War Against the Mafia

respectfully classified as 'sales representatives' and referred to as 'field men.' The job title sounded better than 'pimp' but the effect was precisely the same, even though much of their contact work was in the rarefied strata of big business, conventioneering, and politics.

'These are sharp boys,' Turrin reported proudly, '-most of them are better educated than me. They can move around in the best circles, and in fact they got to. They hardly ever see their girls, and probably not one girl in ten would know any of these guys if they saw 'em at the same party, or even in the same bed. The field men work on a commission, so they're go-getters. They don't have a lot of contact with the street girls or the house girls, and damn little to do with their own party girls and call girls. We're up tight all the way, Sarge.'

'With everything run so impersonally,' Bolan probed, 'I suppose you never have contact with any of these girls either, eh?'

Turrin winked and smiled knowingly. 'Don't worry,

my sergeant, you'll have all the female flesh you can stomach.' He laughed 'I make personal contact when I feel the need to. Not so much with the girls on the top end. Oh-' He frowned '-sometimes a certain personal touch is called for. Sometimes I take a personal interest in a new girl, to get her started off right. You know.' He laughed again. 'But I got a wife and three kids, you know. I mean, I don't lay around with whores all the time.'

Bolan dug his elbow into the other's ribs. 'Hell, I bet you got a dozen fillies on your personal list right now,' he persisted.

'Oh, I don't know...' Turrin sobered, then grinned suddenly. 'A guy can go ape at first, if he don't use some will power. And that's bad. You either start to lose your appreciation, or you start to lose your head. And that is real bad. Sometimes a girl is referred over from one of the other operations. In those cases, I take a personal interest, get her logged into the computer, that sort of thing, you know. That's outside the regular recruiting channels. Sometimes I'll take a personal interest in the kid, help her get off with her best cheek forward, you know what I mean.' Bolan knew what he meant, and a muscle twitched in his cheek Turrin was not looking at his companion, however. 'But I don't get into no entanglements,' he continued. 'Know what I mean? You can't get emotionally straddled with these girls. You know what I mean?'

Bolan nodded. 'I think so,' he said curtly.

'Besides, these girls getting fifty to a hundred bucks a toss get to thinking they got a gold-plated ass or something. I don't really like 'em. When I feel like cutting up a little, I go down to one o' my houses.'

'You have those, too,' Bolan observed wryly.

'Oh, sure. Really, I understand that end of things a lot better.' Turrin grinned. 'I like it better. That end is run entirely different. We got a madam for each house, just like the olden times. She runs her own books. We keep her supplied in girls, she runs the house, runs her own books, and feeds the money back in to the field man in her district. She works on commission, too, just like the field man, and he gets an override on everything she makes.'

'Sounds like very big business,' Bolan commented.

'You'll find out just how big,' Turrin replied, 'if you stick close to your C.O. Listen, we got ten women who do nothing but recruit girls. And you'd be surprised where we get some of them from. College campuses, factories, office buildings-' He raised his eyebrows, '-suburban homes- one gal we took on last month had just come off her honeymoon. We got chorus girls, models, would-be actresses and even some part- timers who really are actresses. Listen, every woman who is a woman has got at least a little whorin' streak in her. A lot of our call girls are part-timers. You know-they do other things, too. All of our party girls are part-timers, moonlighters. Hell, some of 'em wouldn't say 'fuck' if they was getting gang-banged. Nicey-nice, you know- but not too damn nice to pick up some extra coin here'n there.' Turrin frowned. 'For my part, I'll take the good old honest whore. Well-' He paused, frowning even deeper. 'You'll go outta your mind with the turnover we got in this business, Sarge. Understand something, and make sure you understand it. We have no competition in this town. Or anywhere around. If a girl is selling it within fifty miles of where you're standing, then she's selling for the organization and she's working for me. We-'

'I'm glad I understand that,' the executioner said brusquely.

'Yeah- well, we don't even allow no amateurs to operate. We bust 'em fast, damn fast-and they either join our team or they get the hell out. That means we gotta fill the demand if we don't want a big payroll of nothing but broad-busters. I mean, there's no profit in that sort of thing. You understand that. I want you to understand me too, Sarge. I might not talk Yale or Harvard, but I'm a businessman and I know my business and I run my business all the way. Understand? All the way. No loose gooses around here, and just because I'm a good guy some of the time don't mean I'm an idiot. You better understand that. And just because I like you don't mean I won't bust you if you get outta line. You got that understanding?'

'I have that understanding.'

'All right. You understand this, too. It's more profitable to keep the demand filled than to run around bustin' amateurs and chiselers. We got the high class hotels and motels pretty well covered with our computer call girl services, and we even got a few high class clubs and dining rooms as clients. But we got walking girls, too- we call 'em field girls. They operate strictly free-lance, some of 'em using their own pad as home base, and we trust 'em to play their finances square with us. We spot-check from time to time, but generally we use the honor system with the walking girls. They cover the little bars and clubs and some of 'em even serve as house girls for the crummy little hotels. We let 'em operate and we give 'em the protection of the organization. But they all belong to us. Understand that. Every damn one of them. Get the picture?'

'I get it,' Bolan assured him.

'We treat our girls good. No strong-arm stuff as long as they keep in line. And we don't try to own 'em. They want to get out, they get out-but once out, they stay out, and they all know that. They're working for theirselves, see, and they all know that too. The organization does all their contact work-'cept for the field girls-and they get our full protection. And they keep the heavy share of the take. Like I told you, we're a democracy for the bold and the brave.'

'Yeah, I remember,' said Bolan the Bold.

'All right, come on,' Turrin said, suddenly sniffing. 'I'm going to show you one of our house operations.'

'I was wondering when we'd get around to the girl-watching,' Bolan replied.

'You don't know what girl-watching is yet,' the vice-lord of Pittsfield said chummily. 'Come on, I'm taking you to my home away from home. I keep it stocked with the best stuff in Pittsfield, and I dare you to keep your eyes on and your hands off. And you gotta do just that You gotta do just that.'

8 - Goddamn Iron-Man Bolan

It was a large house in the suburbs-nothing overly elaborate from the outside view, and certainly nothing to cause it to stand out from the other irregularly placed estates on the tree-lined street. An iron gate stood open, allowing ready access to the macadam drive. A gardener worked quietly in a flower bed near the front of the acreage of neat lawn. Numerous trees and shrubs dotted the landscape, all but hiding the house from street observation. A six-foot iron fence completed the isolation, there being no gate other than the automobile gate at the drive. Bolan looked again at the 'gardener,' deciding he was too young, too alert, and too near the open gate to be anything other than a disguised guard. Turrin brought the front wheels of the convertible to a temporary rest upon a slight lateral ridge in the driveway macadam, counting to five under his breath, then grinned at Bolan and gunned on along the curving drive toward the house. 'We're up tight,' he muttered. 'There's a pressure switch buried in that hump. Always give it a five-second count, or you'll panic everybody in there.' He nodded his head toward the white-painted structure looming in front of them. 'We call the place 'Pinechester.' And it's legally chartered as a private club.'

'Looks nice, but deserted,' Bolan commented.

'Little early,' Turrin grunted. 'Don't get much daylight business. Most of the girls sleep until late afternoon, less