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  "Thanks," Bolan said. "That gives me something to parlay, I'm especially interested in the council's enforcers, though. What can you tell me about that?"

  Brognola coughed and said, "The Talifero brothers, it is said, have the most feared crew of enforcers in the country. These brothers are loosely called 'Pat and Mike.' They are . . ."

  "Okay, I've heard of Pat and Mike. What you say wraps it up. Maybe I can keep my neck out of . . ."

  "Be careful, Pointer," Brognola urged. "These Talifero boys are double trouble. It's said that once they get their orders, they are like guided missiles, there's no way of calling them back or scrubbing the hit. The triggermen in their crew are like an elite Gestapo, taking orders from no one but Pat and Mike. The brothers themselves operate directly out of the Commissione."

  "Exactly what I wanted," Bolan commented. "I'd better bug off now."

  "Uh, Pointer . . ."Brognola said hurriedly.

  "Yes?"

  "I'm flying to Washington tonight. I'd like to make a representation on your behalf."

  "What sort of representation?"

  "A sort of unofficial 'forgive and forget' representation. Do you follow me?"

  "Who's playing games now?" Bolan said, chuckling.

  "He's dead serious, Bolan," Lyons broke in.

  Brognola said, "Rather, uh, high offices have been apprised of your successes here. We've suspected your true identity and now that you've confirmed it . . . well . . . I'm not promising anything, but . . . I believe I can get you a portfolio — unofficially, you understand — if you'll agree to continue on in your present role."

  "It is my intention to continue," Bolan said. "Unless I die soon."

  "You aren't going to die soon, are you?" Lyons said, chuckling.

  "Not if I can help it."

  "Can we do anything to help?"

  "I doubt it. I guess it's my show — win, lose, or draw. Uh, you might look into the death of Charles D'Agosta two years ago, age about 20, supposedly drowned on a boating accident off San Pedro."

  "Mafia rubout, Bolan?" Lyons asked.

  "Let's can him Pointer," Brognola broke in nervously.

  Bolan laughed and said, "The rubout is an outside chance. Look into it, will you?"

  "I'll do that," Lyons assured him. "Anything else?"

  "You might pray."

  Lyons and Brognola chuckled. Bolan said, "Well . . ."

  "Braddock says thanks," Lyons added hastily.

  Bolan said, "Sure," and broke the connection. He returned to the new Mercedes, checked his gunleather, and set off for the villa. Police-community relations had never seemed better for Mack Bolan. He wondered vaguely what was implied by acquiring a "portfolio."

  "Maybe it's a license to kill," he muttered to his Mercedes. "And then again," he added thoughtfully, "maybe it's a license to die."

  Either way, Mack Bolan was not too impressed with licenses. He had his rage to keep him warm.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The enforcer

  The gate guard grinned warmly and said, "Hi-ya, Franky. God, I heard about the fracture this morning. They say it was like a wild man. I wished I'd been with you."

  Bolan kept his face straight and said, "You might get a chance, Andrew Hardy." He soberly winked one eye and eased on over to his usual parking place. He noted that the gate guard had trotted down to engage another guard in an animated conversation.

  Benny Peaceful appeared as Bolan was leaving the Mercedes. He showed Bolan the peace sign and said, "Somebody has been waiting for you by the pool for a couple of hours. Somebody's gonna be terrible disappointed if you don't go in that way."

  Bolan acknowledged the message with a nod of his head. He paused to light a cigarette and said, "What's rumbling, Benny?"

  "The whole joint's rocking over your work this morning," the youth replied, laboring to maintain a sober visage. "Don't surprise me none, of course. I knew what you could do, Franky."

  "I need your help, Benny Peaceful," Bolan said, staring over the boy's head. "I think I know what you can do, too."

  Benny seemed to grow an immediate inch. Following Bolan's lead, he averted his eyes in a casual inspection of the sky. "You just say it, Franky Lucky," he said solemnly.

  "A boy like you can change his thinking when the right time comes," Bolan suggested.

  "You watch me."

  "Pat and Mike could use a boy like that."

  The youth's breath hurriedly left him. He staggered slightly, regained his balance, and then gave way to the glowing smile that was fighting for control of his facial muscles. "God!" he exclaimed. "I knew you was something special."

  "A boy that knows when to keep quiet, and then when to come running at the right time — he can be a valuable boy," Bolan pointed out.

  "You just snap your fingers, Franky Lucky," Benny assured him.

  "Okay. You be ready for the snap." Bolan tossed away the cigarette and entered the enclosed patio. Benny Peaceful came in several paces to the rear and took up station against the wall, his face glowing like the sunrise. Bolan went back to him and said, "Listen, I made a decision, you're my second here. You know?"

  The news was almost too much for Benny Peaceful. His lips trembled, he drew in a ragged breath, and he gasped. "I'm your boy, Franky. What's going on?"

  Bolan leaned closer. "I told you, Benny, a valuable boy has to change his thinking. Deej is out. Understand?"

  The youth nodded his head in an uncoordinated jerk. "I been hearing," he replied. "I been changing my thinking, since a long time back."

  "Okay, now you round up the other boys that've been thinking. We don't want the good to go down with the bad, do we, Benny Peaceful? I'm making that your Number One job for right now. You mark the ones that are fit to save. You know?"

  "God, I know, Franky."

  "Okay. You get these boys aside. Boys who have been thinking ought to know that what happened on the desert this morning was nothing but a prophecy of things to come. You know what I'm saying?"

  "Screwy Looey had that coming," Benny Peaceful agreed eagerly. "A lot of muscle around here has got it still coming."

  "It'll get to 'em, don't you worry," Bolan declared somberly. "It's up to you, Benny, to cull out the others so they don't get hurt. I don't have the time, so I'm depending on you. Now you get these boys aside and you tell 'em what's what. And you tell 'em to wait for your fingers to snap."

  Benny Peaceful fought down another broad grin. "My fingers? Sure — sure, Franky."

  "Get your crew organized."

  "I'll get right to work, Franky."

  The youth took off on a strangely hurried-casual gait, disappearing around the corner to the parking area. Bolan clucked his tongue and went on over to the pool and Andrea D'Agosta.

  "What was all the chatter with Boy Blue?" she asked him.

  "Got rid of him, didn't I?" Bolan replied, smiling.

  "Don't look so happy," she said. "I've been waiting out here for hours. I'm afraid your moment has almost arrived, whoever you are."

  Bolan leaned down and brushed her cheek with his lips. "Yeah?"

  "No time for that," Andrea fretted. "Victor Poppy is here with that man from Florida. They're all in Poppa's study right now."

  Bolan clung to his smile. "Did you get this man's name?"

  "I heard Victor call him Tony. That's all I know. Little man, sallow, skinny, scared. About 40."

  Bolan sighed and said, "Thanks."

  "Don't thank me, just get me out of here."

  "Are you ready to go right now?" Bolan asked her.

  Her eyes flipped wide. "Are you serious?"

  "I guess it's now or never," he told her. He looked her over and added, "You're dressed fit to travel. Leave everything else behind. Do you know where you're going?"

  "A bee-line to Italy," she said. "I'll visit Momma for a while."

  "And you don't care what becomes of your father?"

  Andrea stared curiously at Bolan for a moment, then: "Poppa didn't consult me when h
e went into this business."

  Bolan took it as a reply. He said, "Okay, come on, I'll get you out of here. Then I have to . . ."

  He had Andrea by the arm and was helping her out of the chair. Phil Marasco appeared in a doorway across the court and yelled at him. Bolan looked up and waved a greeting. "Deej is waiting for you," Marasco called out. "Come on, he's getting impatient."

  Bolan released the girl. "Sit tight," he told her. "I'll be back."

  "I wonder," she murmured, and fell back into the chair with an unhappy sigh.

  Bolan walked briskly across the patio and joined Marasco in the doorway. "What's up?" he asked.

  "I dunno," Marasco replied nervously. "Th' old man is sitting on needles, though, and he wants to see you in the worst way."

  They walked elbow-to-elbow along the corridor toward DiGeorge's study. "I told him the order was filled," Bolan growled. "What's he worrying about?"

  "He would have cancelled that hit if we could of got to you, Franky," Marasco confided. "Don't mention it, though, it'll just make him nervouser."

  "You don't cancel, hits, Philip Honey," Bolan snapped.

  Marasco grunted and said, "Now you're talking like a family man."

  "I like you, Phil," Bolan said, slowing his pace. Marasco slowed to match him.

  "That's great, I like you too," he said without embarrassment.

  "You know, in the old days of Egypt and places, when a king died they buried all his household with him. Servants, slaves, and everything."

  "Yeah?"

  "Sure. Those Egyptians figured when the king stopped living, all his cadre had a right to stop living too. Stupid, huh?"

  Marasco halted completely. "What're you getting at, Franky?"

  Bolan swung about to face him squarely. "Pat and Mike say a king has got to go, Philip Honey," he said soberly.

  The blood drained from Marasco's face. He said, "Oh my God. I knew it was something like that."

  "I been hoping you ain't no Egyptian, Philip Honey," Bolan said.

  Marasco snatched a cigarette from his pocket and thoughtfully placed it between his lips. Bolan lit it. He took a deep drag and puffed the smoke out in tight grunts. Presently he said, "I'm not no Egyptian, Franky Lucky."

  "I'm glad to hear that." Bolan began moving slowly toward DiGeorge's door. Marasco reached out and placed a restraining hand on his arm.

  "Wait a minute," Marasco said. "Before you go in there. They got a turkey in there waiting for you."

  "What kind of turkey?" Bolan asked casually.

  "A guy says he knew you back when. But he says also you died in Vietnam, in the army. Is this guy part of your cover, Franky?"

  "Maybe. What's his name?"

  "Tony Avina, He says you grew up on his block in Jersey City. Says you got drafted and got killed. Is this gonna embarrass you in front of Deej?"

  "Is this guy in the organization?" Bolan asked.

  "Naw. A nobody. Prison gray sunk in all over him."

  "Look, Phil," Bolan said conspiratorially, "my name ain't Frank Lambretta."

  "Yeah, I figured that about a minute ago," Marasco replied. "So what're you gonna do about this turkey?"

  ''I'm gonna scare the turkey-shit outta him, that's what," growled Franky Lucky Bolan. "Come on. Let's go see what color he drops."

  Carl Lyons paced the floor excitedly, glaring at Howard Brognola. "But this could be dynamite, Hal, if we could just get it into Bolan's hands!" he cried. "Somebody bought himself a coroner on this deal, and you know it as well as I. That inquest should have come out with murder written all over it."

  "I know, I know," Brognola said gently. "But you have to remember, Carl, the name Lou Pena wasn't half the flag two years ago that it is now. There was never any suggestion that this Louis Pena who was driving the motorboat was the same infamous Lou Pena of the roaring thirties, no suggestion at all The coroner could have quite logically arrived at a valid decision when he ruled in favor of accidental death. The damages were settled out of court, no trial, no charges, no nothing, and everybody appeared satisfied all around."

  "But for God's sakes," Lyons argued, "a sailing boat always has the right of way over a powered launch. The D.A. should have brought charges, if nobody else. Pena simply sliced through that little sailboat, hung around long enough to make sure the job was thorough, pleaded an unfortunate accident, and walked away with everybody happy. Now that's not justice, no matter how you slice it. We can even prove motive. You take a . . ."

  "In aftersight," Brognola said, trying to calm the angry policeman. "There was no access to these records two years ago. Not even now, for ordinary circumstances. If I hadn't had a bell ring over that name D'Agosta, you still wouldn't have any lead on the motive."

  "Well, I have to get hold of Bolan," Lyons said. "I have a boney feeling about this. Bolan is out there in a den of vipers, and he needs all the ammo we can feed him. Do you realize that we've never been able to get an informer inside the Malta?"

  "Do I realize?" Brognola replied, laughing.

  "So okay," Lyons snapped. "Let's not mince around, with our man's neck on the block. Bolan gave us the number. I say we use it."

  Brognola put on a pained expression. "That will have to be your decision," he said. "Call him there if you think you must. But don't ask me to second the motion."

  Lyons unfolded a scrap of paper and stared at a telephone number written there. It had been included in the last package of information which had been passed to them by the man they had then known as Pointer.

  The words "For Red Alert Only" were above the number, then the name "Lambretta," followed by a Palm Springs telephone number.

  "I wonder where this telephone is located," Lyons muttered.

  "I guess you'll never know until you call it," Brognola said.

  "I could give it to the phone company. They'd run it down for me."

  "By that time, perhaps the time for action will have passed," Brognola sighed.

  "Yeah," Lyons said. He stared hesitantly at the telephone. Then he pulled the instrument toward him, acquired an outside line, began dialing, then abruptly re-cradled the transmitter. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath. "I wasn't cut out for this cloak-and-dagger stuff."

  Bolan and Marasco strolled into the Capo's inner sanctum in controlled good humor. Marasco remained near the door. Bolan proceeded on, flipped a high-sign to DiGeorge, and dropped into a leather chair.

  "A rest is a rest, Franky," DiGeorge groused, "but I didn't tell you to take all day."

  Two other men were present. One of them was familiar to Bolan; he assumed that this was Victor Poppy. He recognized the other from Andrea's crisp description. Bolan looked the man over thoroughly during a hushed silence, playing the moment for its most, then said, "Hi-ya, Tony. When did you decide to retire from institutional life?"

  DiGeorge began breathing again. Victor Poppy smiled nervously and flicked a glance at his boss. The little man in the hot seat was staring at Bolan with a frightened gaze. "Hi, Fr . . ." His voice cracked. He choked, coughed, cleared his throat, and dabbed at eyes suddenly brimming with tears. He pounded weakly on his chest, smiled self-consciously, and settled back into the chair.

  "You boys know each other?" DiGeorge asked in feigned surprise.

  "People change a lot," Bolan said quietly. "Tony there used to be a real terror. Had half the guys in the neighborhood scared to death of him. Yeah . . . people change."

  "I guess you ain't changed a lot, Franky," Marasco said. "You're still lookin' like a young frisky colt."

  Bolan did not miss the reproachful glance tossed at Marasco by Julian DiGeorge. He grinned. "Naw . . . I'm changing, too," he said. "Take the present situation, now. Look at me, all tired and beat. Over a simple little everyday hit. Five years ago I could've rubbed six boys like that and stopped off for a few pieces o' tail on the way home. Now all I'm doing is dragging my tail."

  Marasco laughed loudly. DiGeorge turned to him with a frown and Marasco promptly shut it off.


  Victor Poppy said, "I heard about that, Franky. Everybody in the place is talking it up. I'd like to go out there and see that."

  "Shuddup!" DiGeorge growled.

  The effect of Bolan's braggadocio was already evident on the face of DiGeorge's "gift turkey," however. The small man was staring at Bolan with haunted eyes, nervously twisting his hands together. "It's good to see ya again, Frank," he chirped.

  "Waitaminnit waitaminnit," DiGeorge yelled. He pointed an accusing finger at Tony Avina. "You was telling me not ten minutes ago that this Frank Lambretta went off to war and got hisself killed! Now what, huh?"

  "Jeez, I dunno, Mr. DiGeorge," Avina quavered.

  "Lay off 'im, huh Deej?" Bolan said softly. "Can't you see he's sick?"

  "Where do you get off telling me to lay off?" DiGeorge shouted. "Just who the hell do you think you are, Mr. Franky Lucky Phoney!"

  "Who do you think I am, Deej?" Bolan asked quietly.

  DiGeorge stared at him in speechless rage. Every movement, every word, every gesture of Franky Lucky since he entered that door had served to increase DiGeorge's irritability. Now this! Talking back, acting like a Capo, just like that first damn day with Andrea, just like . . . A cold knot began to form in DiGeorge's belly, clamping off the line of thought. The rage dissolved instantly. "Okay," he said, now in perfect control, "you asked the question, Big Shot. Now you answer it."

  Bolan's gaze shifted to Tony Avina. "Answer it, Tony," he said. "Tell Mr. Julian DiGeorge I who am. Tell him the damn truth."

  "Jeez, I don't know who you are, Franky," Avina shot back.

  Bolan became convulsed with laughter. Phil Marasco joined in, and then Victor Poppy. DiGeorge's chin trembled, then he began laughing also. Bolan got up and pounded on the wall with one hand, clutching at his stomach with the other, in a very convincing demonstration of rampant humor.

  "Jeez, I don't know who I am either!" Bolan yelled and fell back into the chair gasping for breath and holding himself with both hands.

  "Get this goddam turkey outta here!" DiGeorge roared between snorting guffaws. "First thing comes up, I won't even know who I am!"