Panic in Philly Read online

  “Quicker than you can learn to call me Johnny,” the guy replied, and sent the car inching forward.

  The wild card from New York had no idea how quick it was going to be.

  A living shadow in combat black was pacing him across hell’s last acre.

  He pulled the gleaming vehicle into the end stall, stepped out, walked all the way around, it once in an admiring inspection, then went to the front and raised the hood over the engine.

  Bolan had moved into the shadows of the interior and was standing less than ten feet from the guy.

  The yard chief was striding across the grounds, headed toward the gate out front.

  Another yardman stood beneath the eaves of the house, about thirty feet from the carports. Still another was prowling slowly along the north wall, maybe fifty feet distant.

  A fourth man came out of the house, carrying a cup of coffee; walked right past Bolan, and approached the Maserati. It was Frank Angeletti.

  He stood at the front bumper of the car through a moment of awkward silence, then told the visitor, “Don Stefano knows you’re here. He’s waiting for you.”

  The guy didn’t even look up. He said, “I’ll be there in a minute. I think this damn thing is throwing oil.”

  “He’s waiting,” Frank the Kid repeated. He stood there in uncertain hesitation for a moment; then went back past Bolan’s shadow and returned to the house.

  Bolan felt a twinge of sympathy for the Kid. Must be hell, he was thinking, to try to fill a pair of shoes the size of Don Stefano’s—especially when the old man insists upon walking around inside them all the time. What could a thoroughly domineering parent expect but a thoroughly dominated kid?

  The Red Baron was still bent into the engine compartment, delicately feeling about with both hands and giving off disappointed grunts.

  Bolan had taken Frank the Kid’s place beside him.

  He said, quietly, “Maybe you wound her up too high too soon.”

  The guy replied, “I’m going to wind her around someone’s neck if what I think—I don’t believe this gasket is …”

  Bolan said, “Let me see,” and reached in over the guy with both hands, behind him now, pressing against and leaning into his back, pinning him to the fender with his body.

  The guy let out a muffled, “Hey, don’t—”

  The goggles squeezed up onto the curly hair and the silk scarf descended to shoulder level as Bolan’s forearm found the soft flesh at the throat, to clamp off the dying protest.

  The guy was strong.

  The grimly silent struggle lasted perhaps five seconds before the fingers of Bolan’s other hand twisted into the curly locks and the expertly applied “Vinh Ha torque” demonstrated its mastery over human anatomy. The victim’s spinal column separated itself from the base of the skull with a grinding pop and the fight was over, the head lolling, body sagging into the ultimate relaxation.

  Bolan let it drape itself across the fender while he checked the positions of those outside; then he found the keys and opened the luggage compartment, stripped off his weapons and blacksuit and dropped them into there, undressed the guy and dropped him into there, and hastily pulled himself into the appropriated clothing.

  The shirt fit okay but the trousers presented a small problem. The legs were too short, the waist too large. He fixed that by tugging the waist down into his hips.

  The shoes were fancy ankle-high boots; he got into those all right, also, but at the expense of cramped toes.

  The wallet was shiny new and so was everything in it. A driver’s license identified one John J. Cavaretta, with a Manhattan address; as did private investigator’s credentials issued by the State of New York, and a gun permit.

  There were a dozen or more credit cards, a money clip containing five crackling fifties and a sheaf of twenties, plus a letter of credit from an Atlanta bank in the amount of fifty thousand dollars.

  Half payment on Bolan’s head? Maybe.

  There was also a smaller leather case which folded into the wallet, displaying a single item in a swing-out transparent pocket. It was the size of a playing card. One side was made up like a business card, with a telephone number in the upper left corner plus a cable address. Gold-embossed letters at the center spelled in fancy Old English script the same name as on the other identification, John J. Cavaretta. Beneath the name were the words Security Consultant.

  The other side was a playing card—the Ace of Spades.

  This was the ID that counted—Commissione credentials.

  Bolan pocketed the wallet and threw the car-coat into the seat to try on a double-breasted blazer Cavaretta had lying there. It fit fine and even featured an extra-wide cut on the left side to take care of the concealed weapon problem.

  The guy had not been packing hardware, though.

  Bolan found it in a small attache case behind the seat. Soft grain leather with a shoulder strap held a Browning standard automatic with a full thirteen-round clip, nine-millimeter, in the weapon plus a stack of spare clips—loaded. A special little pocket on the leather held a silencer.

  So, good enough.

  He closed the case and put it back, then rounded up the goggles and the scarf which had fallen to the ground during the struggle. He tucked the goggles in with the car-coat and draped the scarf about his neck.

  Then he went back to the luggage compartment to study the “Security Consultant.”

  They didn’t look much alike, except in generalities.

  The guy had a strip of flesh-colored adhesive tape applied to each side of the lower jaw. Bolan pulled them off and found hair-width incisions, almost healed, running the full length of each jaw.

  Cavaretta, or whatever his actual name, had recently undergone plastic surgery. The finding fit the legend of the guy.

  It was said that he changed identities after each big job, getting a new face and everything that went with it.

  A “wild card”—yeah.

  Bolan transferred the adhesive strips to his own flesh and searched closely for other anomalies.

  He found blue-tinted contact lenses riding the drying irises of the lifeless eyes, and left them there—he didn’t need them.

  Some sort of sort and transparent “living skin” adhesive covered each of the guy’s finger tips.

  Pretty cute, thought Bolan; it saved wearing conspicuous gloves and served the same purpose—no fingerprints left in awkward places.

  He peeled off the finger patches and applied them to his own finger tips; tried them, found no appreciable loss of tactile perception.

  Other perceptions, though, told him that he needed to hurry—movements out across the grounds and out beyond the grounds.

  He was busy with the body when footsteps sounded near the front of the carport and someone called in to ask, “What’s the trouble?”

  It was time to try the voice. Bolan straightened up with an angry scowl and replied, “The trouble’s going to be in New York when I get this bucket of bolts back there. I never saw such a disgraceful damn—”

  “The old man’s getting fidgety. Come on.”

  “Be right there,” Bolan/Cavaretta assured the guy. “Give me a hand. Get that stuff off the seat and take it in. Oh, and pick up that case behind the seat, eh?”

  Bolan had never set eyes on the guy before. He was probably one of the inside “boys.” He came in and took the things from the car. Bolan was again “busy” in the luggage compartment.

  “F’ Christ sakes, sir, that old man is turning purple.”

  Bolan looked up with a grin. “Go hold his hand for a minute. I’ll be right there.”

  The guy looked like he’d rather take a beating than return to the house without the guest in tow but he wheeled about and retreated, grumbling something beneath his breath as he trudged away.

  Bolan was indeed very busy.

  He was stuffing a dead, limp body into the black suit and rigging it for combat. He studied the final effect, adjusted the pants legs, then sighed and banged t
he trunk lid shut.

  Those movements out across the grounds were becoming more pronounced, louder, and much more visible.

  They were beyond the grounds and they were cops, droves of cops with flashlights forming an unbroken chain of manpower all along that wall over there.

  The yard chief was rounding the corner of the house when Bolan stepped out of the carport. He gave Bolan a friendly wave and called over, “Maybe you got here just in time, Mr. Cavaretta. The cops are out front now with their fuckin’ search warrant.”

  Bolan replied, “Good for them,” and went on to the back door.

  The guy with the gun-case and the car-coat was standing there in the open doorway waiting for him.

  So, okay.

  Mack the Wild Card Bolan/Cavaretta had just passed his first test. Another one awaited him just beyond that doorway.

  And, yeah, that Ace of Spades had arrived just in the nick of time.

  Chapter 13/ By the Ear

  He swept on past the guy and into the house, strode purposefully along the short rear hall, and hit the larger reception hall up front with coattails flying, his head swiveling rapidly from side to side in a fast absorption of the layout of the place.

  Circular stairway going up from just inside the front door to a railed landing directly over the door—another short flight beyond that leading to an upstairs hallway and, presumably, the bedrooms.

  Off to his left a large open doorway with velvet drapes, opening to a huge room with overstuffed heavy modern pieces, a lot of it, couches and chairs and tables everywhere. The largest color television receiver ever built was turned on but nobody was paying it much attention; ten or twelve men were in there, just sitting around, conversing in muted tones.

  To Bolan’s right was a set of massive folding doors, one side pushed back to the front wall—a large library-study-den-whatever visible through that opening. Four men were standing just inside that doorway. It was Frank the Kid, the Caporegime from South Philly—Carmine Drasco, a troubled-looking man of about fifty whom Bolan had never seen before, and the Don himself.

  Bolan got in the first lick, asserting his authority. Addressing no one in particular and everybody collectively, he loudly declared, “The law is coming in. Let’s get up on the toes, eh?”

  He whipped off his blazer and snapped a commanding finger at the guy who’d trudged in behind him. “Open that case and give me what’s in there, damn quick.”

  The guy fumbled the gun case open and tossed the rig over. Bolan caught it and slipped into it. Thank God the leather was adjusted perfectly for his frame.

  As he secured the hardware he fixed Frank the Kid with a direct gaze and asked him, “How many of those boys outside are greasers?”

  The Kid stumbled over the words a bit as he hastily replied, “What? No, they’re not, none of them.”

  “So, where are they?”

  “Laying low. We had a scatter plan. Don’t worry, they’re covered.”

  Bolan growled, “They damn well better be.”

  Old man Angeletti was giving the new arrival a hard stare—angry, yeah angry.

  Bolan pulled on the blazer, left it unbuttoned, and muttered, “Thank something for small favors. Is everybody in here covered with paper?”

  “What?” asked Frank the Kid.

  Bolan grabbed the guy behind him, opened his coat, and relieved him of a snub-nosed nickle-plated revolver. He asked him, “Where’s your paper for this?”

  The guy’s hand was shaking as he handed over the gun permit. Bolan glanced at it and threw it back at him. “It’s expired!” he yelled. He jammed the pistol into the guy’s holster and angrily commanded, “Ditch it! And you check every damn guy around here before those cops do!”

  The hardman looked at Don Stefano and fidgeted.

  Bolan yelled, “Now!”

  Old man Angeletti put a hand on Frank’s shoulder and gave him a little shove. “Help him,” he ordered. “We don’t want no embarrassing technicalities.”

  “You give ’em nothing, nothing!” Bolan yelled.

  Frank and the hardman, who turned out to be the house captain, hurried into the large room across the hall.

  Stefano was again giving Bolan the hard look. A serious breach of etiquette was being noted.

  Bolan had done it deliberately. Now he went over to the Don, took his hand and kissed the withered skin. “Your friends in New York send their love and best wishes, Don Stefano,” he announced in an appropriately respectful tone.

  Angeletti nodded in mute acceptance of the courtesy. He was looking at the adhesive strips along Bolan’s lower jaws. The thin old lips wobbled from side to side for a moment, then they parted and the Don asked the Executioner, “Did you get hurt or something?”

  “I did and I didn’t,” Bolan replied, allowing a smile to come to his own lips.

  Angeletti smiled back and said, “It’s very pretty, very nice. Think they could do anything with a tired old face like this one?”

  Bolan replied, “You might be surprised what they can do today.” It was time to “take over” again. He looked at Carmine Drasco and said, “Hi, Carmine. How’re things Southside?”

  The Caporegime showed him a somewhat embarrassed grin as he replied, “Great, great. Un … hell, I don’t know what to call you.”

  The old man chuckled delightedly at that and crowed, “It’s like What’s My Line. Will the real what’s-his-name please stand up?”

  Bolan flipped the little leather folder away from the wallet and handed it over to Angeletti. The Don inspected it with great interest, then passed it on to Drasco.

  The Southside lieutenant said, “Cavaretta, Caveretta … I used to know a … played guitar in a joint down on …”

  Bolan heehawed and took the ID folder back.

  Don Stefano was cackling something about a folk singer with an Ace of Spades in his pocket.

  Then the front door cracked open and a guy poked his head inside to announce, “Okay, they’re right outside.”

  “Get in here!” Bolan growled.

  The guy slid in and banged the door shut.

  Don Stefano, suddenly very flustered, had taken a little half-pirouette into the library.

  Bolan told him gruffly, “Go on. I’ll handle it.”

  The guy who’d brought the report went on into the crew room. Angeletti retreated into the library and went over to his desk.

  Bolan was staring at the fourth man of that little committee-at-the-door, who had moved off just a little to one side. He said to Drasco, “I guess I don’t know this gentleman.”

  Drasco said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Johnny, this is Doctor Kastler. He come to fix up—I guess you hadn’t heard about—Doc, this is our very important friend from New York, Johnny Cavaretta.”

  Bolan acknowledged the awkward introduction with a quick flick of the eyes, ignoring the hand extended to him. He asked, “Who got hurt? Not gunshot, I hope.”

  The doctor said, “No, no, just a bit of first- and second-degree burns, arms and upper torso. He’ll be all right.”

  Drasco explained, “Our friend Jules Sticatta. His clothes caught fire.”

  Bolan clucked his tongue and said, “I’m very sorry for our friend Jules.”

  The door chimes sounded.

  Bolan commanded, “I’m handling this,” and went to the door. His hand brushed something in the breast pocket of the blazer as he smoothed the jacket over his hardware, and he discovered in there a pair of gold wire-rimmed glasses with tinted lenses. He tried them, found a slight correction in the left lens but not enough to interfere with his own 20/20. Every little edge would help, at a time like this. He left them in place and swung the door open all the way, standing dead center and blocking entry with his own presence.

  A passel of uniformed cops were on the front stoop, and others could be seen moving across the grounds.

  A big sandy-haired guy in a gray suit and matching night-coat was standing just off the doorway, gazing out across the property. Another guy, a
smaller Italian type, stood beside him giving Bolan the once-over.

  Bolan said, “Did you come to look at the scenery or did you have some casual harassment in mind?”

  The big cop turned to give him a frosty glare. He sighed and extended a folded, official-looking paper. “Here’s my harassment chit,” he growled.

  Bolan did not even look at it. He said, “All right, come on in,” and stepped out of the way.

  The two plain-clothes men moved into the reception hall and the little posse of uniformed cops came in behind them.

  Bolan commented, “So many to do so little?”

  “Identify yourself, sir,” the big cop snapped.

  “You first,” Bolan countered.

  The cop flashed his badge.

  Bolan grinned and said, “You have to do better than that.”

  “Who’s harassing whom?” the guy growled, and held out the ID folder for Bolan’s inspection. He looked at Drasco and nodded pleasantly. “Hello, Carmine,” he said.

  Drasco said, “Hi, Captain. You look tired.”

  “As hell,” the cop said.

  Bolan ignored that interplay, pushing the ID back and jerking his head toward the Italian. “Now him,” he said.

  That one wordlessly thrust FBI credentials under Bolan’s nose.

  Bolan said, “Is that a federal warrant you have there?”

  The FBI guy said, “I have a right to be here but I’ll wait outside if you’d rather.”

  “What’s the difference, it’s okay,” Bolan replied, shrugging.

  “Let’s see your identification,” the big cop reminded him.

  “He’s okay,” Drasco put in. “I’ll vouch for him.”

  The expression on the Captain’s face seemed to say that he wouldn’t let Drasco vouch for the mayor of Philadelphia.

  Bolan tried to pass the wallet over but the cop, a Captain Thomkins, told him, “Hold it in your own hands, please, and just show me your driver’s license.”

  Bolan said, “Suppose I don’t drive?”

  “You’d better have something to show me, mister.”

  Bolan grinned and displayed the New York driver’s license, then the private eye ID. The cop’s eyes showed interest. He said, “New York, eh? A little out of your territory, aren’t you?”