Nightmare in New York Read online

  You’re about to meet Bolan di tutti Bolan.

  16: MOVEMENTS

  The VW, Bolan decided, was in danger of becoming a hot vehicle. Maria Gambella had seen it; perhaps others had, also, during the recent series of strikes. So, regretfully, it was time for a change.

  He returned the micro-bus to the same “dealer” and traded it in on a Ford Econoline, a dark green job with plenty of poop beneath the hood and a good van-configuration. For an extra twenty dollars, the guy made up nicely-artistic decals for the sides, ISLAND PARCEL SERVICE.

  Then Bolan invested some more precious time in a second buying trip to the William Meyer arsenal, where he unloaded quite a chunk of money for various items of intensely pure warfare. Another thirty minutes were spent in loading and arranging the purchases in the van.

  Next he set up a meet in Central Park with MacArthur and Perugia, the CIG people, in whom he confided the size and complexity of his immediate goals, though not the details. They rapped briefly on the problems confronting everybody from the inroads of organized crime, and Bolan hauled out maps and conducted a light briefing in which he emphasized the “non-combatant nature” of their participation in the coming operation. He marked up a duplicate set of maps and turned them over to MacArthur, along with an item of ordinance, then the three of them synchronized their watches and Bolan made ready to depart.

  Perugia followed him to his vehicle and told Bolan, “I’d like to go with you.”

  Bolan gave him a sizing look and regretfully shook his head. “Sorry, Steve, no deal.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because you’re a greenhorn,” the Executioner bluntly told him. “And it’s just too damn risky.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” the youth insisted. “I have a right to go.”

  “What right?”

  “You’re not Italian, are you?”

  Bolan grinned and shook his head. “But some of my best friends are.”

  “And some of your worst enemies,” Perugia pointed out. “That’s the whole point. You have any idea how many Italian-Americans there are?”

  “No I don’t,” Bolan replied.

  “I don’t either, exactly, but there’ve been about six million Italian immigrants alone, over the years. That ought to tell something.” He grinned. “If you know anything about the average size of an Italian family, it should tell a hell of a lot. We make up a big chunk of this country.”

  “So?” Bolan asked, but he already knew where the kid was headed.

  “So how many of us do you figure are mixed up in organized crime?”

  Bolan smiled and said, “Save your breath. Anybody with half a mind knows that the Mafia is just a fluff of scum on the Italian community, so—”

  “Well then there’s a lot of half-minded people running around,” Perugia told him. “I resent hearing Mafia jokes every time my name is mentioned.”

  Bolan said, “So would I. But that’s no reason to go get your head blown off by a Mafia gun. Those people might be scum, but they’re damned dangerous scum. They know their business, and it’s no place for a greenhorn. I’m sorry, Steve. I won’t take you.”

  “It’s my fight,” Perugia insisted.

  “Then do your thing,” Bolan suggested. “And leave me to do mine. You do the talking, I’ll do the killing. Okay?”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “I’m sorry,” Bolan said, in a tone that left no room for rebuttal. He drove away and left the kid staring after him.

  There was more than one reason why the Executioner was not taking any riders. He intended to blitz back through Manhattan on his way across, purely as a red herring tactic, and there was no room in those plans for a college kid.

  And he did blitz. He knocked over a pool hall in Harlem and walked off with the day’s lottery bag, then he hit a club on Manhattan’s West Side which was owned by Manny Terencia, a Gambella underling, and executed two of Manny’s soldiers. Next he invaded a law office on Park Avenue and terrorized the staff into producing records of payoffs to several “made” criminal court judges.

  For his fourth and final hit of the series, he walked onto a midtown construction site, sought out one Jake Carabonzo, a loanshark contact and shylocker known as Payday Jake, handed him a marksman’s medal, and shot Payday Jake between the eyes. As Bolan withdrew through a curious gathering of burly construction workers, he heard one of the hardhats remark, “Jake finally got his accumulated vigorish.”

  A few minutes later, Bolan had a telephone conversation with the same newsman he’d talked to earlier, gave him the details of the latest hits, and promised, “I am just getting started.”

  And he was, but not in New York City. He turned his sights toward Long Island, telling his troubled eyes in the rearview mirror, “The difference is getting narrower all the time.”

  Less than thirty minutes of daylight remained when Bolan reached the hardsite. He cruised past in a casual recon and noted that the gatehouse was manned. Two hardmen leaned against the iron gate, on the inside, talking. They swivelled their heads to watch the van go past, then resumed their conversation. Also, Bolan noted, someone was inside the gatehouse itself, probably several someones.

  He went on beyond the property and pulled onto a high rise of ground for a binocular survey of that side, then circled back along a series of interconnected dirt roads to reach the observation point of his earlier visit

  Then he settled into a quiet surveillance. No dogs down there, he noted, but plenty of people. Bolan surmised that the dogs had been used for routine security, at times when the joint was not in use. Those dogs had been trained to attack any and all except their handler, that much had been patently obvious. So they would not be allowed to patrol when visitors were afoot. Bolan liked that idea, and he wondered also how the handler had rationalized the disappearance of the two which Bolan had dragged away. The continuing snowfall would have erased all signs within a very short while—so how would the guy account for the missing dogs? He smiled over that thought and continued his binocular scan in the waning daylight.

  A number of vehicles were in the parking area. Lights beginning to come on here and there within the lodge. Men idly patrolling the grounds on foot, trampling down the snow—with Thompsons draped across their chests—Bolan counted six, appearing cold and disgruntled. He wondered how long they’d been out there and how often they were relieved. Those things mattered. Alertness and vigor were important attributes for a defending force. The defense was required to sweat through the monotonous routine, unable to key up and stay tight when no clear threat was visible, forced to contend with personal discomfort—and the more tired and bored they became, the more they questioned the necessity for all this hardship.

  Yes, those things mattered. In a game such as this, most of the options were with the offense, and Bolan meant to make full use of everything he could get going.

  So he watched the patrols, continued a scan of the windows at the main lodge and those of the smaller buildings, and he began putting together a composite idea of the total scene down there.

  In a large room off the ground floor veranda, a conference was in progress. Twelve to fifteen persons were inside that conference room. He arrived at this figure by counting the traffic in dinner trays which were being carried in, and the dirty glasses leaving, plus noting various seemingly insignificant details such as the number of bodyguards lurking about in the adjacent room, the number of “waiters” streaming in and out, the activity in the kitchen, and the lineup of waiting silver buckets with wine bottles chilling in ice.

  So … twelve to fifteen … and only five New York bosses. Turrin had made no mention of other members of La Commissione trekking in. So who, besides the bosses, was in there? Not underbosses, Turrin had made that quite clear—this stuff was strictly top level.

  Going on the number of vehicles in the parking area, with other observations, Bolan decided that fifty to sixty men were inside that compound. So … thirty-five to forty-fiv
e hardmen … and probably the cream of the town.

  Lights were beginning to come on in the three smaller buildings clustered about the lodge. The lights for the grounds and on the wall were also on—ready for the night.

  One of those small buildings was an armory. Bolan could see the gunracks through the windows along with sporting gear, targets, and so forth.

  Another seemed to be a sort of lounge area for the troops. He could see the corner of a pool table, a small bar, several men sitting around in leather chairs drinking beer from cans and talking, a few metal bunks. Sure, a bunkhouse, and about ten guys on R and R.

  In the final fading light of the day, bolstered by a sudden lamp flaring on from within, Bolan saw a woman move across a window of the third building. He froze, and sharpened the field of the binoculars and waited, and he saw her again, moving past in the background, hardly more than a shadow, but definitely the shadow of a woman with a rather familiar movement—even glimpsed so fleetingly—a sort of gliding feline movement.

  Bolan smiled, and sent up a silent thanks to Rachel Silver’s special angel, and he watched that house with an intense interest and took note of significant things, and began to mentally fill in the outline for his own movements in the coming night.

  Sure, it figured. Not even Freddie Gambella had the heft to bring skirts into that sanctorum. Onto the grounds, maybe, into an outhouse, maybe—but not through those consecrated doors of Our Thing.

  Some time after the shades of darkness had draped completely about Stoney Lodge in a mantle of foreboding, Bolan looked at his watch and withdrew to the van to begin his countdown into the purest movement of warfare The Executioner had ever undertaken.

  This one was for all the marbles. Tutti o niente, Freddie, all or nothing. And the winner take all.

  17: TIMING

  Bolan was wearing an ordinary business suit, of the type usually affected by Mafia soldiers, a bulky gray topcoat with the collar pulled up—light blue shirt with a wide flashy tie, and a snapbrim hat pulled on square and low on the eyebrows. Beneath all that he wore the shoulder harness with the silent Beretta, a short stiletto with a needle-sharp point, and a .38 revolver was thrust casually into the waistband of his trousers. He carried a bulky canvas bag over one shoulder and he was humming an Italian wedding song as he walked casually across the grounds toward the big building.

  One of the patrols, about ten feet off Bolan’s path, raised a hand casually and said, “Ay.”

  “Ay,” Bolan said back to him. “Jesus I’m too cold to fart.”

  “Me too,” the patrol growled.

  “Well, try to relax,” Bolan called over his shoulder. “This can’t last much longer.”

  “God I hope not.”

  Bolan heard another voice in the darkness call over, “Hey, what’d he say?”

  “Said it won’t last much longer,” the first guy replied.

  “If those guys had to palaver out here,” complained the invisible speaker, “it’d been over ten hours ago.”

  “You ain’t shittin’,” said his companion in suffering.

  Bolan grinned to himself and went on to the back door of the main building. A soldier in an overcoat was standing just inside the kitchen with his back resting against the glass panel of the door. Bolan pushed on the door and the guy moved away.

  Speaking from outside, Bolan growled, “Hey what the hell are you doing in there?”

  “Warmin’ my toes,” the guy replied defensively. “Hell I thought I’d lost ’em.”

  “Well, you better get some coffee to these boys out here. Their turds are freezing inside of them.”

  “Yeah, sure,” the guy said.

  “And put something stiff in it.”

  “I thought the boss said no—”

  “Bullshit what th’ boss said. These boys are turnin’ into statues.”

  “Okay,” the guy said, the surly face breaking into a wide grin.

  “Get ’em something to chew on, too.”

  “Christ they just had supper a hour ago.”

  “I don’t give a shit if they had it ten minutes ago,” Bolan snapped. “Get ’em something to chew on.”

  “Well like what?”

  Bolan snorted disgustedly and replied, “Like anything. Jesus do you have to have somebody hold your dick when you pee?”

  The guy moved away muttering to himself. Bolan closed the door and went on to the corner of the building, smiling over his private joke. Laced coffee and Italian pastries would get the outside men pretty well relaxed and diverted, he guessed. He stepped into the shadows at the rear for a close inspection of the main power box, a facility which he had noted during his recon of the previous night.

  He set the canvas bag on the ground and removed a glob of plastic explosive, carefully molded it around the cable where it entered the box, inserted a detonator-timer, and went on.

  Bolan circled the house, muttering a greeting to a sentry on the porch in front. “Ay, stay alert there,” he told the guy.

  The sentry eased up from a chair and stretched his back. “Let’s all go to Miami for the winter,” he suggested humorously.

  Bolan kept to the shadows and replied, “Freddie catches you sittin’ down on the job, you might go to Miami for permanent.”

  “Maybe you have to worry about Freddie,” the guy said. “That’s your problem. Augie ain’t that stiff.”

  The reference was to Augie Marinello, until very recently regarded as the strongest boss in New York. Bolan tried his luck and told the sentry, “You better worry about Freddie until this meet is over. He’s the man with the say.”

  The sentry coughed, and walked to the edge of the porch to spit. Then he told Bolan, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  The Executioner suggested, “Go on back to the kitchen. I got what’s-his-name gettin’ up some stiff coffee and snacks for you outside boys. Go on, you better get yours before he forgets you’re out here.”

  The guy was trying to get a clear look into Bolan’s face. Between the upturned coat collar and the brim of the hat, there was little more to see than a pair of eyes. That curious code of Mafia ethics prevented the common soldier from asking the simplest of all questions. He merely nodded and asked Bolan, “You covering for me here?”

  Bolan said, “O’ course. But don’t be too long.”

  “Okay.” The guy hurried down the steps and disappeared around the corner of the building.

  Bolan went on up to the porch, opened the screen doors, and inspected the massive double doors that guarded the sanctorum. They were made to swing together, like the doors of an old-fashioned vault, and the locking mechanism was as good. The hinges at either side would have held a Cadillac together. Bolan went to work with his plastics, wedging in a thin trail along the hinges and around the entire jamb area. A little bit of this stuff, he realized, went a hell of a long ways. He completed the job and went on, leaving the sentry post “uncovered.” Let the wise guy worry about it, he thought.

  He crossed to the armory building, looked in through the windows, saw nothing moving in there, and stepped inside. There were cases upon cases of ammo, of all sizes and types, and racks of hand weapons of every description. All was under lock and key, and Bolan meant to keep it that way. Again he made plastic molds, placed them liberally, and got out of there.

  Three patrolmen were standing in a little clutch behind the building, quietly talking and relaxing over coffee and pastries. Bolan went over to them, maneuvered his back to the nearest light and said, “I see you got the stuff.”

  “Oh you’re the guy,” someone said. “You’re a real gentleman, I gotta say that. I was startin’ to think nobody knew we were here.”

  “Don’t you worry,” the Executioner replied. “Somebody knows.”

  “Ay, this coffee hits the spot,” another one remarked.

  Bolan laughed and said, “And that’s exactly the spot you want to hit, right?”

  The three patrolmen guffawed appreciatively and a tall skinny one rema
rked, “There’s another spot I wouldn’t mind hitting. Have you seen those broads Freddie brought out here?”

  Bolan chuckled and said, “Musn’t touch, boys.”

  “Yeah that’s Freddie’s private reserve,” another commented. He gave a dirty laugh and added, “He’s savin’ them for a special party with Mack the Bastard.”

  “Ay, have you heard the latest about that nervy shit?” the skinny one piped up. “Tony got it on his transistor awhile ago, that cocksucker is tearin’ up Manhattan again. He got Payday Jake and some of Manny’s boys, I hear.”

  “I hear he knocked over Paoli’s Poolhall,” another remarked in a subdued voice.

  “I guess I just as soon be out here, freezin’ my ass off,” a guy murmured.

  “Freddie oughta give ’im back those broads,” the skinny one said. He winked and added, “Slightly used, o’ course.”

  Bolan laughed. “O’ course. Well that’s what I came out for.” He laughed again. “No, not to slightly use ’em, but I wouldn’t mind that neither. I just got to look in on ’em.”

  “Ay, tell Freddie we’re keeping good eyes on ’em.”

  Bolan chuckled and went on to the front of the house. Curtains were drawn across the windows but he could see all there was to see. It was a single large room with a small toilet visible through an open door to the rear, a couch, several chairs, card tables, the usual provisions for common soldiers.

  Paula was lying on the couch, a forearm draped across her face, the ripe bosom staggering somewhat as though she were having herself a quiet cry. The muscles bunched in Bolan’s jaw and he stepped to the other window for a better view of Rachel. She was wearing slacks and a clinging blouse and she was seated on the floor, facing a corner in a Lotus position, unmoving, to all appearances undisturbed and unharmed. Both girls looked okay. He sighed and went on, passing back by the clustered patrol and tossing them a wave as he passed.

  Another pair were standing together near the rear corner of the main lodge, enjoying their alcoholic coffee. Bolan told them, “Don’t be too long. And, hey, don’t be so obvious. Why don’t you step around to the back until you finish that stuff.”