Damage Radius Page 3

Which was why that fighter and his manager were no longer around. And never would be again. And why Cooper had been hired to take the manager’s place, and was consequently on his way to the brothel to meet McFarley.

  Slowly, and somewhat reluctantly—because part of him rebelled against the racing technology taking over the world— McFarley twisted his chair to the left and faced his computer. He knew very little about the machines, but he had found email to be an effective addition to his business. So, calling up a message he had already read through once, he hit the properties icon, set the computer to print in fast draft mode, then hit Print.

  A moment later, the printer sputtered to life and a single sheet of paper came sliding out of the machine.

  The Irishman looked up and down the page. He had used one of his New Orleans PD contacts to have a background check run on Matt Cooper. And as he stared at the page, he saw that the man had been arrested for some of the very crimes that were nothing more than a day’s work for McFarley Enterprises. And these arrests had been effected all over the world.

  But there was one thing that impressed the Irishman far more than the arrests. Matt Cooper had absolutely zero convictions. In fact, none of the crimes had even gone to trial. All of which meant Cooper knew how to play the law, much as McFarley did.

  His reminiscing had come full circle, and McFarley decided it was time to finish the last item of business for the day. Lifting the telephone again, he tapped on the intercom and said, “Grace, send the men in, please. And you can go home.”

  A moment later, the door opened and a square-shouldered man lumbered in. His suit coat was too small, and it gaped at the back of the neck. His crooked nose leaned to the left, which tended to make him look cross-eyed. He had once been a light heavyweight with over a hundred wins in the clubs. But he had never come close to the big time. So when he’d finally grown too old to fight, McFarley had given him a job as one of his personal bodyguards. Looking back, McFarley realized that had been a mistake.

  Jo-Jo Gau was the man’s name, and while he didn’t know it yet, he was about to hit the canvas for the last time.

  Gau was followed by two other men. Razor Westbrook and Felix O’Banion. O’Banion was a fellow Irishman who McFarley had brought to the U.S. when he was first establishing his operation. He had been a mediocre middleweight in Ireland but was smarter than the average fighter. Most of all, McFarley knew he was loyal and could be trusted.

  The smaller Westbrook had fought a few fights in the featherweight division in the U.S. But like O’Banion and McFarley, he’d realized he would never be a champion on the professional level, and been smart enough to get out of the game before he’d damaged his brain.

  The Irishman behind the desk felt his jaw tighten. O’Banion and Westbrook might not have been particularly good boxers, but they had proved they could pull the trigger of a gun with the best of them.

  As the three men took seats on a couch across from McFarley’s desk, the Irishman studied their faces. Westbrook and O’Banion looked slightly puzzled.

  Gau was outright scared. And had every reason to be.

  McFarley broke the silence. “You did a good job of getting rid of our two troublemakers,” he said after the door had swung closed. His gaze moved to Gau. “But the problem goes deeper than those two men.”

  The three men on the couch shifted uncomfortably. Still staring at Gau, McFarley opened the desk drawer in front of him. He glanced down to see the pearl-handled Webley .455 revolver that he had brought with him from Ireland. It was still hidden from the men on the other side of the desk.

  “The New Orleans gym falls under your care, Jo-Jo,” McFarley said as he casually wrapped his fingers around the pearl grips of the wheel gun. “It was your responsibility to see that Kiethley took a dive.”

  Gau covered his mouth with a big fist and coughed nervously. “Boss,” he said, “I did my best. They told me they were both cool with it.”

  McFarley stared at the man. Gau. Was it a French name? It sounded like it. Not that it mattered.

  When he didn’t answer, Gau began talking nervously again. “I was in the dressing room with them right before the fight,” he said in a slightly trembling voice. “They both swore Kiethley would go down in the third round.” He coughed again. “Kiethley was going to wait on that jab-uppercut combination the other guy liked to use, let it land, then fall.”

  “But that’s not what happened, was it?” McFarley said.

  Gau’s coughing became almost spasmodic. “No, sir,” he managed to get out between the roars from his throat. “They lied. I don’t know why. Maybe the other side paid them more than we were going to.”

  “That’s really no excuse, Jo-Jo,” McFarley said. “It’s your responsibility to see that things like that don’t happen.”

  “I know, boss.” Gau coughed out once more. “And it won’t happen again. I swear it won’t.”

  “There’s no need to swear to it,” McFarley said. “I’m going to personally make sure it doesn’t ever happen again.” He paused as his fingers tightened around the pearl grips of the Webley. “At least not on your watch.”

  Without another word, McFarley lifted the big revolver, aimed it at Gau’s crooked nose and pulled the trigger.

  The blast sounded like a nuclear bomb going off in the closed office. The .455-caliber lead bullet struck Gau between the eyes and he fell back against the couch, his arms dropping to his sides. The man’s eyes stared wide-open at McFarley.

  The nervous coughing stopped, but Gau’s eyes still looked scared, even in death.

  The sudden explosion had gotten Westbrook’s and O’Banion’s attention, too. They looked at McFarley, then Gau’s corpse, then back to McFarley again. McFarley wouldn’t have called their expressions shocked by any means; they had seen him perform violent acts before with guns, baseball bats and other items. But neither had been expecting to witness a cold-blooded murder at this time.

  McFarley dropped the Webley back into the drawer and shoved it closed. “Get rid of the body the same way you did the others,” he said simply. “Drop him out of the plane somewhere between here and Cuba. The sharks need to eat just like every other animal on the planet.”

  Westbrook and O’Banion nodded and stood up. O’Banion grabbed Gau under the arms, and Westbrook took the dead man’s ankles as they maneuvered him off the couch toward the door.

  The telephone on the desk rang. McFarley answered it as the two men opened the door and began clumsily carting the former fighter out into the hall. “Yeah?” the Irishman said into the receiver.

  “Tommy,” a soft voice purred.

  McFarley recognized the voice immediately. It belonged to Sugar, the madam who managed the brothel on the lower floors of the building. She was no longer a working girl herself—McFarley kept her for his own private use. Of course he didn’t limit himself in that way, and in addition to her he had one or more of the other prostitutes several times a day. Sometimes with Sugar. Other times, alone.

  “What is it, sweetheart?” McFarley said into the phone.

  “Is everything all right?” Sugar asked. “We thought we heard a shot.?…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Everything’s fine, Sugar. Thanks for checking. Now, keep it warm for me and get the other girls back to work.”

  “All right, lover,” Sugar purred and hung up.

  By the time McFarley had replaced the receiver, Westbrook and O’Banion had toted the dead body from the room. The Irishman looked toward the couch and the wall behind it.

  Blood and brain matter covered the expensive upholstery, and he started to call down to the janitor—a man who was vastly overpaid to keep the brothel clean and his mouth shut—to come up and clean the mess but then thought better of it. He doubted the stains would all come out even with the industrial strength cleaner the custodian used. So he made a mental note to send O’Banion out in the morning to buy a new couch.

  McFarley looked down at his watch. Matt Cooper would be here soon, and an i
dea suddenly struck him. He could use the gory mess on the couch and wall as an object lesson to this potential replacement for Gau. He could bring the new gym manager up here to his office after dinner. Let him see for himself what happened to McFarley’s employees when they screwed up.

  The Irishman stood up and found himself nodding. An excellent idea, he decided, as he rounded his desk and left his office. He walked down another hall to his private living quarters. As he opened the door, the faint-but-familiar odor of perfume filled his nostrils. McFarley smiled as he walked through the living room to the bedroom.

  Sugar had known he’d be wanting her as soon as she had heard the shot. She was a smart woman—especially for a whore—and she knew the types of activities that made men’s testosterone levels rise.

  So there she was, already lying back on the bed, wearing a smile.

  And nothing else but a red garter belt, matching fishnet hose and five-inch heels.

  4

  It was half-past-eight when the limo driver pulled through the iron gates and halted in front of the mansion. He hurried around the automobile to open Bolan’s door. As he stepped out of the vehicle, the smell of salt water hit him in the face and the soldier remembered that Lake Pontchartrain was second only to the Great Salt Lake as America’s largest inland body of salt water.

  The driver escorted him up the steps, through two rows of chiseled marble statues in the forms of Greek gods, to the front door. The man pressed a button, and the melodious sound of two bars of music came from somewhere inside the huge mansion.

  A moment later, a braless woman wearing a light, see-through shift through which a red garter belt and fishnet stockings were visible, opened the door. “Good evening, Mr. Cooper,” she said in her best sultry tone. “Mr. McFarley is expecting you.” She paused and stepped back to allow Bolan to enter. “My name is Sugar. It’s because I’m so sweet.”

  “I don’t doubt it a bit,” Bolan said, smiling. He looked her up and down from head to toe, like he knew any hedonistic criminal such as the one he was portraying would do. “I hope I get a taste before the night’s over.”

  A huge smile spread across Sugar’s face. She was undoubtedly pleased by the compliment, but her words told Bolan it wasn’t going to happen. “Sorry, honey,” the scantily-clad woman purred. “But I’m Tommy’s private stock.”

  Bolan effected a laugh. “Well, if you’re not selling,” he said, “you shouldn’t advertise so well.”

  This comment seemed to please Sugar even more. But a moment later, she became more businesslike—at least as businesslike as possible being dressed as she was. “Please come with me, Mr. Cooper,” she said. “Mr. McFarley is anxious to meet you.” With that, she turned her back to Bolan and began an exaggerated wiggle-walk down a hallway to an elevator. Bolan glanced at her hips as she strutted on. She wore no underwear beneath the garter belt, and she swayed back and forth provocatively with every step.

  When the elevator doors opened, Sugar stepped back and motioned Bolan to enter. “Just push P for penthouse, Mr. Cooper,” she said, her words still dripping with sexuality. “A couple of Mr. McFarley’s associates will be waiting for you.”

  Bolan did as instructed and watched the elevator doors roll closed again. As he rose in the car, he wondered when the device had been installed. The house itself looked to have been built long before the advent of elevators. At one time, it had probably been the main house that oversaw a large plantation near New Orleans.

  The doors rolled open again and, just as Sugar had promised, there stood two men wearing dark suits and ties. A slight frown showed on both faces, and the mood suddenly shifted from Sugar’s friendliness to a slightly dangerous feel.

  Both of the men had scars at the corners or their eyebrows, a dead giveaway that they were former fighters. The smaller of the two stepped forward and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cooper, but we’ve got to frisk you before we let you go any farther.”

  Bolan had expected this, and as he stepped off of the elevator he extended both hands to his sides.

  The man who had spoken started at Bolan’s ankles and began running his hands up the outside of his legs, looking for weapons. When he reached the waistband of Bolan’s slacks, his hand stopped on the Cold Steel Espada clipped inside. Pulling it from the Executioner’s belt, his eyes widened when he saw the size of the knife. Using both hands, he opened the blade, then said, “What had you planned on doing with this monster, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Anything I needed to,” Bolan came back.

  “You’re a knife fighter, are you?” the slightly larger goon standing behind the man holding the knife asked. His voice was slightly sarcastic.

  “I’m a fighter, period,” Bolan said calmly.

  The smaller man returned to Bolan’s ankles. This time he began feeling through his slacks on the inside of his legs. Just before he got to the groin area, Bolan said, “You seem like a guy who really gets off on this kind of thing. You planning to think about me later tonight, when you’re all alone in bed?”

  The comment generated an instant homophobia in the searcher, and he barely tapped the Executioner’s groin area before moving on up to check his chest, arms and shoulder. Satisfied, he said, “Looks like you’re clean except for the pig-sticker.” He paused, staring self-consciously up into Bolan’s eyes. “You’ll get it back when you leave.” Those words ended in another short pause, until finally he said, “And no, I don’t plan to think of you when I go to bed tonight. You’re not my type.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Bolan answered.

  Without further ado the two men turned and led Bolan down a somewhat confusing set of intertwining hallways until they came to an elaborately furnished dining room.

  Tommy McFarley was on his feet, waiting, just outside the room.

  The man who had taken Bolan’s Espada whispered something into McFarley’s ear, then he and his partner disappeared back down the hallway.

  Bolan studied McFarley’s face for a moment. The man looked slightly older than the pictures in the Stony Man file Bolan had reviewed during his flight to New Orleans. A little white had begun to creep into his hair, and the short, well-trimmed mustache and goatee showed lighter hues as well.

  Bolan knew that the pressure of running any huge business—legal or otherwise—got to a man.

  McFarley extended his hand and Bolan shook it. “I’ve been wanting to meet you, boyo,” the Irishman told Bolan with a big smile. “Ever since you started beating up my heavyweights.”

  It was a statement rather than a question, so Bolan remained silent.

  “I’m hungry,” McFarley said. “Let’s eat.” He turned and led Bolan to a long banquet table, much as Sugar had done earlier on the way to the elevator. But, Bolan noted, the view following McFarley wasn’t nearly as interesting as it had been when he’d trailed the woman in the see-through shift.

  Places had been set at the head of the table, and just to the left-hand side. Bolan couldn’t help but wonder if McFarley was trying to send him a message by the seating arrangement. If so, that message had to be I’m about to offer you an important opportunity. But you aren’t my right-hand man. At least not yet.

  Bolan took his seat as a woman dressed in a low-cut French maid’s outfit—nearly as sexy as Sugar’s shift—brought out a bottle of white wine and two glasses. The soldier held up his hand when she started to fill his glass. “No, thanks,” he said. “Just some water or iced tea, if you would.”

  “You don’t drink?” McFarley said in a surprised tone.

  “Gave it up years ago,” Bolan said. “Impaired my judgment. Almost got me killed a time or two.”

  “Smart, boyo,” the Irishman said. “I drink. But lightly.” He chuckled as he turned toward the French maid. “Too much alcohol interferes with my true pleasures in life. Just half a glass, Maria,” he said, running his hand up under the back of the woman’s short skirt as she poured his wine.

  A moment later, the woman he had called Maria left the room and r
eturned with salads for the two men. Another quick trip through a swing door brought a variety of salad dressings in silver bowls. Both times, she gave Bolan a lewd smile like the one he’d gotten from Sugar downstairs. She also exaggerated her bend when she set the bowls on the table, allowing her already short black skirt to ride up over her bare buttocks.

  There were a lot of different crimes that were coordinated in this house, the soldier realized. But if there was one theme that ran through all of the operations it was sex. Bolan was a warrior, not a psychologist. But it didn’t take a Freud or Jung to see that McFarley had an enormous appetite—or more likely an addiction—to amorous adventures with the opposite gender.

  McFarley began to eat and Bolan followed suit. The kitchen was obviously on the other side of the swing door—unusual here on the fifth story of the mansion. It appeared that, like the installation of the elevator, McFarley had done some extensive remodeling within the old house.

  When the salads were finished, Maria appeared holding a silver tray. The smell of roast duck wafted through the room as she set it down, this time doing so on the other side of the table from Bolan to allow him a view of the cleavage barely hidden by her low-scooped, laced neckline. Several more trips brought out bowls of potatoes and vegetables. As well as more exposures of female flesh.

  “Not a bad spread,” Bolan said, breaking the silence.

  “You talking about the food or the waitress, Mr. Cooper?” McFarley laughed.

  “I meant the food,” Bolan said. “But the scenery isn’t bad, either.”

  “Nothing but the best around here,” McFarley replied. “Sure beats a po’boy on Bourbon Street. Or the disease-ridden hookers who work the jazz clubs.”

  “It does indeed,” Bolan said.

  McFarley laughed out loud. “Our waitress also works downstairs,” he said. “She’s yours later, Mr. Cooper, if you’d like. And it’s on the house. Any of the girls you want. And however many you can handle—if you’re into that sort of thing.”

  Bolan nodded. “If you’re giving me gifts like that, you’d better start calling me Matt. Mr. Cooper just doesn’t quite have the right ring for an orgy.”