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  "How did you find me?" Bolan demanded.

  "Hal Brognola told me to mention his name. He said you would know it."

  Bolan glanced at Joan, who by now had finished dressing. "Yeah. I guess I've heard the name somewhere."

  "When I learned of my father's murder, I flew to Washington and went to the Justice Department. I'd heard of Mr. Brognola, and when I asked to see him, he was good enough to listen to my story. He said he knew a man who might be able to help me, and he told me a little about you. I said I wanted to see you, as soon as possible. Then he told me you had come to Medway. He didn't say why. He described you and said you would be difficult to find. He also said if I found you I should be sure to tell you to call him."

  "So you found us. How?"

  Gina Claw smiled. She was an extraordinarily attractive young woman. Her dark hair, evidence of her Indian ancestry, hung luxuriant and straight below her shoulders. Her face was long, her mouth narrow. Her solemn brown eyes peered at the world from under ample eyebrows. Her complexion was olive, like a Greek or southern Italian.

  "Once Mr. Brognola told me where you were, it wasn't terribly difficult," she said.

  "Hal…"

  "Mr. Brognola heard my story, checked it out and acted decisively. He said you had gone to Connecticut on business and he had no way to contact you. I said I'd find you if he'd just tell me where in Connecticut, so he told me Medway."

  Bolan frowned. If Brognola trusted this young woman with this much, he must have had reason.

  "He didn't think I could find you."

  Bolan glanced at Joan and could see that she shared his thought — that if Gina Claw had found them, someone else could.

  "How did you do it?" he asked.

  "Mr. Brognola helped me," Gina replied. "He used the power of his office to get the car-rental companies to run their computers and find out if a car was rented to a Michael Belasko. That's how I knew you rented a car in Hartford, and I found out what kind of car it was, plus the license number. I flew into Hartford, rented a car and drove to Medway. I asked for you at the motels around the town, and I found out where you were staying. I knew you weren't there, because your car wasn't there. So I took a room in the motel and… Well, I'd had a long day, so I went out to dinner. I thought I'd probably find your car in the lot when I came back, and then I'd come and knock on your door."

  "A regular Sherlock Holmes," Joan commented.

  "While I was at dinner in a restaurant downtown, the word began to be passed around that someone had killed Harry Greene. I suppose you know this, Mr. Belasko, but Medway is in a state of shock. Everyone in the restaurant was talking about — They called it murder. There was a crowd on the street when I left the restaurant. I hurried back to the motel, but I was too late. You'd checked out."

  Gina Claw paused and sighed. Then she went on. "I drove back to Hartford. I was able to find out you hadn't returned the car to the rental agency. Since then, I've driven all night, from one town to another, all over northwestern Connecticut and southwestern Massachusetts, checking parking lots, looking for that Ford. I'd about given up when I found your car here. I…" She looked up at Joan Warnicke. "I'm sorry to have intruded. I could have waited until you came down to check out."

  "You say Hal wants me to look into the death of your father?"

  She shook her head. "I don't know. He just told me you might be able to help me. But he emphasized that you should call him."

  "Okay. Tell me about your father."

  Chapter Three

  Hal Brognola, United States Department of Justice, arrived in New York on a department Lear jet. The little jet landed at Teterboro, and Brognola was driven to the Giants Motel near the Meadowlands sports complex. Bolan was waiting for him there.

  "They murdered John Claw because he was raising hell about the way his local is ran," Brognola said. "They murdered his father because he told the news media his son's death was no accident. And there's been another murder, one Gina Claw doesn't know-about. They murdered another construction worker. He was on the high steel the morning John Claw had his 'accident. It's possible he was a witness. They took him out with a shotgun."

  "The Families are tough."

  They sat together in Bolan's room, before a window that overlooked the New Jersey flats. The towers of Manhattan were visible in the distance, their lines softened by the haze.

  "Everybody who lives in New York, everybody who does business in New York, pays for the corruption in the construction industry," Brognola went on. The big Fed was chomping on a cigar, which he now pulled from his mouth and stared at for a moment. "Not only that, they're putting up unsafe buildings. One of these days there's going to be a catastrophe. Something's going to collapse."

  "What's the city doing about it? The state?"

  "The Organized Crime Task Force, which is a state operation, published a report on it a year ago." Brognola shrugged. "But the wheels of justice grind slow."

  "So everybody knows, but nobody is doing anything," Bolan concluded. "Is that what you're telling me?"

  Brognola bit down hard on his cigar as his face darkened. "I thought I was doing something about it right now."

  Bolan grinned. "I'll listen."

  "Okay. In the first place, let's understand that not all labor unions and not all construction companies are corrupt. A hell of a lot of guys are trying to do their jobs the honest way."

  "But it gets harder and harder for them."

  Brognola nodded emphatically. "Harder and harder. And a lot of construction companies cooperate with the Five Families because it's the only way they can stay in business. The only way. It's not because they want to."

  "Unions…"

  "It starts with the unions," Brognola interrupted. "The Mob infiltrated some of the important locals a long time ago, muscled the honest officers out and took over. When honest union members object…"

  "They get what John Claw got."

  Brognola nodded. "Construction workers are absolutely dependent on their unions, in a way most other working people aren't. Very few of them are permanently employed by any one company. They move from job to job, company to company. When a construction company needs fifty carpenters, it notifies the union and the union sends the carpenters. So the carpenters get jobs, or don't get jobs, at the whim of the union bosses."

  "And they blacklist men who get out of line," Bolan concluded.

  "Exactly," Brognola agreed. "A man who speaks up, complains, talks around with other union members, suddenly stops getting work. No work, no money. A man with a family to support thinks long and hard before he starts a beef about the way his union is run."

  "The NLRB?"

  "Can take months to get around to hearing a case. And the man who made the complaint is blacklisted. Besides, when the case does get heard, how does a man prove he should have had a particular job because of his seniority, but didn't get it?"

  Brognola again pulled his cigar from his mouth and stared at it as if he had never seen it before. "Okay. So the construction companies have to hire who the unions send. Some of the electricians they send aren't electricians, some of the plumbers aren't plumbers. You get the idea."

  "Some of them are enforcers."

  "Right. Also, some don't show up at all. Some of the goons they send punch two or three time cards. The extra pay goes to the union bosses. And the companies put up with it to buy labor peace," Brognola said. "They figure the payoffs to the crooked locals cost them less than strikes and job actions. Anyway, they can pass the costs along to the people who work and live in the buildings they put up.

  "Union racketeering isn't the half of it," Brognola continued. "The corruption is wider and deeper. The Five Families have invested the profits from old rackets into a lot of businesses that used to be legit."

  "Such as building supplies," Bolan suggested.

  "Yeah, building supplies. Concrete, lumber, pipe, glass, plumbing fixtures… You name it. The builder asks for bids on a big load of materials, and
only one company bids — the Mob's company. The price? Whatever the bidder asks. Try to bring that material in from out of town, for a much lower price, and big trouble. I mean big trouble. The Families own many suppliers. The ones they don't own pay them for 'accident insurance' and labor peace."

  "Who's doing the buildings you think are dangerous?" Bolan asked.

  "Maybe that's the worst part," Brognola said. "Some construction companies are themselves Mob businesses. They're the ones who fudge on building standards. I hardly need tell you that they bribe inspectors. But, beyond that, many of the legitimate companies simply accept Mob corruption. They say it's a fact of life in New York."

  "And it's not worth risking their lives to try to break the circle," Bolan added.

  "More than that. Look, suppose you're a legit construction outfit. You're being nibbled to death. You're paying too much for this, too much for that. You're paying for workers who never show up. You're being deviled by small-time racketeers who demand a payoff to keep this union on the job, to get this or that delivered to the job site on time, to insure you against 'accidents.»

  "And even when you do pay off, you're not sure you'll get what you paid for," Bolan said.

  "Right. Many times they don't keep their word. Besides that, some rival crook, some rival union, might show up and demand another payoff for the same thing you've already paid for. So along comes a representative of, say, the Rossi Family and he says to you, 'Hey, man, we can give you peace on all fronts. You make an alliance with us, and we'll handle all your problems. Sure, we'll overcharge you for materials. Sure, you'll pay for workers who never show. But when you pay us, we give you results, and we'll keep everybody else off your back. It works, too. You're better off. You know you're the victim of a vicious racket, but you're stilt better off."

  "Until they demand a piece of your company as part of the price," Bolan suggested.

  "That's the next step," Brognola agreed. "That's how they acquire legitimate companies. Sometimes they buy in. More often they muscle in."

  "How much are they raking in?"

  Brognola put his cigar aside. "Nobody knows. The Organized Crime Task Force estimates that something like five billion dollars is spent on construction each year in New York City. How much of that is skimmed off by the Five Families, no one knows. No one can even make a good guess."

  "I can make one good guess."

  "What's that?"

  "It's enough money to kill for."

  * * *

  The little house where John Claw had lived with his wife was touchingly reminiscent for Mack Bolan. It reminded him of his own family home, in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, where his father and mother had reared a family and planned for a comfortable, satisfying old age, only to lose everything to the Mob.

  Mrs. Claw was a Mohawk Indian, like her husband, and she said that now she would sell the house and return to their original home upstate, where she would at least have the solace of her brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins.

  "Those men, Mr. Belasko," she said, "are the scum of the earth! My husband and his father were decent men. They were killed for no reason. No reason at all."

  "You've mentioned the reason," Gina said. "That he was a decent man. That grandfather was a decent man. There's no room in the construction industry for decent men. There's no room, in fact, in New York."

  "If people like you leave the cities, they'll become jungles," Bolan told her. "The jungles will expand and catch up with you soon enough."

  "I'd already found a new home, before my father was killed."

  Bolan nodded. "I didn't mean to suggest you should stay here."

  "Well, I'm not leaving immediately," Gina replied. "I'm staying until I see what progress you make in doing something about my father's murder. And my grandfather's."

  "If you'll take my advice, you'll leave," he said.

  "Because I'm next? Or my mother?"

  "Not your mother. You. If the people who killed your father get the idea you're staying in the city to make trouble for them…"

  "So I should run?"

  "Your father didn't."

  She nodded bitterly. "I get you."

  "Take my advice," Bolan said. "We're dealing with killers."

  "Go home, Gina," Mrs. Claw suggested. "That's what I'm going to do. I'm going home, to where I belong. Where John belonged. Let men like this…" she nodded toward Bolan"…do what they are qualified to do. Accept it. We have been driven out of New York. Accept that, Gina."

  "I don't give a damn about New York," Gina snapped. "I do give a damn about the deaths of my father and grandfather."

  "You can't help," Bolan growled.

  "Oh, no? Well, where do you start, Belasko? Do you have a single name, a single lead?

  "I'm not leaving town," Gina continued. "Not for a while, anyway. You might need some help, whether you like it or not."

  "Okay. Do you know anything?"

  "Maybe. Dad used to bitch about what he called a 'dancer' who hung around the jobs. The guy was a goon, he said, an enforcer. His name was Vince. That's all I ever heard — Vince. He was my father's favorite example of what's wrong in the construction business."

  "Vince… A dancer. I wonder what he meant by that?"

  "Maybe you can find out," she said.

  * * *

  "A dancer named Vince. Vincent. Mean anything to you?"

  "Maybe," said Saul Stein, Assistant Director of the Organized Crime Task Force. Brognola had telephoned ahead to encourage Stein to see Bolan.

  "He might be the man who killed John Claw," Bolan told him.

  "Well, it would be some sort of coup if we could identify that one," Stein replied. "But, tell me, Mr. Bolan. If I were to identify this 'dancer' for you and tell you where to find him, what would happen to him?"

  "Why do you ask that?"

  "Your reputation precedes you. It seems as though where Mack Bolan treads, people die. The computer has spit out some interesting data. I would like to see the murderers of John Claw brought to justice, but I'm not sure that justice is effected by blowing them away."

  "Neither am I," Bolan said. "I'd much rather effect it some other way."

  "Understood, Mr. Bolan. Let's see what we can come up with on a man nicknamed Vince, who might also be called a dancer. Not much to go on. But let's see."

  He turned to a desktop computer on the credenza behind him. As Bolan watched, he tapped a series of keys, and the computer screen went blank. After a minute or so, the screen lit up.

  "Well…" Stein said quietly. "It seems our data base does have a man named Vincent who has been referred to with the word 'dancer. Most unusual. Look. The highlighted words caused the find."

  Bolan squinted at the screen.

  GROTTI, VINCENZA "VINCE"

  B. 3/24/51; male; Caucasian; 5 10" 185 lb., no scars or other identifying characteristics.

  Arr. 4/5/73 susp. armed rob., released, lack of ev.; arr. 7/19/75 ass. & batt., probation, fine; arr. 9/21/75 burg., chg. red. brk. & ent., sent. 90 days Rikers, served; arr. 6/11/76 ass. & batt., dismissed, lack of ev.; arr. 8/23/76 armed rob., sent. 1–5, paroled 11/21/78; arr. unlicensed weapon 1/ 2/80, sent. 1–3; served Attica, full term, rel. 1/2/ 83; arr. FBI 8/11/84, poss. automatic weapon, sent. 1–2 fed. inst., served Atlanta, rel. 7/3/86.

  Reputed assoc. Barbosa Family. No wife, children. No perm, address. Reput. well dressed, reput. for springy bounce in walk, which causes nickname «Dancer» to be applied. Reput. armed, dangerous.

  "Grotti," Bolan murmured. "Where would I start looking for Mr. Dancer Grotti?"

  Stein shrugged. "It's a big city. But if he's a soldier of the Barbosa Family, you could do worse than to check out a bar called Luciano's. Second Avenue, between Thirty-fourth and Thirty-fifth. A lot of them hang out there."

  * * *

  In a way, Luciano's made him think of the Italian restaurant where Michael Corleone shot Sollozzo and McCluskey. It was the same kind of place: familiar, neighborhoodish, mind-your-own-b
usiness. But the clientele was not the same. In the movie, the few people in the restaurant were quiet Italian families enjoying a quiet Italian dinner.

  He had dressed as a construction worker, in dirty jeans, a stained and sweaty T-shirt, boots. He carried no weapon. He swaggered in, miming the attitude affected by the wise guys, and pushed up to the bar.

  "Beer," he said.

  "You got it," the bartender replied.

  All the stools were taken, so Bolan stood between two of them, glanced around and waited for his beer. Most of the wise guys paid him no attention. Two or three checked him out.

  It was easy to see which ones were carrying heat. The same way it had been easy at Harry's Club. He looked around. In this one little bar, half a dozen guys were carrying iron.

  On the other hand, they wouldn't use it — unless absolutely necessary. In the first place, they didn't need a hassle. In the second place, the soldiers of the Five Families were almost like cops: like cops, they had to explain exactly why they used their guns when they used them. A soldier who lost his cool lost his head — the Families had strict rules on that.

  Things were different in New York. The Families had coordinated their control. Indiscriminate shooting that brought newspaper attention was out. Beatings, bombings, all that was out unless somebody went crazy, or unless it was important enough. He wondered which was the case in the murders of John and Robert Claw, and Burt Whittle.

  The bartender put a mug of beer in front of him. "Two and a quarter," he announced.

  Bolan shoved the money toward him. "Vince been in?" he asked.

  "Lots of guys called Vince come in. Vince who?"

  "Vince Grotti."

  The bartender turned down the corners of his mouth and shook his head. "Never heard the name," he muttered.

  "The one they sometimes call Dancer."