had to get this other shipment the hell out of here. Now you're saying that this YIP in black has crashed the party, and frankly I don't know what to think now.'
Stanno was raging inwardly over the goddam feds and the goddam ever-present fear of tapped phones ind other forms of electronic spying and the constant damned doubletalk on the telephones. Struggling to control the anger in his voice, he said, 'Mr. Apostinni, I don't know what the hell you're saying. What I want you to understand though is just this. We're in one hell of a bind and I ain't got time for polite damn talk. Just exactly what are you telling me?'
The other man sighed and replied, 'I'm telling you we found a fink, Joe, operating right under our noses. We did what we could to straighten him out here, but he just wouldn't straighten out. I sent him out there for you to handle. The men from up north have been here all night, nosing around, asking questions, everything short of an outright bust. I had to get that terminal the hell out of here, Joe. And now I'm wondering just which shipment your blackie was actually after up there. I mean '
'Yes sir, I know what you mean,' Stanno said in a troubled voice.
'What's bothering me, more than the other shipment, is right now this Mr. Fink, Joe. If that guy is on the loose…'
Stanno whistled a brief tune then said, 'Well, he is, that's for sure. We didn't find no strange faces in that mess. Chopped up bodies, yeah, heads with nothing under 'em, yeah — but put 'em all together and it's nothing but Cen company men all present and accounted for and with none left over. Plus, I might add, four of my own boys from right here.'
'Yes, Ringer was telling me. Well listen, Joe.' The purring voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. 'I realize that he men back east are going to be understandably upset over this financial loss, but listen, what's worrying me the most… we mtertained Mr. Fink here most all day. I mean, if this guy is a fed . . . well, Joe, some things money just can't buy. You know?'
'Yes sir, I know,' Stanno replied heavily. 'Well look, all this means is this. We got to entertain that VIP, right? We do that, everything else might fall back in place too. Right, Mr. Apostinni?'
'You're the expert in that department, Joe. Til do whatever you say.'
'Then do what Ringer says,' Stanno growled, and hung up.
'Fuck 'em all,' he snarled at his crew chiefs. 'Load up a couple of cars.'
'Where we going, Joe?'
'Where the hell you think? We're going to Vegas. To aail down that red carpet.'
Joe the Monster's 'red carpet' was actually a shroud.
And he meant to personally drape it over Mack Bolan's bleeding body.
Chapter Five
The ethnologist
Coming upon the Las Vegas Strip, especially at night, is an experience comparable to finding Oz while wandering through the-Sahara Desert. Beginning at the south edge of the city, the Strip is a four-mile panoram of hotel-casinos, bars, and motels to stagger and enthrall the first-time visitor, a shimmering neon oasis of glamour and excitement and sexuality that seems to continue into infinity across the wastelands of southern Nevada.
The city itself still shows the evidence of its humbler beginnings; in the year of Mack Bolan's birth, Las Vegas was a rough little desert town of some eight thousand citizens and nowhere equal to the fame and glamour of its sister city to the north, Reno. Now after thirty years of explosive growth, Vegas is a booming metropolis of nearly two hundred thousand year-round residents, and it is a city built and sustained by the state's legalized gambling industry. Industry it is. An estimated forty percent of the city's population earn their livings directly from the gambling tables. The annual 'take,' or casino winnings, are more than double the annual budget of the State of Nevada, and revenues derived from these earnings provide approximately one-third of all taxes collected by the state. Statewide, tourism-gambling enterprises account for the largest employment category; some twenty million annual visitors leave behind more than $700,000,000 each year.
Las Vegas and its Strip get most of this, with fifteen major resort hotels and some three hundred hotels and motels to accomodate this constant surge and flow of fun-seeking humanity.
Bolan was not overly concerned about 'standing out' in such an environment nor did he have any particular respect for the ability of the mob's local forces to effectively limit his activities there. Later, of course, when the reinforcements began pouring in… later there would be plenty of cause for concern. At the moment, Bolan had a quiet and relatively safe chore to perform… at the request of an old friend.
Two days earlier he had acquired a room in a modest tourist home at the north edge of the city and had provided himself with 'temporary wheels' — a three-year-old Pontiac convertible purchased at a bargain from a luckless victim of the city's major industry. From this base, the Executioner had scouted the enemy, acquired useful intelligence, and launched the strike which had netted him Carl Lyons in lieu of the $250,000 skim shipment he was targeting on.
Now he was sending the convertible into a leisurely foray along the Strip. Dark glasses — practically standard equipment in this part of the world, even at night — and fake sideburns considerably altered his appearance. He wore a light blue suit of the new double-knit stretch fabric. Snuggled to his side beneath the coat was his favored weapon, the hot little 9mm Beretta autoloader he'd acquired while in France, nicely concealed in the snapaway leather, but ready to spring upon demand.
It was 2 A.M. and the Strip was swinging. Just ahead and rising regjally from the lesser glow of the neon maze was a dazzling display of electricity and color marking the internationally famous hotel and casino which was Bolan's goal of the moment. Actually the goal was the man on the billboard in letters three feet tall, 'America's hottest comic Tommy Anders' headlining 'the hottest show in town.'
Bolan surrendered the convertible to an eager crew of parking attendants and followed the foot-traffic inside. The lobby was not what one would expect of a multi-million-dollar hotel. A small registration desk, notably neglected at this hour except for the presence of two sharp-eyed clerks, occupied an inconspicuous spot where the trails diverged — one leading to the three hundred rooms and fifty bungalows clustered about the pool-patio area; another angling off past banked rows of slot machines into the lounge, or bar, where one may sip whiskey at a dollar-ten a serve and play nickel and dime bingo; still another and much broader path led into the casino and beyond to the theatre-dining room.
At a small desk, nearer the door, hovered three men wearing uniforms of the Clark County Sheriff's Department. They were, Bolan knew, off-duty cops retained by the casino for security purposes. Bolan went directly to this desk and laid out the Beretta and an assortment of plasticized cards. 'How's it going?' he asked casually.
'Quiet, sir, very quiet,' replied the deeply-tanned young deputy who seemed to be in charge of the desk. He scrutinized the cards, flashed a glance at Bolan's face, and said, 'Fine, sir. Thanks for checking in.'
Bolan retrieved his cards and returned the Beretta to her leather. 'Anybody else inside?' he asked.
'Two of your people checked in abou< thirty minutes ago,' the deputy informed him. 'WhatV up?'
'Routine jazz,' Bolan muttered. 'The weekly jitters, I guess.' He nodded at the other deputies and strode into the casino.
The gambling crowd was relatively thin, a normal condition for this hour of the day with a show in progress in the dining room. Devoid of the casual gamblers, the atmosphere within the casino was tense and decidedly unfunlike. This was the hour of the 'high rollers,' as well as the compulsives and the heavy losers trying desperately to get back into the money. Pit bosses roamed restlessly about their areas, chatting with inactive dealers at the no-play tables and hustling shills about to keep up the pretense of activity.
Bolan went on through and presented a card at the entrance to the dining room. A near-capacity crowd was on hand and completely in the hands: of the masterful personality of the man in the spotlight, 'America's hottest comic.'
A harried maitre d' in formal black-tie grimaced at Bolan's card and snapped, 'This is impossible. I haven't a table within opera-glass range of the stage.'
'Forget the table,'' Bolan said, and wandered into the sea of diners.
