Chicago Wipeout Read online

  “It’s bargain basement day,” Bolan told him. “Usually the price would be one of her for a hundred of your kind. Now get on up the stairs before I decide to deal with bigger fish.”

  Lavallo turned and got. He pounded up the stairs and paused at the landing to inspect the bullet grazes on his hand and to attempt to quell the tumbling of his guts, then he staggered on toward the office.

  Maybe Rudy had been right after all, he was thinking. God, didn’t that big dumb bastard know he couldn’t pull that kind of stuff in this town? Did he think this was New York or Miami or somewheres? Did he think he could just walk in and take over Chicago?

  Lavallo hurried past his own doorway and pushed into Palmer’s office. City Jim, that was the one to call. These goddam punk cops had to get their heads out of their asses and nail that goddam guy.

  He fell into Palmer’s swivel chair and began hastily going through the scattered papers on the desk. Who the hell did Rudy call? What crew did he put on that dollie? Call City Jim, that was the thing to do. First, though; first he had to find that crew and call them off. Did that bastard say tied in life and death?

  Lavallo shivered violently and intensified his investigation of Rudy’s desk. God, he didn’t want to be tied to no turkey. God no. Not until that horsed-up, blacksuited dummy was out of the way. Lavallo had to believe that guy. He’d do it. He’d do just what he promised he’d do.

  He’d better get in touch with the council, though. He’d better talk it over with the bosses. But should he? Could he keep them out of it? Hell, he had to, he had to. They’d probably say, “Bring us that dollie, Pete the Hauler, and let us decide what she’s worth.”

  The king of the highways lurched to his feet and made a dash for the toilet, both hands clapped across his mouth. Them goddam ulcers. That goddam Bolan. Fuckin’ no good sluts playin’ around with older men. Why’d they have to …?

  He made it to the basin just in time, and there disgorged an untenable collection of rage and sorrow and greed and fear—especially fear.

  Pietro Lavallo had no ulcers.

  He was suffering from inner rot.

  4: STORM SIGNALS

  As night draped itself across the huge city beside the lake, two major storms also appeared to be in imminent descension. One was approaching from the northwest, in the form of snow and high winds and plummeting temperatures. The other was materializing within the city itself, and took the form of worried officials, bustling police movements, and multitudinous stirrings in diverse places.

  The lights at City Hall continued to burn brightly into the night, specifically in and about the offices of the mayor and commissioner of police. Standard riot forces were ordered to duty in civilian clothes, uniformed patrols were beefed up and re-deployed, and special motorized units were stationed at key points.

  Never a city to disregard its own romantic flavors, Chicago’s radio disc jockeys that evening interspersed their regular format with funeral dirges dedicated to various fictitious and Runyonesque characters: Sammy Slink, Willie the Weasel, Tommy Torpedo, et al—and two local television stations pre-empted network programming to run special “background commentaries” on the life and times of one Mack Bolan.

  The Executioner had come to town, and all of Chicago seemed to be aware of his arrival. That other storm, advancing slowly from the north, drew hardly any notice at all—except from the luckless city employees who were ordered into all-night street service.

  In a private room above a Michigan Avenue tavern, a small group of quietly sober men were planning a storm of their own. Unofficially referred to as “The Quad Council,” these four represented the invisible power structure which had welded the city and its environs into an impregnable stronghold of criminal corruption. Its members were referred to only as City, Labor, Industry, and Syndicate.

  In this meeting were worked out the various lines of responsibility, the “action interfaces,” and the dimensions of effort to be thrown into the upcoming war. From this meeting were fielded generals with strange sounding names leading troops with even stranger talents, and a general of all the generals was named to directly oversee the war effort on behalf of the Quad Council.

  This lord high enforcer was one Lawrence “Turkey” Rossi—usually known as Larry Turk or, simply, Turk. The term Turkey, in general Mafia parlance, is used in relation to a particularly gruesome method of torture-interrogation or torture-revenge in which the victim is systematically reduced to a mindless mass of mutilated and writhing flesh, or “turkey,” though conscious and screaming for mercy right into the moment of death. Its practitioners develop a high degree of skill, and Larry Turk had received his nickname in recognition of his own high development of this delicate art, acquired during his earlier years of advancement along the rungs of power.

  This appointment to lead the counter-war against Bolan represented a new challenge, and perhaps a new pinnacle of achievement, for the ambitions of Lawrence Rossi. Forty-one years of age and a two-time “graduate” of the Illinois State Prison at Joliet, Larry the Turk had arrived at the high moment of a vicious career. And it must have seemed to him that all roads from this point led straight up.

  On this night of the storm, however, the turkey-maker was to discover that even the most sublime roads always travel in more than one direction. Even in Chicago.

  Bolan let himself into the motel room and deposited his parcels on a table by the door. The room was lighted only by a sliver of illumination from the bathroom door and the glow from a television screen.

  The girl was sprawled casually across the bed on her forearms, her attention absorbed by the television set, a bath towel draped carelessly over her bottom. The Foxy Lady costume lay on a luggage rack at the foot of the bed.

  Bolan took in the towel-draped highrise and quickly shifted his focus to a less disturbing scene, the murmuring television. His own image was being displayed there as a blown-up artist’s sketch while an off-camera voice was giving a resumé of the New York battles.

  The blonde head swivelled slowly about and she regarded him quietly across a rose-petal shoulder which was glowing fetchingly in the reflected light from the television screen. The voice was small and maybe a bit weepy as she told him, “I thought you’d deserted. I’ve been lying here feeling sorry for myself.”

  “Had to stop and see a guy,” Bolan explained.

  “Yes, I know.” A shadow seemed to move across her eyes. “They just reported the … man … at the trucking company. They said it’s connected to the executions at Lakeside. Is it?”

  He said, “Sure,” and tossed a flat box onto the bed. “Better check the fit.”

  She ignored the box. Again that shadow crossed her eyes as she asked, “Did you really slit his throat?”

  Bolan shrugged. “Dead is dead,” he muttered, and strode into the bathroom. He called back “Get some clothes on,” and banged the door shut.

  Sure he’d slit the throat, and he’d punched hot metal into a dozen other men this day—beautiful lady. He had noted that look in her eyes, that dawning revulsion—somehow he had never become accustomed to that look. He supposed he never would, no matter how often he saw it. Well, so what?—he had it coming, didn’t he? It was a proper reaction.

  So too someone had to be the butcher. Bolan could live with it. A guy with a genius for math should not shrink from numbers … a dancer should dance, a singer should sing, a painter should paint, and an executioner should. … Bolan knew what he had to do. He knew where his talents lay, and let the revulsion fall where it would. He could live with it.

  He flung away the entire train of thought and began undressing for the shower. The Beretta and sideleather went on a towel rack just outside the shower stall, and Bolan went in beneath the stinging spray, lifting his face directly into the invigorating assault. He remained there a long time, eyes clenched, breathing through his mouth, luxuriating in the bombardment—and then he became aware that the door to the stall was open and he felt eyes on him.

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sp; They were solemnly glowing eyes and they belonged to the Foxy Lady … and there were no shadows or veils there now. In her hand was a cosmetic jar and upon that divine body was nothing but the painted likeness of a red fox.

  Soberly, she said, “Thanks for remembering the body cream.”

  His mind traveled the several corners of the world before he replied, “Okay.”

  “I’ll wash your back if you’ll cream-off my paint.”

  He said, “You’re on,” and pulled her into the stall.

  Soft arms went about him and the resilient body-bountiful welded itself to him in a shivery embrace. Her lips nipped at his shoulder and she moaned, “I’m Jimi James, let’s get that into the record.”

  Bolan ran his hands along the luxurious flesh of her back as he told her, “Pleased to meet you, Miss James. I’m still Mack Bolan.”

  “Oh, and I’m glad, I’m glad,” she whispered, and her mouth found his, and Bolan knew that she was glad. And so was he. Revulsion he could live with, sure—but this was something to live for.

  If revulsion had indeed been present some moments earlier, it had certainly given way now to something more moving than violence, more jarring than a chunk of muzzle-heated metal, and infinitely more sublime than unending warfare. A man and a woman had found an exalted bond that surpasses all human definitions. And as the storm forces gathered about and above the landscapes surrounding them, there was engendered between them and by them a storm of an entirely different sort …

  The sign on the specially constructed door read Communications, Ltd.—inside were rows of semi-enclosed tables, each equipped with a telephone and other devices helpful to the bookmaker’s trade. This was the headquarters of a wire-betting service, a national operation covering race tracks and sporting events throughout the country. Tonight it was covering a different type of event; this was the Chicago nerve center for the War against Bolan. Several dozen men manned the telephones, displayed information, and passed along reports and instructions pertinent to the task at hand.

  Larry Turk was holding court with several of his crew chiefs in a turret of desks and wirecages at the rear when someone observed, “Here comes Pete the Hauler.”

  Turk muttered, “What the hell does that guy want to be …?” He jammed a cigar into his mouth and lit it while the portly underboss made his way along the line of wiremen.

  Lavallo was puffing slightly as he rounded the corner into the turret. He gave a little hand signal and said, “Hi Turk. How’s it going?”

  “Fine, just fine, Mr. Lavallo. What can we do for you?” This was polite notice that the Caporegime was neither wanted nor needed here.

  “I’m just too nervous to sit around and wait,” Lavallo admitted. “I thought maybe I could lend a hand.”

  Turk’s eyes went to the ceiling. This was a delicate matter. At the moment, he was kingpin. Tomorrow, or next week, one day soon, Pete Lavallo’s great rank could squash a dozen Larry Turks into nothingness. He told the underboss, “That’s great, Mr. Lavallo. Not much happening right now, though. The guy’s crawled into a hole somewhere, I guess.”

  The trucker dropped into a chair. “I’d rather be here than sitting around wondering,” he muttered.

  Turk exchanged glances with a crew chief. He told Lavallo, “We were just reviewing the strategy. We, uh, got a whole invisible crew tailin’ you around, Mr. Lavallo. If you’re gonna spend the night here, we need to put those boys someplace else.”

  Lavallo’s eyes showed his surprise. “Nobody told me that,” he said.

  “No sir, nobody meant to.”

  “I got my own damn hardmen,” the Caporegime huffed.

  “Yes sir, that’s the idea. A double line. One obvious, one not—not even to you.”

  Lavallo lost the clash of eyes. His went to the floor and he growled, “It’s your show, Turk. I, uh, won’t be around long. I just dropped in for a look-see. I guess you got things pretty well in hand.”

  “Thanks. Look, uh, it would be better if you went on natural-like. Bolan tried for you once tonight. We expect he’ll try again. We want him to.” He slapped his hands together. “Then pow! Eh?”

  “I get the idea,” Lavallo said with a tired smile. “I just ain’t exactly used to being a sitting duck, a decoy at that.” He struggled to his feet. “Uh, what’re you doing, uh, about that dollie?”

  Turk shrugged. “The usual things. We got her name, her address, her hangouts. We know where she gets her teeth fixed and who gives her her pelvics. We know her momma and her poppa, and we’ve had a tap on their phone for over an hour, clear out in Montana. Don’t you worry, Mr. Lavallo. When she comes out, we’ll know it.”

  “You don’t forget, I got an interest, a right. I wanta know about her and Louis. You don’t touch her until I say so.”

  “My only interest is Bolan. Whatever I have to do to get to Bolan, Mr. Lavallo, I’ll have to do. You know that. After that …” Turk sighed delicately. “… you’re welcome to her.”

  A lineman had hurried into the turret and was anxiously awaiting a chance to break into the conversation. Turk acknowledged his presence with a sliding glance. The man told him, “Chollie Sanders, over at Neighborhood Protective, just gimme something. One of his pigeons, a dress shop on West Washington, called in a suspicious. About an hour late, but they didn’t think anything about it until they got home and turned on the television. This guy’s wife—”

  Turk said impatiently, “Just give me the tip.”

  “Well this guy come into their shop just as they were closing. Bought a complete outfit for a woman, underwear and everything, gave the old lady the sizes and let her pick everything out.” He glanced at Lavallo. “This was just a little while after the hit on L & A.”

  Turk was giving the man a harsh gaze. Presently he said, “So?”

  “So the guy wasn’t worrying about prices or styles or anything. He just wanted a complete outfit. And the sizes add up to that Foxy Lady. The guy adds up, too. Tall, kinda dark, wore sunglasses and they didn’t get much of a look at his face. But he was dressed all in black, even his overcoat.”

  Turk grabbed the lineman’s elbow and steered him to a large map which was opened across a desk. “Okay,” he said quietly. “You just draw a circle where that dress shop is.”

  The man did so, adding, “Oh, and he was driving a white sports car. We didn’t get no make or model but it was one of the big expensive jobs, foreign make.”

  Turk asked Lavallo, “Did you see his car?”

  “No.”

  “Was he wearing an overcoat when you saw him?”

  The underboss shook his head decisively. “No. I didn’t get much of a look, we was just bangin’ away at each other, but he wasn’t in no overcoat. The black part fits, though.”

  One of the crew chiefs idly asked. “Wonder why the guy’s so hung up on black. Does he think he’s gonna psycho somebody?”

  “He wears black,” Turk said grimly, “for the same reason the commandos did. He works mostly at night, and you don’t usually see ’im until he wants you to. And you better remember that.”

  “Goddam clown,” Lavallo muttered.

  “Pardon me, but he sure is not no clown,” Turk corrected the Caporegime. “And we better all remember that.” His eyes snapped to a crew chief. “Okay, Bernie. Maybe we got something here, maybe not. You got to find out what.” A blunt forefinger was tracing a path on the map. “The way I’d read it, he come down off of the freeway right here, on his way in from the L & A hit. Mr. Lavallo says it was about five-thirty, the hit. That would give him time to. … Sure, it fits. So I want a clean sweep of every hotel and motel in that area. You know what to look for.”

  “It’s snowing pretty bad outside right now,” Lavallo commented. “I hear the roads are closing up north and storm warnings are flying all up and down the lake.”

  “So what are you thinking?” Turk asked him.

  “I’m thinking what you said awhile ago was exactly right. I bet the guy has crawled into a
hole to ride out the storm. I’m thinking your chances of finding him tonight are about one in a million.”

  Turk smiled and replied, “I guess you’re right, Mr. Lavallo. But we got to ride those odds, eh?”

  “Right, you got to,” Lavallo said. “Me, I’m going home and sleeping out this million-to-one pass.”

  “You do that, Mr. Lavallo,” Turk told him.

  The underboss hurried out, waving quietly to familiar faces along the line.

  Turk turned a relieved grin to a crew chief. “Okay, get that hotel crew busy. There ain’t no storm, no where, going to keep me off of this Bolan’s ass. We’re going to nail this guy, Bernie. We’re going to nail him tonight.”

  The storm signals were flying, for everyone but Larry the turkey-maker. He was brewing a personal storm of his own making.

  For that matter, so was Pete the Hauler.

  5: JUNGLE LESSON

  Bolan sat cross-legged on the bed, staring thoughtfully at the still form beside him. He gently nudged a shiny hip and said, “Hey … sleepyhead … time to rise and shine.”

  Her eyelids fluttered half open and she peered out at him through curling lashes. “Not asleep,” she murmured. “Are you an angel?”

  “Not hardly,” he replied, grinning. “Do I look like one?”

  She smiled back and gently stirred herself. “Not hardly. But if this is heaven, then you must be an angel.”

  He said, “Wrong on both counts. This is hell, lady. Or it’s likely to be if we don’t get moving.”

  Her eyes opened fully. “But I thought …”

  “That we were home clean?” He shook his head. “This is just a rest area. We’ve got to be up and on. And the sooner the better.” He rolled off the bed and went into the bath, returning immediately with his clothing.

  “Gosh, you’re a beautiful thing,” she told him. “I think men should be required to run around like that all the time. It would sure brighten us girls’ lives.”