Chicago Wipeout Read online

  One such cabaret, Manny’s Posh, usually featuring “girls, girls, girls” and catering specifically to the million and a half annual conventioneers visiting the city, tonight stood uncharacteristically darkened and seemingly lifeless. A hand-scrawled sign taped to the front entrance read: “Sorry—Special Party Tonight. Thanks, and try us again.”

  Inside was indeed a “special party.” Glumfaced men congregated at crowded tables and talked in monosyllabic grunts; some jockeyed for positions at the long bar up front, behind which harried bartenders swirled liquids and filled half-gallon beer pitchers for consignment to the table areas.

  The small stage near the rear was darkened and deserted except for several men in overcoats who sprawled there in attitudes of relaxed boredom. Behind that stage were several closet-size dressing rooms and a narrow hallway leading to a rear “clubroom” where well-heeled patrons could receive special attentions from the “girls, girls, girls” between shows. The back room was often used as a sex-blackmail and shakedown parlor—and actually produced more revenue than the rest of the cabaret’s business combined. This vicious little racket reputedly used real on-duty policemen as the central feature of the shakedown game.

  Tonight, however, there were no pigeons and no games in the room behind the stage. On this night, crew chiefs lolled about and talked in low voices of old times and bolder bosses and the troubling uncertainties of living through the night with a madman stalking their streets and threatening to rub out everything that held meaning for their lives.

  And in the “sound-proofed back office” at the other side of the club, host Manny Roberts (nee Robert Montessi) was fidgeting in the presence of Loop-overlord Jake (Joliet Jake) Vecci and two of his closest lieutenants, Mario Meninghetti—a muscle specialist—and Charley (Pops) Spanno, an important cog in the district’s clout machine.

  Manny’s best booze was on the private bar and Manny himself was on his very best behavior. It was not often that Joliet Jake personally visited the humble Posh, though it had been a mob hangout since the doors were first opened back in the fifties. Jake, of course, owned the joint and the liquor license and everything that went with it. Manny’s arrangement could not be regarded as a partnership—he fronted for Jake and ran the place and took twenty per cent of the net receipts plus all he could steal from his trade—but he was purely a hired hand and Manny was not a man to forget his place.

  He had offered Jake his own desk to sit at, declined—handmade cigars from Manhattan, declined—and the best whiskey in the joint, also declined. Manny was running out of things to offer the boss, and he was growing more nervous by the minute.

  “Is there anything at all I can get you, Jake?” he asked, breaking a prolonged silence.

  “Naw, just sit still, Manny. Christ’s sake, this isn’t a social call.”

  “I’m not on the carpet or anything, I hope,” Manny wheezed.

  Mario Meninghetti snickered and drolly observed, “He’s got a guilt conscience, Jake. I bet he’s been knocking down on th’ receipts.”

  Manny Roberts was wordlessly aghast at the suggestion.

  “Or padding the clout books,” Pops Spanno put in, leering. “I was talking to Sergeant Daniels just yesterday. He was wondering how come his envelope keeps getting thinner.”

  “Aw you guys cut it out,” Jake said calmly. “They’re ribbing you, Manny, Christ’s sake. We’re here on business, not carpeting.”

  “Well, yeah, I figured—I mean, I put out the closed sign soon as I got your message. And the boys have been coming in regularly all night. And I just been wondering—well, I mean I guess I’d just like to know what’s up, Jake.”

  “What you don’t know won’t hurt you none, Manny,” Joliet Jake quietly declared. “You’re not in this so just shut up.”

  Manny promptly shut up.

  The four men sat in silence for several minutes. Then a knuckle signal at the door announced the entrance of a tall, balding man. He wore a gray suit and topcoat and carried a matching gray hat which was quite wet and still clustered with melting snowflakes.

  Without looking up, Joliet Jake told the newcomer, “I been waiting here nearly half an hour, Cap’n.”

  The new arrival removed his coat and hung it on a rack, then pulled up a chair and dropped into it with a tired grunt. “I’ll take a double on the rocks, Manny,” he said.

  Manny made no move to honor the request; the boss was not drinking.

  “I said I been here a half an hour,” Vecci declared, speaking slowly and distinctly.

  “I got here as quick as I could, Jake,” the Captain replied easily. “Hell, I pick up a paycheck from the city, too, you know.”

  “Sure, and you know why,” Vecci snapped back. “Just don’t forget who sponsored you on that fat job, Hamilton.”

  “How could I forget?” The made cop was smiling affably. “Anyway I’m here and I’m sorry I’m late. I see you’ve got an army gathered out there.”

  “That’s right,” Vecci replied. “And they’re ready to roll. Where’s those assignments?”

  The cop produced a notebook from his jacket pocket. He sighed and said, “We have to play this cool, Jake. You know that.”

  “Don’t we always?” Vecci accepted the book and passed it to Pops Spanno. “Here’s your teams,” he told him. “Now remember, two boys only to a car. They don’t interfere until something really breaks, and they try to act like what they’re supposed to be. No talking back and forth between theirselves about company business. And if their cars go in somewheres to eat or something, they don’t mix around with no other people. They stay with their cops, and they talk only to their cops.”

  Vecci’s gaze flashed back to Captain Hamilton. “When’s the pick up?”

  “Starts at eleven. I’ve got them spaced five minutes apart. I don’t want it looking like a police convention out there.”

  Vecci nodded his head agreeably. “Great. That gives us—”

  He was interrupted by a rapping at the door. He nodded to Manny Roberts, who then called out, “Yeah?”

  A man pushed his head and shoulders into the room and addressed himself directly to Mario Meninghetti. “There’s a phone company guy out here. Says we should check this phone in here.”

  “What the hell for?” Meninghetti responded.

  “It’s the storm. The bar phone’s dead, boss. He says this one probably is too.”

  Vecci swore quietly to himself as Manny Roberts scooped up the telephone and announced, “Hell, it is, it’s dead.”

  Vecci rasped, “You tell that ding-a-ling to get it fixed and quick.” He turned back to the others and said, “No wonder we ain’t been getting no word. God dammit. Dead phones and every other damn thing. What a hell of a night this turns out to be.”

  A moment later the hardman was again in the doorway to report, “He’s fixin’ it, boss. Says he’s gotta climb the pole.”

  Pops Spanno grimaced and asked Vecci, “How’d you like to be out climbin’ a damn pole on a night like this, Jake?”

  “Not me,” the Loop boss quietly replied. “I had enough of that hardship crap in the old days. Don’t worry, I seen plenty of it. And there’s lots of worse things then climbing poles.”

  Vecci cleared his throat with a harsh gargling sound, gazed at the police captain, and said, “Listen, Ham—I’ll be here probably all night, or until the big break at least. If something breaks on your end, I want to know it right away.”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” Hamilton assured his sponsor.

  Vecci then decided that he would like a drink, after all, and Manny Roberts hastened to set ’em up all around. When the boss drank, everybody drank.

  The conversation fell into small talk concerning the storm, the problems of “clouting” the reorganized police department and the new wave of morality in various areas of the city and county governments.

  After several minutes another report came from out front. “This ’phone guy says he thinks it’s fixed now, but he wan
ts to check it out in there.”

  Manny Roberts lifted the telephone and said, “Yeah, I got a tone now.”

  “They got a tone now,” the doorway reporter told the outside world. Then he jerked his head in a nod and relayed into the room, “He says he should check it out himself if you wanta make sure.”

  Jake Vecci decided, “Hell yes, tell ’im to come in and make sure.”

  The small talk went on, guarded now, as the outsider entered the office and crossed toward the desk, leaving a trail of melting snow along the carpeting. A tool kit was strapped to his waist and climbing spikes were affixed to his lower legs. Vecci drew back to avoid contact with the ice-and-snow-caked figure.

  “Pole climbing,” Spanno said, chuckling. “In a goddam blizzard yet. What a hell of a way to make a living.”

  The pole climber smiled agreeably at the Mafia lieutenant and accepted the telephone from Manny Robert’s hand, tried to place a call, frowned and tried again, then announced, “Good thing I checked. The outage let the gremlins in.”

  “Did what?” Manny asked.

  The guy was already tearing the telephone apart. “Aw it’s the flux field,” he explained. “You go dead for a little while, sometimes, and the polarities go haywire. I’ll have it fixed in a minute.”

  “What the hell’s a flux field?” Spanno wondered, smiling.

  “Get your mind outta th’ gutter,” Meninghetti suggested. “That’s technical talk and way over your head, Pops.”

  “Okay, technical expert, you tell me what a flux field is,” Spanno retorted.

  Meninghetti shrugged and replied, “Shit, it’s just that stuff that comes outta the flux. Isn’t that right, pole-climber?”

  The man grinned and said, “Yeah, that’s about it.”

  Vecci sighed and told Manny Roberts, “Give the boy a drink. He looks froze.”

  The “boy” shook his head at Roberts and said, “No thanks, I’d better not.”

  “I bet he keeps warm enough, Jake,” Spanno suggested. “Christ, he’s made up for the South Pole.”

  Indeed, the “boy” seemed quite well outfitted for pole-climbing, south or north. A heavy white jumpsuit covered him from end to end, and a hooded headpiece tightly encircled his face from mouth to brows, with a button-flap to protect the face itself. This latter feature was presently unbuttoned and swingingly loosely, only partially concealing the reddened and storm-lashed flesh.

  Spanno added, “Hell, fella, I wouldn’t have your job on a night like this for all the—”

  “He’s getting overtime,” the cop put in. “What’re you getting, about double time and a half?”

  The “repairman” replied, “No such luck. This’s my regular shift.”

  “Hey, leave the boy alone,” Jake Vecci commanded. “He’ll never get his job done with all this jawing at him.”

  “It’s okay,” Mack Bolan told the Capo. “I’ve got it now.”

  His audience sat in a strained silence and watched him reassemble the instrument, then he made the test call, grinned and winked at Pops Spanno while he mumbled something into the mouthpiece. He hung up, the phone promptly rang, and he picked it up and mumbled something else then said clearly, “Where? State and Madison, okay. I’ll get right over.”

  Again he hung up and pushed the telephone across the desk to Manny Roberts. “Didn’t take long, did it,” he said pleasantly.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Roberts told him. “We didn’t even know it was out. We ’predate you boys on a night like this. Thanks again.”

  Bolan was putting away his tools. Joliet Jake growled, “Thanks, hell. Give the boy a double-saw.”

  Manny sprang to do so.

  Bolan accepted the bill and stuffed it into a pocket.

  “Thanks,” he said, and quietly withdrew from the enemy camp, past the hordes of bored warriors, and back into the friendly storm.

  9: ODD MAN OUT

  Steely nerves and a sharp application of derring-do had accompanied that hazardous penetration of enemy territory, to be sure; but Bolan had more going for him than sheer audacity. He had learned in the school of harsh necessity that the human mechanism “sees” with more than the eyes. “Seeing” is a concerted mental activity consisting of a matching-up of retina-image with the mental storehouse of past experiences, as superimposed upon the awareness-needs and desires of the moment.

  Bolan would perhaps not describe the process in just this manner, nevertheless he thoroughly understood the human mechanics involved and habitually made full use of this natural condition. Long before the Mafia wars he had become a consummate and instinctive actor in the masquerades he called “role camouflage.”

  Once, cut off and trapped inside enemy country in Vietnam, Bolan had draped a standard black poncho about his shoulders, donned a straw coolie hat, and knelt in the open over a fishing net in a narrow stream for two hours and in broad daylight while enemy soldiers searched all about him. Despite his relatively great size and the makeshift nature of his “costume,” the image reflected in the searchers’ eyes and as interpreted by their perceptive processes was that of a black-pajama-clad villager tending his nets—and this, of course, was not the object of the frantic search.

  Similarly, in the penetration of Manny’s Posh, the enemy had been set-up—by the storm (past experience) and by Bolan’s own purposeful machinations (present awareness-needs)—to accept in their midst the presence of a telephone lineman. It is doubtful that any person in that club could have later provided any sort of valid description of “the guy who came to fix the phones”—except that “he was done up for th’ South Pole.”

  Bolan’s understanding of the enemy and his own remarkable self control played a heavy part in the success of such ventures, of course. Also, it seems, an appreciation of subtle situation-humor rode with him into the danger zones. Note, in this particular application, the meaningless double-talk about “flux fields.”

  The incursion into Manny’s Posh had meant considerably more to Bolan than a routine combat recon. He had been interested in finding a weak spot in the enemy’s armor. Joliet Jake Vecci, overlord of the lucrative and therefore highly-prized downtown territory, emerged as the most likely target. An underboss, or subcapo, in the Chicago syndicate for many years, the aging Vecci had for some time been quietly agitating for “a kick upstairs” to the honorary status of co-Capo, or Capo Emeritus of the Chicago Family. This could and would have been accomplished but for Vecci’s insistence upon retaining direct reins of power in his old territory, a desire which produced considerable friction and displeasure among the younger ranking members of the organization.

  Friction, intrigue, and ruthless competition were, of course, no strangers in the supposedly closeknit Cosa Nostra families—and a crafty old powerplant like Jake Vecci was not unaware of the restless maneuverings about him.

  This was but one of the interesting stories to emerge from Leopold Stein’s notebook, but it seemed to Bolan to be one of the best exploitable at the moment and under the circumstances of the night. Thus, the search for Vecci had been no routine probe but an important combat mission.

  And it had required no great feat of imagination to pinpoint this Mafia gathering in the heart of Vecci’s territory. Simple observation and alertness had led Bolan to the accurate conclusion that “the boys are mobbing up” at Manny’s Posh. The logical extension of this discovery called for a soft probe of the club. This Bolan did, very effectively, and he came out much the wiser and with another “inner ear” direction to his battle plan.

  He had instantly recognized Joliet Jake and guessed the identities of Meninghetti and Spanno. The man in the gray suit posed the only mystery, but he had obviously been subservient to Vecci and therefore occupied little of Bolan’s mind. The important thing was that he had located the weak spot he’d sought, and it was time to strike.

  Bolan left the war-wagon on a side street just around the corner and returned to the alleyway on foot. He ascended a telephone pole behind the building housing Man
ny’s Posh and swung onto the roof. On a previous visit he had run two splices from that pole—one giving him direct access into the main trunk line serving the neighborhood, the other into the private line to Manny’s office. Now, he clamped into the main trunk and used his lineman’s phone to call the number in that office just below.

  The voice of Manny Roberts responded to the first ring with, “Yeah.”

  In his best Executioner tones, Bolan said, “Let me speak to Jake.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Never mind who. Just put Jake on.”

  The muffled, off-angle voice announced, “Some guy, won’t say who, wants to talk to you.”

  Bolan heard a peevish “Awright” in the background. He settled himself against the sheltering lee of the parapet and waited, visualizing Manny Roberts hurrying the telephone over to the old man. Then the rasping voice was strong in the receiver. “Yeah, who’s there?”

  Bolan said coldly, “I wanted to make sure you were out of the way.”

  “What’s that? Who the hell is this?”

  “Shut up and listen, and get it straight the first time through because I’m not repeating it. I’m taking this town out clean, Jake, and I want you clear. You stay where you’re at.”

  “I don’t—who the hell is this?”

  “Do I have to spell my name in black, dammit?”

  Bolan heard heavy breathing and nothing else for a moment, then: “This’s no time for games. If you’re who I think you are, why’re you calling me? Why the friendly warning?”

  “I didn’t say it was friendly,” Bolan replied. “It’s just that you won the odd-man-out toss. I’m letting you survive, Jake, only because I’ll know who to keep an eye on in the future. I know there’ll be plenty of scum left behind when I blow this heap. And I’ve elected you king of the leftover scum.”