War Against the Mafia

face.

She set the tray on a coffee table and helped him with the blouse, making sympathetic sounds over the shoulder wound. 'It's been bleeding a lot,' she observed. 'Is the bullet still in there?'

He nodded grimly, his eyes on the tray she had brought in. A pair of eyebrow tweezers stood upright in a small glass of colorless liquid. A roll of gauze, a box of bandages, and a large bottle of merthiolate completed the assortment.

'I'm sterilizing the tweezers in alcohol,' she told him. 'Is that all right?' He nodded his head again and reached for the merthiolate. 'Do you expect me to take that bullet out?' she asked.

'No,' he said. 'I've done it before. I can do it again.'

She pushed him over flat and moved a pillow beneath his head. 'You're not going to do this one,' she said firmly. She picked up the tweezers. 'Now hold still,' she said, between clenched teeth.

9-The Lull

Bolan was lying on a silk-draped lounge, naked from the waist down. Angelina Turrin, in revealing green hip- huggers, was sitting astride him, pressing a glowing soldering iron into his shoulder. 'You're a goddamn iron man, Barge,' Leo said, from somewhere in the background, '-and that's a damn sweet little wife you got there.'

'I'm going to kill you just the same,' Bolan said calmly, 'just as soon as I wake up.'

He did awaken immediately, bright sunshine spilling into his eyes and little fire demons dancing inside his shoulder. A girl was standing at a window next to the bed, doing something to the Venetian blinds, her back to him. Jet black hair cascaded onto delicately curved and bare shoulders; she was dressed in a bra and a half-slip, this fact causing her considerable embarrassment when she turned and saw that his eyes were open. She grabbed a smock from the foot of the bed, turned her back to him once again, and fumbled her way into the billowing garment.

'You're the cat lady,' he said groggily.

She perched on the edge of the bed and shoved a thermometer into his mouth. 'I thought you would sleep the day through,' she told him, then shushed his reply with a meaningful glance at the thermometer. They looked at each other in silence for a while, eyes locked together, the girl smiling faintly. Then she retrieved the thermometer, studied it intently, and said: 'Well, you must be an ox. Not a sign of a temperature.'

'It's all in my shoulder, I think,' he replied, grinning.

'I know who you are,' she told him, her face going serious.

Is it good or bad?' he asked, watching her eyes.

'Bad I guess,' she said soberly. 'It's all over television and radio and your picture is in the morning paper. They're calling you 'The Executioner.' Are you an executioner, Mr. Bolan?'

'Let me see, I'll bet you have a very exotic name,' he said. 'Carmencita. Yeah. You look like a Carmencita.'

She flushed. 'It's Valentina. Querente. You can call me Val.'

'Valentina fits you better,' he told her. 'What time is it?'

'It's nearly noon.'

'Which means you've had plenty of time to call the cops and get me off your hands. Why haven't you?'

'I almost did,' she replied, peering at him from beneath partially lowered lashes.

'But you didn't. Why?'

'Well- you did trust me, didn't you? Besides-a man is innocent until proven guilty.'

'I'm guilty as sin,' he said.

'I know.'

'Just how much do you know?'

'All of it, I guess. You've killed eleven men in less than two weeks. You're a living tragedy, Mr. Bolan. I suppose that is why I couldn't turn you in.'

He smiled. 'You sympathize with my cause, then?'

She shook her head firmly. 'Not at all. No man has a right to take human Me. There is never any justification for killing.'

'No kidding?'

'No kidding. There's no way to justify it.'

Bolan chuckled and shifted to a more comfortable position. 'I don't need to justify it,' he told her. 'It justifies itself.'

She moved another pillow over to offer better support to the wounded shoulder. 'The end justifies the means?' she asked, smiling faintly.

'No- the means justify the end. It's the ages-old battle, Valentina. Good versus evil. Good justifies itself. Doesn't it?'

''I'll argue that with you some day,' she said soberly, '-after we have identified good. Right now I'm going to get some food into you. How do you like your eggs?'

'Cooked,' he said, grinning.

'Seriously.'

'Seriously, I like them cooked. Any way you go about it. Uh-what happened to my clothes?'

She made a face. 'I stole them. You picked on the wrong old maid, Mr. Bolan. When I get 'em in my bed, I keep 'em there.'

'Some old maid,' he replied, staring soberly into her eyes.

She colored and jumped to her feet. 'Scrambled,' she said.

'Huh?'

'No matter which way I go about it, they come out scrambled. So I hope you eat them that way.' She smiled and sailed out of the room.

Bolan immediately threw back the covers and cautiously moved to the side of the bed. He was stark naked. He stared at himself for a moment, then regained the protection of the bedcovers. 'What'd you say you did with my clothes?' he called.

'I said I stole 'em,' she replied from the kitchen. 'If you're going to be disagreeable about it, you can steal 'em back. In the bathroom, if you feel able.'

Bolan felt able. He pushed to a sitting position and swung his feet over the side of the bed, fought back a wave of dizziness and got up and staggered nakedly to the bathroom. The black jerseys were pinned to a clothes hanger, suspended from the shower curtain rod. They had obviously been washed and drip-dried. The jockey shorts were on a towel rack, also clean and dry. He slipped into the shorts, grabbed the jerseys, and went back to sit on the side of the bed. Valentina rapped her knuckles lightly on the doorjamb and said, 'Don't put the shirt on until I change that bandage.'

The way I feel under that bandage,' he growled, 'I may never put that shirt on.'

'Are you decent?' she asked.

'I guess so,' he replied.

She stepped into the room, stared at him frankly, and said, 'Well, almost anyway. You'd better let me help you with those pants. Honestly, that is the most ridiculous outfit. Who do you think you are-Captain Marvel?' She was kneeling at his feet, and she seized the jersey pants and began stuffing his feet into them.

'They're entirely practical for sneaking about,' he replied.

I'll bet. Into your tent I'll creep, huh?'

Bolan was embarrassed, and he realized this with some surprise. 'They, uh, really are very practical,' he said. 'The first time you try going over a fence or other obstacle in a baggy outfit you'll know what I mean.'

'I know what you mean,' she told him. She had threaded his legs into the costume to just above the knees. 'I guess you'll have to manage the rest by yourself,' she said. 'I'll bet the eggs are burning up.'

'You took 'em all the way off,' Bolan observed pointedly. 'Is there some reason why you can't put them all the way back on?'

'I said, the eggs are burning up.' She went to the doorway, then threw him an impudent look. 'Besides, I just