Jersey Guns Read online

  “Every day is,” Bolan replied.

  Yeah. Grimaldi understood that, too. For a guy who lived from one heartbeat to the next, every day just had to be something special. Today is the rest of your life, eh? Okay. So okay.

  “I’ll be in Dallas,” he told the large-lifer beside him; then he began the descent for the 500-foot recon into that next heartbeat.

  3: COUNTER MOVE

  Joseph Quaso had been Chief Enforcer of the Texas Territory for only about six months, but already he had built quite a reputation for himself in the organization. He was young, tough, energetic, and—most importantly—he knew how to use his head.

  Quaso was a new-breed Mafioso, one of the young swinging Turks who were fast moving into positions of importance in most of the old Mafia families. His ties were with the Detroit coalition, and they were blood ties. He was kid-brother to Anthony Quaso, an “administrator” under Crazy Sal Vincenti, who was one of the lesser lights in the Detroit ruling council.

  The Texas job was a Commissione appointment. Texas was regarded as an “open territory”—which simply meant that all of the families had the right to stake claims there. The Detroit council had strongly sponsored their fair-haired up-and-comer for the appointment and the other bosses of the national commission had accepted him without reservation.

  And it was a big job. In every practical respect, young Joseph Quaso (age twenty-eight) was the boss of Texas. He was “man on the scene” for La Commissione. As such, it was his primary responsibility to orchestrate the Texas interests of the various families—to do so in a fair and impartial manner—to keep the peace and promote harmony between competitive interests—and to protect the overall combination from unfavorable outside influences.

  It was a Gestapo job.

  And “Jaunty Joe” Quaso loved every nuance of it.

  He commanded a standing army which had recently swelled to an estimated force of more than one hundred guns; he had unlimited financial resources for his “national security budget”; and—best of all—he had the undivided respect and support of the old men throughout the country.

  This Texas phenomenon ruled his empire from an $1,100 per month penthouse in a Dallas suburb, a sprawling eight-room palace. Special feature of the sumptuous apartment was the monstrous bedroom of the master suite. It boasted a revolving playboy bed with built-in bar and quadrophonic sound system, television, and a special toy consisting of a closed-circuit TV camera and monitor with videotaping capabilities. Also available, at the flick of a switch on the master control panel, was a cartridge-style movie projector with an infinite variety of porno films—many of them “produced” by Quaso himself during an earlier period of “self-discovery.”

  The Boss Enforcer was, by tradition, forbidden to operate business sidelines of his own which might represent a conflict of interest. This did not, however, prevent Jaunty Joe from establishing a “Super-chick Corps” to service the Dallas-Fort Worth area of big spenders. In the official book, “Superchick” was a “grease operation”—that is, for the entertainment of important officials in local governments and key industries—a bribery device. It was common knowledge, though, that the Superchicks were also providing a handsome sideline income for the Gestapo chief of Texas. The national bosses were aware of this, and it is a testament to Quaso’s popularity within the national council that none felt moved to slap the youngster down for the impropriety.

  Besides, the Superchicks had been a brilliant addition to the clout operations in the new territory. Money was, of course, king when it came to winning official friends and influencing important people. But not every man could be reached with money alone. Few, however, could resist the added allure of a full-boobed and high-assed Texas beauty, available upon request for a couple of spins upon the revolving bed. And then, even if the pigeon didn’t feel particularly grateful for the experience, there was always the very interesting cartridge film which inevitably recorded the event and which never failed to bring around the ungrateful ones.

  Quaso himself was not exactly immune to the charms of the Superchicks. It is said that one or two, sometimes three or four, were usually “in residence” at the Quaso pad. On a revolving basis, of course. Jaunty Joe could not stomach the same woman two nights in a row. There were times, it is also said, when nothing less than several at once could sufficiently “relax” the libidinous young Turk from Detroit and ensure him a decent night’s sleep.

  It was the added misfortune of Jim “The Animal” Tolucci that his early morning call from Klingman’s Wells came on the heels of a fitful and misspent night in that Dallas penthouse.

  Another of the problems lay in Tolucci’s own agitated state of mind.

  “What the hell are you telling me, Woofer?” Quaso said irritably into the telephone. He glanced at the clock in the control panel and groaned, then kicked the tousled bedcovers away and swung his feet to the floor. “Say that again, and calm down while you do it. I can’t hear a damn thing through all that growling. Do you know what time it is?”

  “Yessir, I know what time it is,” the Woofer barked back. “Calm down hell, sir. All hell has broke down here. Listen, I’m lucky I’m alive. That guy romped in here and—”

  “Wait, hold it. Start again. What guy?”

  “I told you, that Bolan bastard! He was here. He blew up the goddam hangar and shot the shit out of everything! I’m lucky I’m alive!”

  “I guess you are,” Quaso said tensely. He took time to light a cigarette, then interrupted another unintelligible rush of barks and growls to say, “Okay, shut up and listen to me. Cool it, now. I can’t understand a thing you’re saying. Is the guy dead or alive?”

  “What? What guy?”

  “Bolan, you dummy! What the hell—didn’t you say—?”

  “Yessir. It was him, all right. A dozen people saw him. I saw ’im myself, it was him. He come in here just about—”

  “Wait, damn it, Woofer, shut up!” Quaso was beginning to understand the message now, but he really did not wish to. “Are you saying the guy hit you and got away? Out there in the middle of fucking nowhere? He got away?”

  “Yessir. He flew, see. The bastard flew in and flew out. He flew. I didn’t see the damn—”

  “Woofer, shut up! Now shut up! Start all over again!”

  “… that Three-Ten out of Detroit, we think. And he took the broad.”

  “You squawking greaseball, shut up! I can’t understand a—what? He took what?”

  “Yessir, he took the broad. I guess. We searched everywhere. We can’t find—”

  “Woofer, he snatched the Klingman chick?”

  “Yessir, that’s all we can figure. But listen! We need to get after that plane. It was that Cessna out of—”

  “Woofer goddamn it shut up and just answer me when I tell you to. Now listen to me. You keep this quiet. Not a word, not a goddamned word, you hear me? You tell nobody. I’m sending you some reinforcements and I—”

  “Christ, sir, we don’t need ’em now. We need to—”

  “I said shut up! I’m taking it over. You just sit tight, I’m sending a crew over.”

  Quaso banged the receiver into its cradle then punched the call button for his house man and leapt to his feet. He was halfway to the bathroom when the bodyguard appeared in the other doorway.

  “Yeah, boss?” the tagman reported, his eyes averted from the display of bossly nudity.

  “Get ahold of that guy in Austin,” Quaso commanded. “Tell him to hold the phone, I’ll be right there. Try the home number first, he’s probably still in bed—oh, and also that guy on the airport commission. And get ahold of Larry Awful. Tell him it’s an alert, full scale, statewide. I want all his guns on the line. And call the Klingman drop. Tell them no privileges, especially no phone calls and no visitors until they hear from me again. Then roust the Superchicks and run them out of here. Oh, and you better get ahold of our man at city hall. Tell him I want him here in thirty minutes, no fail. Then—no, never mind, I’ll do the
rest.”

  The houseman nodded his understanding of the instructions and went to the telephone.

  Quaso continued on to the bathroom. He stared darkly at his bladder-relieving waterfall and said, softly, to himself, “Okay, okay.”

  The honeymoon in Texas was over.

  It was time to start earning his keep.

  And, sure, it was going to be a pleasure. Better, even, than Superchicks.

  Buy Texas Storm Now!

  About the Author

  Don Pendleton (1927–1995) was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. He served in the US Navy during World War II and the Korean War. His first short story was published in 1957, but it was not until 1967, at the age of forty, that he left his career as an aerospace engineer and turned to writing full time. After producing a number of science fiction and mystery novels, in 1969 Pendleton launched his first book in the Executioner saga: War Against the Mafia. The series, starring Vietnam veteran Mack Bolan, was so successful that it inspired a new American literary genre, and Pendleton became known as the father of action-adventure.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author᾿s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1974 by Pinnacle Books, Inc.

  Cover design by Mauricio Diaz

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-8569-7

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

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