.

He'd almost prayed that the guy would try Chicago. Yeah, hit Chi now ... try your luck on a real town.

And the son of a bitch did it. And the 'real town' folded just like all the others.

Lucasi had begun to feel that this Bolan had some sort of special decree from God or something. No guy — not no guy who is one hundred percent mortal — could get away with that kind of shit forever.

So then the guy went into Lucasi's old home base, the town the whole mob loved — Vegas — and Christ, what monkeys he'd made of them all in Vegas.

So, sure. There had to be something eerie about the guy.

Worst of all, the big bastard in Executioner black was west again … and Lucasi doubled his palace guard and went nowhere without a heavy escort of bodyguards.

Then the guy bobs up down in Puerto Rico ... of all the damned places ... but before Lucasi could start breathing naturally again, there the bastard was up in Frisco and tearing hell out of California again.

It was too much.

Lucasi took a quick vacation to Honolulu.

When he returned, Bolan was back east again, romping through Boston first and then tearing through Washington.

No guy should get away with that much.

No one hundred percent mortal.

If somebody didn't stop him pretty soon, he'd be chewing up San Diego one of these days.

And, sure, Bennie Lucasi had a lot of nervous moments.

How did you stop someone like that?

Lucasi had taken to reading up on black magic, ESP, mind control ... all that. He dipped briefly into Yoga — trying to find Bolan's secret.

He even went to confession at that little mission down on the coast.

The poor hayseed priest had thought Lucasi was bullshitting him. Bawled him out good for playing games with the confession box.

Lucasi lit a candle at that mission, just the same.

That cock Bolan would be trying San Diego sooner or later ... no doubt about that.

Lucasi had to be ready for him. He had to — somewhere, somehow — find the edge that would equalize Bolan.

He'd been trying. God, he'd tried everything.

And now it seemed that his preparation time had run out.

Sammy Simonetti was standing right there in his living room and handing him the most feared symbol which Ben Lucasi ever expected to see.

A fuckin' marksman's medal.

In a strangely quiet voice, he asked Sammy, 'You bringing me this instead of my hundred thou?'

Simonetti was sweating, overly-defensive. 'I swear to hell, Mr. Lucasi, the guy just — '

'Where'd you say he hit you?' the chieftain interrupted in that same deadened voice. 'Vegas?'

'No sir, right out here on this end, at the airport.'

'Where the hell is my black milk, Sammy?'

'Jesus, I told you. He took it.'

'You still got both arms, I see.'

'Yessir, they didn't hardly put a mark on me. That's what I can't understand. They didn't hurt Chicano and Schoolteacher either. Just locked 'em in the trunk of the car.'

'They who?' Lucasi muttered.

'Bolan and his triggerman.'

'Bolan don't use no triggermen,' Lucasi said quickly, a hint of fire returning to his voice.

'He did this time. There were two of them. Come up on me just like a couple of goddamn shadows. I didn't know from nothing, boss. Just ail of a sudden here was this damn Beretta looking down my throat.'

'The guy works alone, you dumb shit!' Lucasi shouted. 'Now you get your story straight!'

'Jesus, I swear, it happened just like I said,' Simonetti moaned.

Lucasi turned his back on the courier and, to no one in particular, commanded, 'Take Sammy outside and get his story straight.'

A large man who had been lurking near the door opened it and gave the nod to Simonetti. 'Let's go,' he growled.

The black-money courier's eyes rolled; he started to give an emotional protest to the boss, then quickly changed his mind and stumbled out the door. Another man fell in behind him, solemnly pulling the door closed behind their exit.

Lucasi was flipping the marksman's medal like a coin, staring past it unseeingly, his eyes characteristically locked into a dead focus while his mind whirred.

Presently he said, quietly, 'Somebody could be shooting us full of juice, Diver.'

The large man at the door, Lucasi's house captain, replied, 'Could be. I been wondering when somebody would try something like that. Those marksman's medals can be picked up most anywhere.'

'It doesn't sound like a Bolan hit,' Lucasi said.

'No, it don't, Ben.'

'You were back east last month. How many of the boys did you run into?'

The large man shrugged. 'I guess a dozen or two. Why?'

'New York boys?'

The man nodded. 'Yeah. Them too.'

'Did you talk to one — just one— who'd ever seen Bolan face to face?'

The big man just grinned.

'Of course you didn't,' Lucasi said, smirking. 'The only boys who've seen Bolan, you'd have to go to hell to talk to them. Right?'

The house captain jerked his head in agreement. 'He don't fuck around much, the way I hear it. He just