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  "First Mike," she said. "Then…" She shrugged. "Who knows. What's your name?"

  "Genero."

  "I'll be around, Genero. Just send Mike out first."

  The young man nodded, turned and strode into the little restaurant.

  "Hey, Mike!"

  Grieco extended his hand to be kissed. Genero took it and pressed it perfunctorily to his lips.

  "Mike, you won't guess who's outside asking for you."

  Grieco stiffened.

  "A lady who says her name's Samantha."

  "I don't know any Samantha."

  Genero grinned. "Well, she knows you. And I'd get to know her, if I were you. Hey, man! Tall enough to play for the Knicks! Just barely dressed. And, hey man, bee-yoot-i-ful!"

  "I don't know any Samantha," Grieco repeated.

  "She asked for you by name. Sittin' right outside in a white Caddy convertible that set somebody back forty thou. Hey…"

  "Awright, a-ready! Asked for me by name, you say?"

  "That her?" another young man asked, pointing toward the big window at the front of the restaurant.

  Michael Grieco rose. "Okay," he grunted. "I'll see what she wants."

  The others grinned.

  Conscious of their smirks, he set his shoulders and affected a signature swagger as he walked across the little restaurant to the door.

  Salina was ready.

  This was the man; she had no doubt. He swaggered, as Rossi had told her. He was wearing a gray suit of some shiny light fabric, maybe silk, with a white shirt open at the collar, no tie.

  He leaned against the door on the passenger side of the white convertible and stuck his head in the window. "What do you want, honey?"

  "You're Michael Grieco?"

  "I'm Michael Grieco."

  "I'm from the council," she said as she thrust the muzzle of a Walther PPK toward his face.

  He shrieked in terror.

  She let him stagger back so none of his blood would touch the car. Then, quite calmly, with a steady aim, she put a 7.65 mm slug through his forehead.

  The mobsters at the table inside, staring at Grieco and the woman, saw him stagger back and fall to the sidewalk. They upset one of the tables in their rush for the door. By the time they reached the curb, the white Cadillac was turning the corner a half block away, and the corpse of Michael Grieco lay still on the pavement.

  * * *

  "I don't see the connection," Saul Stein said. "But I have to think there is one. Michael Grieco was Arturo Corone's son-in-law and was a contender for head of the Corone Family. Everything is interrelated. Arturo Corone is in extremis. Somebody knocked off one of the chief contenders for his authority. What does that have to do with the murders of the Claws? Or of Whittle? Something, you may be sure, even if only remotely."

  "A tall black woman, cropped hair, exotic…" Bolan mused, remembering a previous encounter he'd had with a woman who fit that description.

  "As far as NYPD is concerned," Stein continued, "the idea of a tall, black, female hitter is a fantasy thought up by Grieco's friends to throw us off the track. They're not interested in any black woman in a white Cadillac."

  "I've run across her before," Bolan told them. "And I'm interested in why Grieco was hit by this woman. The witnesses are right — Grieco was taken out by a black woman in a white Cadillac."

  "The white Cadillac was rented, paid for with a credit card in the name of Samantha Carter. The New Jersey address matched the address on the — said Samantha Carter's driver's license. And the car, abandoned on a Brooklyn street, bears no fingerprints, other than the ones of employees of the garage where the car was rented. The New Jersey license…"

  "Was bogus," Joan concluded. "Needless to say."

  "Let me change the subject," Stein said. "Not entirely, but a little. On the day before Grieco was killed, Arturo Corone had two visitors — Giuseppe Rossi, head of the Rossi Family, and Carlo Lentini, head of the Lentini Family. That was Friday. On Wednesday, the Five Families council met at Alfredo Segesta's home on Staten Island. We keep watch on the Corone house, and our observers photographed Rossi and Lentini arriving and leaving."

  "You're thinking the council ordered the hit on Grieco," Bolan stated.

  "I think that's possible."

  "Fill me in on these guys," Bolan said.

  "Giuseppe Rossi is often called Clean Joe," Coppolo told him, "because he's never been arrested. He's one of the new generation. He wants to run the Mafia like a business — he has a degree in business administration from Columbia University. The Rossis own two major construction companies, plus some heavy-supplies operations. They own four or five big office buildings in Manhattan, plus a hotel-casino in Atlantic City — all this through dummy corporations and so on, hiding the real ownership. They're into trash hauling, the same way. Rossi doesn't like the high-risk stuff, like narcotics. Of course, he's got gambling in Atlantic City, and he uses the Family casinos for money laundering. The Rossi Family is into money laundering in a big way. But no rough stuff. That's his style. Some of the brotherhood who call him Clean Joe don't use the term kindly."

  "The State of New Jersey caught a hauler dumping filth into the Atlantic," Stein said. "Medical waste. You know, what was washing up on the beaches. We could identify the hauler as a Rossi company. But…" he shook his head"…our evidence wasn't good enough for the people in New Jersey, and they refused to go after Rossi."

  "He owned them," Coppolo stated bluntly.

  "Carlo Lentini," Stein went on, "has done time. Six years, for assault with intent to kill. The Lentinis used to be into narcotics, heavily. But, like the Rossis, they don't like the risk anymore, don't like the publicity. They run a thousand books and numbers games, all over the area. Legal off-track betting and state lotteries don't compete with them, because they'll let their suckers bet on credit. Then, of course, a Lentini loan shark lends the sucker the money to pay off the book. They grab two hundred percent a month as vig, and they break arms and legs to encourage people to pay. They're also into prostitution. Don't let anybody tell you the Families have gone out of that business. The Lentinis have protection, insurance' and a big hunk of the waterfront and airports rackets."

  "The Corone Family?" Bolan asked.

  "They're still in narcotics, though the Colombians and some of the new Oriental gangs have all but muscled them out of the coke trade. Arturo Corone was called The Giant, and it's said that when he was a well man he picked up a Colombian dealer and broke his back. Just held him and squeezed until he broke the man's spine. The Corones have some union locals, Teamsters mostly, but also some electricians. And if you want to run a restaurant in some parts of the city, you subscribe to the Corone Towel Supply Service. If you don't…"

  "The Corones play rough," Coppolo said. "They've got hitters on the payroll. And headcrushers. The old man's dying, though, and there's nobody in line to take his place. That could make a war."

  "It already has. Somebody already took out Grieco," Bolan stated.

  "I'm interested in the black woman," Coppolo said. "We don't know anything about a hitter like that. She's new in town."

  "Maybe not," Bolan replied. "Not if she's good."

  "She's good," Coppolo said. "She took out Michael Grieco with no trouble at all."

  "Maybe she's so good that nobody knows her."

  "If she is, she made a big mistake this time," Coppolo replied. "The word's around now to look out for a tall black woman — she might be a hitter."

  Chapter Six

  When Mack Bolan left the safehouse after recovering there for three days, he felt healed and well. He had indulged in role camouflage and wore a dark blue, pinstriped suit, with white shirt and striped necktie, and looked to be a Midtown banker or a Wall Street broker. No one would have guessed that this banker carried a silenced Beretta in his attaché case.

  He had ventured into Luciano's in search of Vince Grotti and had become the target of a pair of hit men. Now he would try again, more cautiously.


  The Intel on Grotti included an address in Manhattan, on East Sixty-sixth Street. The place turned out to be an old apartment building in a neighborhood that seemed to be slipping into decay.

  One of the cards on the bell array read "V. Grotti." Bolan pushed the button and waited.

  After a moment a woman's voice blared out of the speaker system. "Yeah?"

  "Vince in?"

  "No, Vince isn't here."

  "You expect him?"

  "No time soon."

  "I've got some money for him. Could I leave it with you?"

  A moment of silence. Then, "Okay."

  The door buzzed, and Bolan walked in.

  The apartment was on the top floor, and the woman was standing in the door when he reached it — an aging blonde with liquid eyes, frowzy hair and smeared makeup. She was dressed in a light blue cotton nightgown that looked as if it had been picked off the rack in a dime store. It was apparent that she'd been drinking already in the midmorning — either that, or she hadn't yet stopped from the night before.

  "Is it cash," she asked.

  "No such luck," Bolan replied, pressing past her and into the apartment.

  "Hey! Who the hell are you, anyway?"

  "The name's Conti," he said. "And you are…?"

  "Sara Wald," she said. "But who the hell are you?"

  "A friend of the don's, and a friend of Vince's."

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  He looked around the living room of the apartment. Unmistakably it was the living quarters of someone who drank to excess, someone whose life had fallen apart. The gin bottle was on the coffee table, a half-empty glass beside it. The room was also uttered with the wrappers and cartons of fast food.

  "What you lookin' for?" she asked.

  "Vince. Where is he?"

  Sara Wald sat down on the couch, picked up the glass and tossed back the ounce or two of straight, warm gin that remained there. She shook her head. "Walked out"

  "When?"

  "Two weeks ago. 'Bout…"

  "You and Vince have a big argument?"

  She shook her head. "Just… walked out."

  He looked around the room once more, at accumulated newspapers, a television set that was on, with the sound turned down, an aquarium with dead fish floating on top…

  "The rent?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "Taken care of by Vince's friends. They're taking care of things till Vince comes home."

  "And you're not supposed to tell where he is, right?"

  She threw out her hands. "I don't know where he is. He just took off."

  "Are you short of money?"

  She nodded.

  Bolan picked up her bottle of gin — Gordon's. "Expensive," he commented.

  Sara nodded. "Yeah. I don't… use all that much. But…" She sighed. "You said you had money for Vince. Hey, he wouldn't mind if I…"

  "Sure." Bolan reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of bills and peeled off two twenties. "There you go."

  She seized the money gratefully. "Thanks, buddy."

  "Our little secret, huh?" he said.

  She nodded. "Yeah. Gotta be."

  Bolan glanced around the room once more and feigned indifference. "I need to talk to Vince, sooner or later," he said. "If you see him…"

  "I won't."

  "Did somebody tell him to take a vacation?"

  "Yeah. Whitey. Whitey told him to take a vacation. Then Whitey came by to see that he did."

  "Tell me about Whitey," Bolan urged.

  She shook her head. "No. I can't."

  "You can talk to me."

  "Who the hell are you?" she demanded, finding a little strength for her ravaged voice. "I mean, really. Just who the hell are you, that I can talk to you?"

  He sat down on a vinyl-covered chair, facing her. "I'm consiglière," he said.

  "To Barbosa?" she asked skeptically.

  Bolan shrugged. "Let's not use names," he cautioned.

  "Well, Vince works for the old man. The don. But he also works for Whitey Albanese. When he came home that day — I mean the day he took off — he said Whitey'd told him to take a vacation. You don't argue with Whitey. So he left, and that was it."

  "What day was this?"

  "About two weeks ago."

  "Then Whitey came by to see you?"

  "Yeah. He asked for Vince, like he didn't know the guy was gone. I told him Vince was gone for a long time. I didn't tell him I knew he'd ordered Vince to get out of town. So he hands me a C-note and tells me the rent will be paid. He says there'll be a C-note in the mail once a week. And there has been. I'm supposed to live on a lousy hundred every Friday. What you could do for me, consiglière, is take back the word that I need more money."

  "I'll see what I can do," Bolan promised. "But don't tell anybody I was here. Whitey wouldn't like that."

  "He doesn't like much of anything, does he? Whitey…"

  "Wants to kill Vince," Bolan said grimly.

  "No."

  Bolan nodded. "Vince messed up a job."

  She squinted and tried to focus her eyes on Bolan to read his expression, to see just how serious he was.

  "Somebody should warn Vince," Bolan said.

  Sara raised her chin, and a sly little smile flirted with her lips. "Sure. So I should tell you where he is? C'mon, buddy, I wasn't born yesterday.

  "Look," she continued, "I'd like to trust you. Do you really care if Vince gets killed or not?"

  "The don doesn't want Vince killed."

  She sighed loudly. "I don't know where he-is. Honest to God. But I did get a note from him. He said he was okay and would see me in October. No address on the envelope, but the postmark said it was mailed from Bedford Beach, New Jersey. Which kind of figures. That's as far from home as Vince has ever been. He wouldn't want to get too far from New York."

  "Can I see that note?"

  "I tossed it," she said. "I was mad at him for takin' off, leaving me. Hey, he could've taken me with him… Anyway, you couldn't tell anything from seeing it. It wasn't hotel stationery or anything like that. No return address. He didn't want me to be able to come find him. Maybe he wasn't even in Bedford Beach. Maybe he just went there to mail that note."

  "Possible."

  She sighed again. "Hey, when Vince is around, I don't look like this. I don't drink much. Now what am I supposed to do, just sit around and wait?"

  Bolan regarded her with both sympathy and skepticism.

  "If you really do talk to the don," she said, "you might tell him a C-note a week isn't much."

  "I'll do that."

  * * *

  Saul Stein had a little information on Whitey Albanese.

  "An old-country Sicilian. Smart enough to keep his name and face out of the police files. The only rap against him is that he's an illegal alien. He's overstayed his visa many times over and has no green card. His name comes up from time to time, mentioned by informers, but we have no line on him."

  "Got a mug shot?" Bolan asked.

  "No," Stein said, "and no fingerprints."

  "There's nothing official on the guy," Coppolo offered, "but I can tell you he has a rep on the streets as a sadistic killer. The other Families didn't like it when Barbosa brought him over here."

  "Somebody's got a photo," Bolan told them. "Italian authorities, Interpol. Let's ask Hal to make an official inquiry."

  "Done," Coppolo said. "I'll call him."

  "Okay," Bolan continued. "Bedford Beach."

  "Outside my jurisdiction," Stein said wryly.

  "But not outside mine," Coppolo told him. "I'll go with you."

  "Tomorrow morning," Bolan replied.

  * * *

  During the drive to Bedford Beach, Bolan had a chance to get better acquainted with Joe Coppolo, and he liked what he saw and heard.

  He discovered in the first place that the pistol in Coppolo's shoulder holster was a 9 mm Browning Hi-Power — an odd choice, maybe, in view of what the manufacturers now offered, but a very r
easonable choice when you remembered that the Browning had a fifty-year record of reliability. Better yet, the clip held thirteen rounds — potentially a nasty surprise to some character who counted your shots then jumped, figuring you had to reload. It was a workmanlike, serviceable pistol, and a man who had chosen it for his daily weapon had to be respected.

  Coppolo hadn't been in the military, but he had spent his adult life protecting the innocent public. He had a very realistic view of the world. It was an us-against-them place, he figured, where a few men and fewer women had to sacrifice everything to defend humanity against the criminals.

  He was an angry man.

  They stopped first at police headquarters, late in the morning, where Coppolo identified himself and Bolan as federal agents on special assignment to the Department of Justice. Lawrence Milano, chief of police for Bedford Beach, received them in his office.

  "Vincenza Grotti," he said thoughtfully, looking at the mug shots Coppolo had brought with him. He shook his head. "You understand, gentlemen, that we get a lot of summer people here. If you came here in December and asked me if there was a stranger in town, I might be able to tell you. But…"

  "Understood," Coppolo said. "But this one's a hit man."

  "Not here to do a contract, then?" the chief asked.

  "No. Hiding out until the heat cools."

  Chief Milano shook his head and pushed the mug shot across his desk. "The best I can do for you is show this around. You got an extra copy?"

  "I brought a supply of them. Keep that one."

  "Let's show it around to whoever's in the station," the chief suggested.

  They went out to the desk, where a uniformed sergeant presided. He shook his head at the photograph, as did two uniformed patrolmen.

  They left the mug shot with the desk sergeant and returned to the chief's office.

  "Motels…" he said. "Beach motels. Could we assume a guy like that would go for a cheap place?"

  "What would it cost to stay in a good place?" Bolan asked.

  The chief shrugged. "In the summer season, when people go to the beaches… Figure a hundred a night."

  "I don't think our guy could handle that," Bolan replied. "He plans on staying three or four months."