Chicago Wipeout Read online

  She was. Bolan had to believe that the reaction was genuine. Her eyes fluttered, the veneer of sophistication cracked a bit further, and she exclaimed, “Oh wow! That’s what you meant by ‘out of the frying pan and into the fire.’”

  Bolan assured her, “That’s exactly what I meant.”

  “So what do I do now?” she asked in a small voice. “Go back?”

  He shook his head. “It’s too late for that. The cops are already swarming the joint. No, you have to go on. But we have to build you a story. You panicked and ran. A guy picked you up and took you into town. You …” The look in her eyes stopped him. He asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s no good,” she replied miserably. “They saw me. Two men. I saw them watching me from the kitchen window as I was running. They had to know where I was headed.”

  Bolan said, “Well damn it.”

  “I guess you could take me to a police station,” she suggested in a frightened voice. “I could ask for protection.”

  He shook his head. “That wouldn’t buy you a thing. Not if these people decide to get to you.”

  “Then take me home,” she said, suddenly flaring with defiance. “I live in Elmhurst. I’ll call the club and tell them what happened, and I’ll just go on as though nothing had happened. If the mobsters come to me, I’ll just tell them exactly how it was. And they can like it or lump it.”

  Bolan was obviously neither liking nor lumping it. His face was etched with trouble lines, and again he said, “Well damn it.”

  Perhaps he was remembering the gruesome remains of what had been an equally beautiful and innocent girl, left behind in a New York morgue; or maybe he was thinking of an exotic French actress who had offered him Eden on the Riviera and who had found in return nothing but an echo of Bolan’s hell—or a valiant little Cuban exile who had given her blood for his in Miami and died in agony with a blowtorch at her breasts. And perhaps he was viewing the entire procession of beloved dead.

  He turned tortured eyes to the latest most likely candidate and told her, “Like it or not, Foxy, you’re a part of my jungle now.”

  It was all Bolan needed to make his job doubly impossible … another defenseless ally to worry over. He jerked the wheel viciously into the exit to an east-west arterial and left Lake Shore Drive behind. He had found his orientation.

  This new development called for a change in the battle order.

  And Bolan knew precisely what had to be done next.

  3: THE DEAL

  “For God’s sake, Pete, where you been? I been looking all over for you!”

  The king of the highways, Pietro D. (Pete the Hauler) Lavallo regarded his “Executive Vice-President” with a superior smugness and a condescending smile. “While you been running around looking for me,” he replied, “I been out nailing down a deal.” He went on to his desk and dropped, tiredly, into a massive chair. “So what’s your problem, Rudy? What’re you so lathered-up about, huh?”

  Rudy Palmer (nee Colombo Palmeiri) was swaying nervously from one foot to the other. His eyes went to the wall behind his boss’s head as he said, “I don’t know just how to tell you this, Pete. I got some bad news.”

  “Well just tell it and let me figure out how bad it is, huh, Rudy?”

  “Louis Aurielli is dead.”

  “Did you say dead?”

  “Yeah. He’s dead, Pete.”

  Pete the Hauler’s eyes shaded into a dull gaze while the message tried to locate a level of acceptance in the gray matter behind those eyes. Disbelief registered there even as he was replying, “Hell, I warned him. I told him those pains were trying t’ tell him something. You mean he’s really dead?” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”

  “No!” Palmer exclaimed. “Not like that. I mean his brains are splattered all over Lakeside. Him and about a dozen boys. City Jim says bodies are strung all around the joint, just shot to hell.”

  Lavallo slowly pushed his swivel chair away from the desk and eased to his feet. As if in a slow-motion reflex he opened a drawer and picked up a .45 Colt autoloader, checked the clip, and placed it on the desk. Then he went to the window and stared out upon the warehouse complex that surrounded the modernistic office building. In a barely audible voice he asked, “And where does City Jim come into it?”

  “Hell, I guess they got half the police force out there, that’s where he comes into it. He said to tell you—”

  “He said?” Lavallo snarled, whirling away from the window. “You mean he called personal?”

  “Yes he did, and let me tell you about it, Pete.” Palmer took time to light a cigarette, exhaling with the burst of words. “You remember a Lakeside soldier called Johnny Vegas? Tall skinny kid, always doing card tricks?”

  Lavallo cried, “Get to it! What the hell happened out there?”

  “This Johnny Vegas is the only soldier left alive up there. He says it was a Bolan hit. He says he stood eye-to-eye with the bastard and—”

  Lavallo had scooped up an ashtray from the desk and thrown it the length of the office. It struck the far wall and shattered, dislodging a heavy plaque.

  Palmer yelled, “Calm down, Pete! God, listen to what I got to tell you!”

  “Awright I’m listening.” Lavallo picked up the .45 and thrust it into the waistband of his trousers. “I’m listening! Go ahead!”

  “Johnny Vegas says Bolan left a message for you. That’s why City Jim called direct. He says you better take a vacation, and damn quick. Bolan gave the kid one of those medals—you know, those calling-cards of his. He said Johnny should give it to you, because you’re next.”

  Lavallo’s eyes twitched. He muttered, “Smart son of a bitch. Where the hell does he get off with—just who the hell does he think he is?”

  “Who? You mean City Jim? He’s just trying—”

  “Hell no, I mean that smart bastard!” Lavallo yelled. “Where the hell does he think he’s at, still in New York or somewheres? He can’t pull that stuff in this town, don’t he know that?”

  “God, I guess he already pulled it, Pete,” Rudy Palmer quietly pointed out. “The guy’s a nut, you know that. You can’t figure a nut. He’s probably all horsed up, you know how those guys come back from Vietnam. Popping four or five caps of horse a day and clear outta their skulls with the stuff. I think you ought to—”

  “Aw shut up,” Lavallo muttered. “Lemme think. Hell I ain’t even got used to Lou being dead yet. Lemme think.”

  “Well listen to one more thing first. I already sent for Nicko and Eddie. I told them to round up plenty of soldiers and get a convoy out here to take you home. I don’t want you taking no chances with this nut.”

  “Yeah, yeah—okay.” Lavallo was staring at the window, his eyes glazed and unseeing. “And tell City Jim thanks if he calls back. Tell him I appreciate the personal interest.”

  Palmer nodded and went to the door, then turned back to examine his boss with a searching gaze. “There was a doll with Louis when he got it,” he announced quietly.

  “It figures,” Lavallo muttered.

  “And she up and disappeared. The chef says he saw her running across the grounds to meet Bolan. He says she knew right where she was going.”

  Lavallo’s chin quivered. He said, “I told Lou those dollies would kill him. A man fifty-five years old shouldn’t try acting like a young stud again. I warned him those pains meant something.”

  “The point is that—”

  “I know what point it is!” Lavallo yelled.

  “Well I’m going to put a crew working that angle.”

  “You do that, Rudy. And tell ’em to bring this doll to me. I want to talk to her personal.”

  “I figured you would,” Rudy Palmer replied, and went on out, carefully closing the door between the interconnecting offices.

  Lavallo absently patted the grip of the .45 and sank onto the corner of the desk, still staring unseeingly at the window. Shock and anger and fear and outrage all seemed to have become resolved in a consumm
ate sadness. Louis Aurielli had been a good friend, a lifelong companion. They had come up together, through the bloody ranks of family competition to a plateau of unchallenged power. They’d seen a lot together, and done a lot together—and together they had become a lot. Now Lavallo felt strangely alone, exposed to the vicissitudes of a cruel world. And because of what? Because of a smart-ass soldier boy on a dumb vendetta. What had Louis Aurielli known of this smart-ass? What did Pete Lavallo care about him?

  Okay, sure, there had been that thing at Miami Beach. And some of the Chicago boys caught hell at Miami. But Lou and Pete had been a hundred miles away at the time, and why should they take it personal about Miami Beach? Let the street soldiers worry about the blacksuited bastard, that’s what they were paid to do. Not Lou and Pete. But now here was Louis dead and Pete worrying.

  There just wasn’t any justice.

  Well … it was personal now for Pete Lavallo. People didn’t go around gunning down his lifelong friends and live to smile about it. Not nobody, not Mack Bolan, not a hundred Mack Bolans.

  Lavallo sat there for a long time … remembering, wondering, hating … and then he realized that the sun had gone down and that it was getting dark outside. He went to the window and pulled the blind, then turned on his desk lamp and punched an intercom button to connect him with a desk situated deep in the maze of warehouses. A nervous voice responded immediately and Lavallo asked it, “Did that guy from Rockford show up yet?”

  “Not yet, Mr. Lavallo,” came the strained response.

  “Who the hell does he think he is?” Lavallo snarled. “I told him four o’clock, and here it is five.”

  “They were having an ice storm across Interstate 90, sir, up near Belvidere. Possibly he got caught in that.”

  “Don’t bullshit me no ice storms!” Lavallo raged. “When he gets in, if he ever gets in, you tell him it’s all off. Tell him he’s not hauling for Lavallo and Aurielli, not if he can’t show up on time for the first haul!”

  The choked voice replied, “He’s leased fifty trucks for that job, Mr. Lavallo. I don’t believe we could just arbitrarily terminate his contract, especially if an act of God is the cause of his delay.”

  “Arbitrary, who the hell said anything about arbitrary? You tell that guy the contract is tore up, and if he wants an act of God, ask him what he thinks about a spanner wrench against the side of the head. I ain’t holding still for no smart-ass out-of-town hauler that thinks he can walk all over L & A. And the same goes for a smart-ass dispatcher that talks about arbitrary stuff. Don’t you forget that.”

  “Yes sir. I’ll tell him to run his fifty leased trucks up his ass, Mr. Lavallo.”

  “You do that!” Lavallo punched off the connection and settled into his chair, puffing with anger.

  The side door opened and Rudy Palmer stood there stiffly framed in the rectangle of light. “The convoy is downstairs, Pete,” he announced quietly. “Let’s go home.”

  “Go on down,” Lavallo said. “I gotta take a piss, then I’ll be right with you. Did anybody tell Mrs. Aurielli about Louis?”

  “We’re trying to locate her,” Palmer replied woodenly. “She’s usually in Nassau this time of year.”

  “If you don’t find her there, try that hotel at St. Thomas. She likes it there, too. Go on, Rudy. I’ll be right down.”

  Palmer backed out and closed the door. Lavallo smiled wryly to himself and picked up the telephone. A moment later he got his connection and told it, “Hello, John? This is Pete Lavallo. You know, L & A Trucking. Say, uh, one of my subcontractors has crapped out on me. You know what I was saying last week about something big for your campaign fund.”

  A clipped voice rattled back a brisk response.

  Lavallo grinned and said, “Yeah, well that was a drop in the bucket, I don’t even count that. I meant something big. That, uh, kid of yours—John Junior, is it? Listen, I know where he can pick up long-term leases on fifty heavy haulers at a fraction of the regular cost.”

  A delighted response rattled the receiver.

  The Lavallo grin widened. He said, “Sure, it’s the cheapest way I know to get into the trucking business. Listen, you send John Junior around in the morning, eh? We’ll see what we can come up with.”

  Another rattle, then: “Oh, hell, don’t mention it, John. What are friends for if they can’t look out for each other, eh?”

  Lavallo hung up and studied his fingertips with a smug smile. One man’s ruin always meant another man’s gain. And what the hell could the punk from Rockford possibly mean to Pete Lavallo?

  He got into his overcoat and again checked the load in the .45 and dropped it into a coat pocket, took a quick look about the office, and went out. He thought again of Aurielli and knew that he would not accept the fact of Lou’s death until he saw him lying there in his coffin, all done up for planting. Meanwhile life had to go on. Business details had to be kept tidy. He touched the grip of the .45—and yeah, life had to go on.

  Quickly he descended the stairway. The small office building was quiet and deserted. It mildly irked Lavallo the way the hired help all got up and ran out at the stroke of five. It would seem like they would take more interest in the business. After all, it was their bread and butter, wasn’t it? Maybe he’d shake up this goddam crew, get them on their toes, and either shape ’em up or ship ’em out. That idea appealed to him, and he continued on toward the lobby in a rising good humor.

  The news about Louis had really shaken him. He was glad to be pulling out of that dark mood. His ulcers got edgy when he got edgy, and he sure didn’t want a flareup of them goddam things.

  Rudy Palmer was seated on the bottom step—waiting for the boss—tying his shoe or something. The good humor deepened. Rudy might not be overly bright, especially in business matters, but he could be a comfort to a guy. Imagine him saying that this Bolan was horsed up! Lavallo experienced an unbidden tremor. If only it were true. It was, of course, not true. Mack the Bastard Bolan was the most scarey damn thing to come up in all of Lavallo’s experiences. You couldn’t explain away a guy like that as a junkie, for God’s sake. And now the bastard was in Chicago. And there sat Rudy, one of the best gunners in the business, hovering at the bottom of the steps and waiting patiently for the boss, plus a whole crew of gun soldiers waiting outside to escort the boss safely home. So why the hell should Pete Lavallo be worried at all?

  He brushed past Palmer with a gruff, “Let’s go, let’s go,” and got halfway to the door before realizing that Rudy was not following him. He turned back and said, “Hey! You sleeping on the job?”

  Then Lavallo noted the dark discoloration on the carpet immediately in front of Rudy Palmer, and he realized that Rudy was sitting in one hell of an awkward position. He hurried back to the stairway and grabbed Palmer’s shoulder and shook it. The whole torso wobbled and the head flopped limply back to reveal a gaping slit across the throat, wide-open eyes stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, then Rudy Palmer’s remains toppled over.

  Lavallo recoiled and danced clear of the falling body. His hand was fumbling for his coat pocket and the comforting grip of the .45 and he was making a run for the door before he was even aware of his actions.

  It was then that the tall man in the black suit stepped from the shadows near the door, a long silencer-tipped black blaster targeted on Pete the Hauler’s head, tight lips pulled back in a killer snarl to reveal gleaming teeth. Again Lavallo recoiled and came to an abrupt halt, but his hand continued to dig for the .45.

  Two quick spurts of flame arced away from the black blaster—accompanied by quiet phutting sounds—and something hot and furious tore through the fabric of Lavallo’s overcoat. His hand came out of there quickly, a double furrow plowed across the top of it.

  Two words, about as clipped and final as the phuts from the silencer, were spat at him. “Freeze, Lavallo.”

  Pete the Hauler froze, but his stomach did not. The ulcers were already yelling bloody murder when Lavallo coughed nervously and asked,
“Bolan? Is that Mack Bolan?”

  “Did you get my message from Lakeside, Lavallo?”

  “I got it. Sure I got it. And here’s one for you. There’s a whole gun crew waiting just outside that door. They can see you clear as anything, Bolan. They’re looking at you right now.”

  “You’re dreaming, Lavallo,” the icy voice informed him.

  Pete the Hauler shivered and stole a glance through the plate-glass of the lobby. There was no sign of any cars waiting out there. He said, “Look, Bolan, I got nothing—”

  “That’s right, you’ve got nothing. Rudy sent your gunners home. It’s just you and me, Lavallo. Now you take off the overcoat and let it fall to the floor. Then you kick it away.”

  Lavallo followed the instructions. Those bastard eyes were tearing him up. Inwardly he was raging and his stomach was throwing fits. Outwardly he was smooth, almost genial. He told his persecutor, “If you were going to kill me, you’d have done it already. So what’s going on, Bolan?”

  “I’ve got a girl,” the man in black said tightly. “I mean to keep her alive. And well. You remember that. She’s your personal responsibility. Whatever happens to her happens also to you, Lavallo. Remember that. She gets cut a little, I cut you a little. She gets burned a little, I burn you a little. She gets left alone, you get left alone. Call that a deal, with no escape clause. You’re tied to her, Lavallo, in life and in death. Remember it.”

  The king of the highways nervously wet his lips and said, “You’re talking about the dollie was with Lou. Louis Aurielli.”

  “That’s the one. She just stumbled into this thing, Pietro. It was a dumb mistake. See that it stays that way. Now turn around and go back up the stairs.”

  “I don’t get it!” Lavallo cried, the rage finally surfacing and shaking him. “You’d trade me for one little chippie?”