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  Turrin was looking his friend up and down, taking in the fancy threads and the silk handkerchief knotted at the throat. “Looks like you came to stay,” he grunted. “Who are you this time?”

  “I came prepared to stay,” Bolan corrected him. He grinned, adding, “And you can call me Frankie.”

  “There’s a winner, for sure,” Turrin said breezily and went out of there.

  A winner, maybe. And maybe not.

  The almost legendary “Frankie” had achieved his underworld fame as a supposed “Black Ace”—one of the commissione’s top trouble-shooters, a man of almost unlimited authority and amazing abilities. It had been whispered that such a man could temporarily remove any capo, anywhere, anytime—that, indeed, in very special cases, such a man could “hit” any boss on his own say-so.

  There actually had been such men and such power once. They had constituted an elite and highly secretive force, pledged to La Cosa Nostra itself, rather than to any family or to any capo. In effect, the Aces were the physical will of La Commissione—the ruling council of bosses—acting as a self-propelled gestapo in settling inter-family disputes or territorial squabbles that might threaten the stability of the overall organization. Theoretically, then, no one boss or family could effectively adopt open practices or procedures which had not found prior approval at La Commissione. Nor had anyone better try anything under the table, either. The Aces were there to see that they did not—and the beauty (as well as the inherent weakness) of the thing was that nobody ever really knew just who those Aces were. Not even the bosses, themselves.

  Hard to believe, perhaps, but it was just another of those insane twists in this demented world of Mafia. There had been a time, of course, when the top Aces were carefully screened and handpicked by the council of bosses. But the thing had gotten out of hand. Old bosses died and young ones took their places on the council. Some of those young ones had died, too, before their seat at the council of kings could be fully and unconditionally validated. There had to be a continuity of power if the organization was to survive and prosper.

  Or, at least, that was the argument. By one twist and another, one old man had gradually and by conscious design become the only link between the council of bosses and the increasingly autonomous secret society within.

  When that old man died … well, full autonomy became an immediate fact. For awhile.

  The Aces were identified by a secret number and a code name, either of which could change, and did with sometimes astonishing frequency—face changes, as well. It was said that some of the older Aces had undergone plastic surgery so many times that they themselves could no longer remember who they used to be. This was said jokingly, but it was very close to the truth.

  They carried specially embossed “markers”—playing cards sealed in hard plastic with code name and number indelibly engraved on the back, the suit designating rank. The Black Aces were, appropriately, in clubs and spades. Red Aces were hearts and diamonds. Red Aces could not interfere in intra-family business, except by prior consent of that family’s boss. Only an Ace of Spaces could overrule, contravene, or “replace” a capo. A capo was a boss who also held a seat on the national council of bosses, La Commissione.

  As savage and ruthless as this subculture undeniably was, it was also permeated through and through with a strange and curious code of ethics—a sort of natural code, a jungle code in which, just like with the lower animals, certain signals were continually being transmitted and received to establish at least a semblance of order and survivalist organization. These were “protocols,” formalistic little rituals of the pecking order by which respect and honor were appropriately conferred. In a savage society, such devices were mandatory and dogmatically adhered to. Only thus could there ever be an organization of thugs. The men who fashioned the modern Mafia probably recognized this truth as a lesson long demonstrated within the bandit societies of Europe and the Mediterranean. Or, perhaps, it was just one of those innate, subconsciously realized survival mechanisms.

  Whatever, the modern Mafia was ruled in spirit by an ingrained set of courtesies and formal protocols, which would be regarded as insane by any contemporary businessman or politician. It was this very “spirit” that had allowed the Aces to operate, and which, by the same token, had allowed Mack Bolan to operate upon the Mafia with such devastating effect.

  The inviolable respect of secrecy, the absolute authority of rank, the unquestioned use of power, in whatever form, to gain a common goal; if these were the triune upon which had been built the fantastic successes and excesses of the modern Mafia, then they were, by the same token, the inherent flaws which could be operated by a wily opponent.

  The Aces had not, of course, been regarded as “opponents.” They were remarkable men, especially the Black Aces—truly remarkable—the type of men upon whom most of the Mafia myths had been based. Intellectually brilliant, physically tough, mentally persevering and resolute, dedicated, supposedly embodying all the deadliest qualities of the most persistent predators—and they were loved for that.

  Indeed, in the most curious subterranean society, such men were idolized by the rank and file—and at least respected and admired by those in highest authority.

  “Frankie” was, of course, an Ace of Spades.

  There actually had been a Frankie, once. But Mack Bolan had come up with a higher hand … and had “replaced” the original. The role was tailor-made for a man of Bolan’s measure. Under different circumstances, and of course with a crucial alteration of his basic character, he could have been a superb, bona fide Ace of Spades. So the masquerade, was a natural, easily assumed for brief periods. No one could get away with it forever, of course. But Bolan had often adopted the role of the Super Ace and had written new legends, as Frankie, in the Mafia book of myths. The whole thing had provided great service to his war effort—and had saved his life, as well, on more than one occasion.

  Yet he had killed it all, almost with a single stroke, on a rainy day in New York, when the time had finally come to bury all the myths in a common grave. And this was, perhaps, the severing stroke, the killing blow which, for the first time, made final victory seem actually attainable.

  Following that “command strike” at the Mafia’s nerve center, there was no more autonomy, no more Aces in the original sense, no more tailor-made role for destroying the Mafia with its own insanity. He’d brought it all to an end, with his own fine hand, and in his own inimitable style.

  All the Aces, Black and Red alike—those former “gods”—were now, as a group, the most hated and reviled of all fallen heroes, fearful of revealing themselves in any situation outside the confines of their own restricted power base in New York.

  Except for one, perhaps.

  Except for Frankie.

  Perversely enough—or fittingly enough, depending upon the viewpoint—Frankie was the only top Ace to survive favorably in the book of myths.

  Frankie was “okay.”

  Frankie had “tried to save it.”

  Frankie had “never betrayed nothing.”

  But how would Frankie fare in Baltimore? With a “replaced” boss on his hands and a door-die crisis looming at the horizon of the dawning day?

  He was going to find out, damned quick.

  Leo had been out of the room for only about thirty seconds when Santelli’s head cock, the formidable Mario Cuba, poked head and shoulders through the open doorway to fix Bolan with a challenging gaze.

  “Hi, Frankie,” he rumbled, scowling. “You looking for me?”

  The guy had never seen “Frankie” before, of course. But “the spirit” was working … for the moment.

  “Hi, Mario,” Bolan replied with ice in the voice. “Come on in. Get your ass in your hands. And get ready for a shock.”

  CHAPTER 6

  BLACKOUTS AT DAWN

  Mario Cuba was a human gorilla, a huge rock of a man who stood several inches shorter than Bolan, but who probably outweighed him by a hundred pounds or more. His
balding head looked armor-plated, and the muscles of the neck and shoulders were so overdeveloped that the guy had to turn his entire torso in order to look to the side. For that reason, no doubt, he had developed a constantly shifting gaze, with the dark eyes probing continually across the full scan of vision allowed by the immobile neck.

  The confrontation with his boss’s dead body had no effect on that automatic routine, though the massive shoulders hunched noticeably and two great, hammy fists clutched the edge of the desk for support, or for comfort, or whatever. Bolan suspected for a moment that the guy was going to lift the whole thing and heave it through a wall, but then those great hands came away from there to fumble nervously with the waistband of his balloon-leg trousers.

  The tortured gaze swept past Bolan a couple of times, then began a methodical sweep of the ceiling as Mario groaned, “Who did this?”

  “Let’s first ask why,” Bolan replied soothingly. “That will lead us to who.”

  “Why what?” the gorilla rumbled, his eyes shifting even more frantically now.

  “Why anyone would want to do this to Tommy,” Bolan explained patiently, as though speaking to a child. “Who wanted him dead, Mario?”

  The guy waddled over and hit the wall beside the safe with both big fists at the same time. The whole room shook and the chandelier swayed. He swiveled the torso for a scan past Bolan, then hit the wall again.

  “If it makes you feel better, go ahead,” Bolan growled harshly. “But it couldn’t make Tommy feel any better.”

  Cuba turned about, shoulders slumped forward, hot eyes focusing squarely for the first time since he’d entered that room. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked calmly.

  “I was sent to watch the investment. I was a little late, wasn’t I?”

  “Maybe. And maybe not.” The guy was becoming downright hostile. “When did you get here?”

  “Get screwed, Mario,” Bolan replied icily. “You’re forgetting yourself. Don’t try to lay that kind of crap off on me.

  That oversized body was deceptive as hell. The guy could move like lightning when he wanted to. At that very instant, he wanted to—and Bolan would have had his bell rung, for damn sure, had he not been anticipating some such reaction.

  Mario was on him in a flash, those big meat-hook hands going straight for the throat.

  Bolan went for the eyes, driving both thumbs in as deeply as they would penetrate, following through with a judo kick to the crotch.

  No man is that tough. Eyes are eyes, and balls are balls, no matter who is wearing them. That mass of muscle went immediately to ground with a shriek and a groan, and it by God stayed there.

  Bolan checked his five-hundred-dollar threads, straightened the neckerchief, and growled, “You fucking idiot!”

  The guy started puking.

  Bolan turned away from that, went to the door, and summoned help.

  Sonny the Pacer and the rear doorman responded instantly, as though they had been standing in the wings and awaiting such a signal.

  “Clean that up in there!” Bolan commanded. “When it’s clean, come and get me! I’ll be with Larry Haggle.”

  He did not await the bug-eyed acknowledgement, but went up the stairs two at a time.

  The spirit, with a little help from the flesh, was working fine. And he wanted to keep the momentum rolling.

  The door to the apartment was locked. It splintered open under a well-placed kick, and Bolan swept on inside. He found another exception to the downstairs decor. This room was all leather and chrome, with walls of books. The placement of other doors suggested another couple of rooms adjoining either side.

  Larry Haggle was flaked out in a large leather recliner near the window, a telephone at his ear. He brought the chair abruptly to the upright position, gawked at the intruder for a moment of indecision, then dropped the phone and began scrambling to his feet.

  Bolan opened his coat to display the hardware thereunder, and said, “Huh-uh.”

  Weintraub froze in an awkward position halfway between sitting and standing. “Which way do you want it?” he grunted.

  “Suit yourself,” Bolan replied charitably.

  The guy sank back into the chair, but the eyes never left Bolan’s face. They were the eyes of a legal eagle, a negotiator—a “haggler.” This one was reputed to be the best in the business, his name, “Haggle,” a tribute to that expertise. Forty or so, not bad-looking, lean and probably muscular—with a lot of energy suggested by the quick movements and crackling eyes.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, not really challenging, but not surrendering either.

  Bolan approached the chair, and handed over his marker for inspection. Weintraub took one quick look at it, then retrieved the telephone and told whoever was hanging there, “I’ll call you back.” He depressed the button to break the connection, all the while taking Bolan’s measure, then quickly tapped out another call on the touch-tones.

  “You don’t mind if I authenticate this,” he said, not really asking, flicking the ID card between thumb and finger.

  “I think you always should,” Bolan said mildly, return the direct stare of the lawyerly gaze.

  The guy chuckled drily, and hung it up without receiving a connection. “Consider it done,” he said. “I could’ve guessed it at first sight, You’ve got heavy guts, I’ll give you that.”

  “Guts for what?” Bolan asked pleasantly, playing it.

  “For venturing out of your kingdom. If I were in your shoes, Frankie, I’d damned sure have to be dragged kicking and screaming out of Manhattan.”

  Bolan said, “No guts to it. Just duty. Give me back my marker.”

  The wise-ass sailed it to him. Bolan caught the ID and returned it to his wallet.

  “What duty?” Weintraub sneered. “I can’t believe you guys. Nobody loves you anymore. Stay home. We get along fine without you.”

  Weintraub, you see, was not a brother of the blood. He did not respect the spirit. Bolan had to give him something else to respect.

  “We don’t work for love, Haggle. And we never did depend on it to do our job for us. I was sent. Now I’m here. So wipe that smirk off your face before I do it for you.”

  It was a promise, not a threat.

  The lawyer’s face paled, but did not change expression. He came slowly to his feet, as though perhaps to square off against the implied attack. Then he smiled suddenly, reached for a cigarette, and growled, “Awww, what the hell. This is dumb, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Bolan agreed. “Especially with your boss lying dead right beneath your feet.”

  The hand with the cigarette froze midway between pack and lips. The guy was good, Bolan noted, at these quick freezes, arrested movements. Conscious maneuvers, learned for courts of law? Or a genuine mannerism, produced by stress?

  “Say that again.”

  “Someone cut Tommy’s throat. Not ten minutes ago. Mario is with him, now. But he’s dead as hell, Haggle.”

  Some real, but indecipherable emotion briefly transited those inscrutable eyes, then the guy went ahead and lit his cigarette. That done, he said to Bolan, “Pardon me just a moment, Frankie,” and went to his desk. He punched an intercom button, and very calmly instructed someone to “get up here right away.” There was no acknowledgement from that quarter, but Carmen Reddi chose that moment to rap his knuckles against the splintered door and step inside the apartment.

  Reddi was the house boss—the man in charge of security and housekeeping. This one looked more like a housekeeper. Well, actually he looked more like a headwaiter at an Italian restaurant—tall of stature, immaculately dressed in black suit, white shirt, black tie, dignified almost to the point of haughtiness. He was staring directly at Bolan until Bolan met that gaze, then it shifted abruply to the consigliere.

  “Counselor … I guess you know …”

  The voice fit the rest of the guy.

  Weintraub’s voice was sad, and a bit distant, as he replied, “Yes, I heard, Carmen,
I heard.” He made a placating gesture, sort of like a priest transmitting a blessing. “Look, I have to get myself together. I’ll be down in a minute. Don’t let anyone touch anything.”

  “Too late for that,” Reddi replied. The cold gaze flicked momentarily to Bolan, then quickly back. “He told them to clean it up.”

  “Why?” Weintraub cried, eyes hard on Bolan.

  “Because it looked like hell, Bolan replied evenly. “And because I’m taking charge of it. Tommy was a capo. We take care of our own.” The cold gaze shifted to the house boss. “That’s more than Carmen can say.”

  The guy flinched as though Bolan had sent him a physical blow. But the voice was cool and calm as he inquired, “What do we do with him, Frankie?”

  No argument from the house boss, then.

  Frankie was in charge.

  “Clean him and dress him. Then put him some place cool. You have a big freezer?”

  Reddi jerked his head in a curt nod. “We can clean one out. Oh … Frankie … I sent for a doctor. For Mario. Hope that’s okay.”

  “A smart doctor’s okay,” Bolan said agreeably.

  “We keep a couple of smart ones on call,” Reddi assured him.

  “How does it look?”

  “How does what look?” Weintraub interjected. “What’s wrong with Mario?”

  Reddi spoke right past the guy, responding to the authority figure. “Hard to say. He’s bleeding from the eyes. Otherwise he seems okay. Said to tell you he’s sorry. He went crazy, he guesses. That’s possible. He really loved Tommy.”

  Bolan nodded his head, and sent the guy a sign with the eyes.

  The house boss backed out of there and quietly pulled the door closed.

  Weintraub gasped, “For God’s sake! Mario did it?”

  “Nobody said that yet,” Bolan snapped.

  The whole thing was beginning to resemble a blackout routine from the old days of vaudeville. No sooner had Reddi disappeared through the one door, when another opened and a beautifully naked lady stepped in. She’d apparently just come out of a shower or bathtub. The blonde hair was stringy wet, and she was still drying the luscious body with a large bath towel. She’d progressed to about two paces inside the room before she heard Bolan’s voice, and became aware of his presence there.