Friday’s Feast Read online

  “Cut it out,” she said, turning away. “You’re getting serious.”

  “Always have been, Toby. You know that. I’d carry you through hell on my shoulders.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t.” She was still looking away. “Maybe you should just dump me there. Maybe hell is where I belong.”

  Dammit!

  It always came back to this! Not just for Toby, but for everyone Bolan had ever known in this lousy business.

  Perceptions of good and evil, clean and dirty, were just too damn deeply ingrained in the conventional morality—and those conventions were too deeply ingrained in even the strongest of rebels. Those perceptions could not allow good people to do what they knew was right, what they knew was necessary, without carting around forever after a diminished view of their own worth. Sooner or later, it came to all of them—and it defeated a lot of them … even the very strong. It had come very close to defeating Mack Bolan … several times around.

  He told the lady, “Hell is where you’re at, Toby.”

  “Say it again, Sam.”

  “Every heaven is built in hell. We all have to build our own. And once it’s built …”

  “Yes?”

  “There was a guy named Hubbard, a writer. He wrote something many years ago … I can’t give it to you word for word … Hubbard said that God will not look you over for medals or diplomas or degrees. When you get to your heaven, Toby, there’s only one thing that will pass you through the gates.”

  “And what is that?” she asked soberly.

  “Scars.”

  “Scars?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Gee.” She raised misty eyes in a waifish smile. “I should be a shoo-in.”

  “I’d make book on it,” he said, grinning.

  Toby draped the towel across her shoulders and slowly sat up, crossing the shapely legs Indian fashion on the bed. “Okay. That takes care of ‘poor me’ time. Sorry ’bout that, podner. Where were we?”

  “I was looking for a handle,” he reminded her. “I was hoping you could hand me one, I guess.”

  “Sorry, I can’t think of a damned thing,” she replied soberly. “I realize that it sounds ridiculous, but I really can’t. A man was snuffed with his hands at my crotch, but I haven’t a clue as to who did the snuffing. Frankly, I was scared to death. I half-expected to feel my own blood start trickling at any moment. I just got the hell out of there.”

  “The room was dark when you left it.”

  “I’m positive of that, yes.”

  “You came straight back here.”

  “Uh-huh, as fast as my pinkies would carry me.”

  “So within a minute, say, after Santelli died, you were back in this apartment.”

  She nodded the gorgeous head. “Maybe quicker than that.”

  “Was Weintraub here?”

  “No. He came in right behind me.”

  “Right behind you?”

  “Maybe a minute later. No more than that. I was just stepping into the shower when I heard him come in.”

  “So he could have been in the house when Santelli got it.”

  “I suppose he could. But I don’t believe he did it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too messy, the way it went down. Larry is very squeamish about blood. I cut my finger yesterday—just a tiny nick, but it bled furiously. I thought he was going to throw up.”

  Bolan sighed and said, “Yeah, but necessity is the mother of more than invention. Other than the squeams, what do you think? How do you read the guy?”

  “Ruthless,” she replied immediately. “But he’s the sort who kills by remote control. Like, maybe a thousand at a time with no sweat at all, provided he can push the button from a distance. I just can’t see Larry rushing at a man in the dark with a knife in his hand.”

  Bolan said, “Okay. Thanks, Toby.” He moved toward the door, then turned back to say, “Get your stuff together. I’m sending you out.”

  She said, tight-lipped, “Okay. Suits me fine. Everything here has gone to hell for me, anyway.”

  “What were you looking for?”

  “The money wheel.”

  “You found it.”

  “I did?”

  “Uh-huh. Tell your boss that Santelli was at the hub of that wheel.” He sighed. “But it’s bigger than narcotics, Toby. It’s bigger than anything they’ve ever tried. Everything they have and ever wanted is riding on it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “But you’ll find out.”

  “Thanks for the vote. I needed that.”

  “I need something, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need to be held. By a man. A real man. Just for a sec.”

  “Do I qualify?” he asked quietly.

  “Hell. You created the role.”

  Bolan could understand a need to be held.

  With no apologies whatever to April Rose or anyone else, he went to the beautiful naked lady and took her in his arms, squeezed her gently, stroked her lovingly, and did what he could to soften the marks of heaven that were upon that fragile soul.

  Then he laid her gently back and went out of there, determined to find the marks of hell on Thomas Santelli’s kingdom.

  CHAPTER 8

  STYLE

  It had been about twenty minutes since the discovery that the king was dead—plenty time enough for the word to have been shouted from mouth to mouth all the way into Baltimore and back again. But the reaction within that hardsite was not quite right; something was missing. When a king dies, there is either rejoicing or wailing. Here, there was neither.

  All the lights were on downstairs, and a dozen or so men were standing in the lower hall talking in hushed tones. Leo was there. So was Robert Damon and Tony La Carpa. A mean-looking guy of about thirty, whom Bolan did not immediately make, had a hand on Sonny Pacer’s shoulder. The kid looked scared; evidently he’d been undergoing some harsh interrogation. Larry Haggle stood shoulder to shoulder with the house boss, Carmen Reddi. Big Mario Cuba was slumped onto a tattered couch near the front door. He looked a bit green in the jowls, and was holding a large compress to his right eye. Two hardmen stood with arms folded across their chests, backs to the door. Another pair stood vigil at the entrance to Santelli’s sanctum.

  It was a huge hallway, traversing the center of the house from front to rear, narrowing a bit at midpoint to accommodate the stairway, then widening again at the rear. All the rooms downstairs opened onto that hallway. The front part was large enough to be considered a room in its own right, forming a sort of lobby with two couches and several chairs, a couple of small tables, coat racks and so forth. Santelli’s private retreat lay behind a pair of paneled sliding doors opposite the stairway. A smaller lobby stood at the rear, partially concealed behind the staircase, and serving as a “house station” or guard headquarters. The kitchen led off from there.

  All eyes turned to Bolan as he descended the stairs. He halted on the third step from the bottom, very strongly aware that a hushed silence had also descended.

  The atmosphere was not good—not at all good.

  He made a little show of lighting a cigarette, and restoring pack and lighter to his pocket. Then he made direct eye contact with Robert Damon and said, very somberly, “It’s a hell of a thing, Bobby. I understand how you feel. I hope you understand how I feel. And I hope you understand why I took it over.”

  Damon came right back with almost exactly the same tone to his speech. “Sure, Frankie. We all appreciate the fact that you’re here in our time of trouble. I guess we’re all just sort of wondering, though, exactly why you came.”

  La Carpa, the hardarm, was not quite so diplomatic. The voice was pitched in respectful tones, but edged very heavily on the downbeat as he amplified Damon’s words. “What Bobby means, Frankie, is that we have just one question to ask you. Were you sent down here to do this?”

  Bolan stuck the cigarette between his lips and le
ft it there. His hand seemed to have hardly moved in the withdrawal from that action, but the Beretta was suddenly there where the cigarette had been.

  One of the guys at the door twitched, but just barely.

  Neither of the underbosses moved by so much as a flicker of an eyelid.

  Bolan’s gaze had not wavered from the cold clash with La Carpa. A little flare went off within those other eyes when the Beretta appeared, but the silence hanging there in the void could have been bottled and sold to funeral parlors.

  Bolan very deliberately depressed the muzzle toward the floor and fed a round into the breech, then he descended two more steps and made a stiffly restrained little ceremony of handing the pistol over to Tony La Carpa.

  “It’s time to stop wondering,” he said coldly.

  La Carpa tossed a quick look at Damon.

  Someone at the rear sighed loudly.

  And suddenly the “spirit” was alive and well in Baltimore.

  La Carpa’s eyes warmed noticeably as he reversed the pistol and handed it back. “The wondering is ended,” he growled pleasantly.

  They shook hands and Bolan thought for an instant, there, that the guy was going to hug him.

  Damon stepped forward for his turn at the hand, and the place began buzzing with excited chatter.

  Someone said, “Frankie’s okay.”

  Another exclaimed, “Did you see that draw? I didn’t see it!”

  It seemed that Mack Bolan was restoring a bit of style to this tattered mob. And none of these boys were slow on picking up on it. The entire atmosphere had undergone a dramatic transformation. The joint had come alive.

  Bolan commanded the attention of the house boss to tell him, “Let’s set it up in Tommy’s office, Carmen. Wine and cheese and some good bread will be okay. Coffee, too, for those that want it. Enough for all the ranking men. We have important business to discuss.”

  Both Damon and La Carpa overheard that.

  Damon commented, “Well, okay. A hand is at the throttle.”

  La Carpa added, “It’s about damn time, too.”

  Leo Turrin had squeezed himself to the forefront to take that hand. He requested, loud enough for all to hear, “Include me in that parley, Frankie. I was sent, too.”

  Bolan squeezed the little guy on the shoulder and replied, “Sure, Leo, I was including you. I was briefed, I knew you were sent … and why. We’ll be working together.”

  La Carpa exclaimed, “I figured it! Leo already told us about—okay! Okay! So now we know why!”

  “Then let’s pull it together,” Bolan suggested calmly. His eyes again found Carmen Reddi. “Okay, Carmen?”

  “It will take about ten minutes, Frankie. Why don’t I just take everybody in? And we can get the kitchen busy.”

  “Do that,” Bolan agreed.

  Carmen took it over then, urging the crowd toward the office.

  Bolan told the two underbosses, “Go ahead. I’ll be right along.”

  Weintraub locked eyes with him for an instant, then smiled and followed the others.

  Leo looked for an eye signal and received none, so he drifted away also.

  The mean-looking guy with Sonny Pacer had now been made in Bolan’s mental file as one Billy Garante, formerly a member of the palace guard under Castiglione. The guy had a harsh reputation. It was said that he had once been reprimanded by Castiglione, himself one of the meanest bosses ever, for excessive “discipline.” Garante had beat a made man to death for stealing a bottle of wine from the royal cellar and getting drunk on the job.

  Sonny Pacer had good cause to be scared.

  Bolan stopped the two as they were moving toward the front exit. He said, “Hi, Billy. Long time no see.”

  Garante smiled, the eyes happy and a bit baffled at the same time. “Hello, Frankie. Glad you’re here. But I, uh, don’t remember …”

  “Good for you,” Bolan told him. “You’re not supposed to. It was at Arnie’s farm. Just before he left us.”

  “Oh.” But, of course, the guy could draw nothing from that. “I guess you looked different then.”

  “Didn’t we all,” was all Bolan said about that. He put an eye on Sonny Pacer and said, “I need to talk to my boy here. We’ll catch you later, Billy.”

  The guy was dismissed and he knew it. He let go of the kid, and started on out the door. Bolan called him back, as though in afterthought, saying, “We’ll catch you right now, hold it a minute.”

  Mario Cuba was the only other man left in that area of the hallway. He was seated within easy earshot. Bolan placed a hand on Garante’s shoulder and said to Cuba, “How is it, Mario?”

  “It’s okay, Frankie, thanks,” the head cock rumbled, although the rumble was a bit shaky.

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah, sure.” The left eye was swollen and angry-looking, watery. The right was hidden behind the compress, probably much worse. “Carmen wanted to send for a doctor. But that’s dumb, I don’t need a damned doctor. I’m just embarrassed, Frankie. I am terribly embarrassed.”

  Mario was from the old school. Bolan could understand his embarrassment. Junior rankers simply did not go around attacking top executives, regardless of provocation.

  Bolan told him, “No need to be. Everyone understands. But I want you to take it easy for a day or two. Okay? Take it easy.”

  “Sure, Frankie.” The guy tried a hideously mournful smile. “I’ll be okay.”

  “Billy Garante here will take over for you until you’re feeling better.”

  “That’s okay, I can—”

  “No, no, I insist. Hey—it’s my way of saying I’m sorry, too. Okay?”

  “Sure, Frankie.” The big one slowly pulled to his feet, swaying slightly and steadying himself at the wall. “I guess you’re right. I’m still a little wobbly.” The one pained eye sought out Garante. “You come talk to me anytime you feel like you gotta.”

  “You know I will, Mario,” Garante replied quickly.

  But he probably would not. The guy was already beginning to swell with his new importance.

  He asked Bolan, “Should I sit in, then, on the parley?”

  “You should,” Bolan agreed. “You too, of course, Mario. I’ll want you both in on this.”

  The two went off together, one moving painfully and the other swaggering with new-found, if only temporary, rank.

  Sonny Pacer was waiting patiently for his moment in the light. Right or wrong, Bolan had to give him one. The kid was hardly older than Johnny, the younger Bolan. He took him by the shoulder and walked him to the stairway, then produced a money clip, peeled off two hundreds, and pressed them into the boy’s hand.

  “This is very important,” he told him. “I’m counting on you to do it right. Do you drive a car?”

  The kid was staring at the money. He said, in a confused voice, “Yes, sir, sure, I drive.”

  “There’s a lady in Larry Haggle’s apartment. I want you to get her out of here. Right now. Take her into town and drop her some place comfortable. Lay the money on her. For expenses, tell her. You with me?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m with you.”

  “She should develop a bad case of amnesia. She don’t know where she’s been, or what she’s seen or heard all this past week. That amnesia could save her life. Still with me?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll lay it on her.”

  “Okay. I’m depending on you, Pacer. Play it straight.”

  “I will, sir.”

  The kid started up the stairs. Bolan pulled him back, and shoved another hundred at him. “This one’s for you. Don’t come back right away. Day off. Okay? Go to a movie. Pick up a girl. Make love in the park. Whatever.”

  “No, that’s okay, Frankie, I want to—”

  “Hey! It’s a bonus. You can’t refuse a bonus. I’m telling you to do it, not asking.”

  “Okay, sure,” the kid replied, smiling suddenly. “I feel like I need it, anyway. I was on watch most of the night, and they worked my ass off yesterday. Thanks, Frankie. I
hope I’m not out of line, but I want to say I think you’re plenty okay. And I’m not the only one that thinks it.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Sir?”

  “You worked your ass off. Doing what?”

  “Oh. We had to load that shipment.”

  “What shipment? I just got here, Pacer. I don’t automatically know about all these things. What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know what it was, Frankie. Just a bunch of crates. Damned heavy. About forty or fifty. We had to carry them out to the dock. Took four men on each crate and there was only four of us doing it. I handled every damned one of them. Then we had to load them on the damned barge, too. My back knows about it.”

  “I’ll bet it does. Where was the barge taking the stuff?”

  “To a ship, I guess. Someone said something about the stuff going overseas, I think.”

  “You don’t know what the stuff was.”

  “Naw. Just something very heavy. You could ask Larry Haggle about it. He crated the stuff personally.”

  “Aw, some on. The counselor? Working with hammer and nails?”

  “I swear. He wouldn’t let nobody come near it. The storeroom has been off limits all the time I been here. I saw it for the first time yesterday.”

  “Where is that storeroom?”

  “Downstairs.” The kid grinned widely, and his eyes sparkled, as he added, ‘They used to store moonshine whiskey down there in the old days. You ought to see it.”

  “We’ll see it together some day,” Bolan told him—lying, he hoped, like hell. “Okay. Go ahead and get the lady. Take her out the back way. Do it quietly. We don’t want to embarrass the counselor. And treat the lady nice. She’s okay stuff, too.”

  Sonny Pacer smiled and said, “Sure, Frankie,” and went on up the stairs.

  Which, Bolan hoped, should get a couple of worries off his mind.

  The information about the shipment was very interesting. He would look into that.

  First things first, though.

  He had to bury a capo. But even that was not the first order of business.

  Right now, he had to go to set the Santelli family’s defensive strategy for a possible assault by their worst enemy.

  Which was not exactly true, either.