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  Bolan dropped the gun onto the desk, crossed to the girl, tenderly kissed the handprint on her cheek, and tossed her across his shoulder. “Where does she belong?” he quietly asked DiGeorge.

  “First room up the stairs,” DiGeorge mumbled woodenly. He followed Bolan to the hallway, where they were met by an obviously uncomfortable Honey Marasco.

  “For God’s sake,” Andrea repeated weakly, her head and torso inverted down Bolan’s back.

  “Drunk as a skunk,” Bolan told Marasco with a grin. He stepped around the bodyguard and started up the stairs.

  DiGeorge headed up with him, then paused at the first step and turned back to Marasco. “Oh, this is Frank Lucky, Phil. He’s coming with us. Right, Franky?”

  “Right,” Bolan replied without turning around. Lucky was right, he was thinking. Lucky that Julian DiGeorge could not tell the difference between a week-old and a two-week-old wound. Lucky that Bolan always seemed to be at the right spot at precisely the right time. And luckier than all, perhaps, for so much dissension in the DiGeorge household. He carried the girl into her room and gently placed her on the bed.

  DiGeorge sat down beside her and said, “Thanks, Franky. I’ll stay with her awhile. We got some things to talk out, me’n her. You go on downstairs and get acquainted. And, later on, you’n me have some things to talk out.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to that,” the Executioner assured the Capo. And then Franky Lucky Bolan went downstairs and joined the family.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE POINTER

  Carl Lyons, released from the Hardcase Detail upon his return from Palm Village, had immediately taken a ten-day vacation, most of which he spent with his wife and young son on a carefree motor trip along the Baja California peninsula. He had returned to duty on October 20th, tanned and rested and eagerly wondering about the nature of his new assignment. The life and fortunes of one Mack Bolan had been insistently tamped into the lower reaches of his mind. He hoped he could keep the maverick down there. Carl Lyons had always been a “good cop.” He wanted to go on being one. He did not want Mack Bolan back inside his official life. With some perverse persistency of fate, however, Bolan was destined to get there again just the same.

  The most interesting scuttlebutt in the bullrooms all had to do with the demise of Hardcase and the uncertain future of Big Tim Braddock. This information saddened Lyons; he had a great respect for the hard-boiled Detective Captain, if not outright affection. Lyons was, of course, in no small measure responsible for Braddock’s failure to apprehend the Executioner. This was a sore point to his conscience and a constant irritant to his sense of duty and loyalty; still, Lyons continued his silent argument that even a cop’s first duty was to his own sense of personal ethics. In this context of understanding, he had pursued the only course open to him in his handling of the Bolan case. Twice he had turned his back and allowed the Executioner to walk away from him. Braddock had never known of this treachery, of course, and Lyons himself simply could not regard his actions as treacherous. The life of one damn good man had hung in the balance, and even Big Tim Braddock and his ambitions had been outweighed on the scales of Lyons’ ethics.

  In every sense, then, Lyons was happy to be off Hardcase. He hoped never to see or hear of Mack Bolan again. He picked up his assignment, a nightwatch in Vice, and went up to check in with his new lieutenant. Lyons was welcomed to the squad, they chatted briefly, then the young Sergeant went into the bullroom with a stack of directives and memorandums which required his reading. At shortly past midnight, while still poring through the bulletins, his new partner, Patrolman Al Macintosh, informed Lyons that he was wanted on the telephone. “Switchboard says it’s an eyes-call,” Macintosh added.

  “I don’t know any Vice informants, Al,” Lyons replied, glaring ruefully at the imposing pile of reading matter. “Why don’t you take it.”

  “Guy asked for you personally, Carl,” the Patrolman reported.

  Lyons raised his eyebrows in surprise, scooped up the phone, and said, “Sergeant Lyons here.”

  “This is long distance so let’s keep it brief,” a muffled voice responded. “I want you to set me up with a federal narcotics agent. I have some information they’d like to have.”

  “Why me?” Lyons asked. “Where’d you get my name?”

  “Reliable source,” the voice replied. “I can’t be too careful. Neither can you. Will you set it up?”

  “I can try,” Lyons said. He signalled quietly to Macintosh. The other officer went into the next room and lifted an extension telephone on the same line. “Give me your name and number,” Lyons requested, “and I’ll get back with you as soon as possible.”

  “You know better than that,” the caller said, chuckling. “Can I get you at this same number at five this morning?”

  “I’ll try to arrange it,” the Sergeant replied. “I can’t promise anything.”

  “You try. Get me a name and number I can unload this info to, and make sure it’s straight. This is hot, very hot, and it can’t wait too long.”

  “Why don’t you just unload it on me?” Lyons suggested. Macintosh, staring at him through the open doorway, gave Lyons a wink.

  The caller hesitated shortly, then: “I don’t think you want to get involved in this.”

  “I can pass along anything you have to the proper person,” Lyons assured him.

  “This has to do with a narcotics smuggling ring. It’s Mafia, Lyons, and it’s big, damn big. I’ve got names, dates, and routes, bills of lading, all kinds of junk. It’s too much for a telephone contact. And I don’t want any middle men.”

  “I’ll meet you someplace,” Lyons suggested, smiling across the open space at his partner.

  “You’re sure you want in this?”

  “It’s my job, Mister … Mister …”

  “Why don’t you just call me Pointer. You be thinking it over. I’ll call back at five to complete the set. Don’t mess it up, now.”

  A sudden and stunning suspicion jolted the Sergeant. “This isn’t Bolan, is it?” he asked.

  Without a pause the reply came, “Word has it that Bolan is dead.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ll call at five.”

  “Let me see if I have this straight,” Lyons said hurriedly. “Are you inside the Mafia, Pointer?”

  “I sure am.”

  The connection was then broken. Macintosh replaced his instrument and quickly rejoined Lyons. “This could be the biggest thing since Valachi,” the young Patrolman commented excitedly.

  “I’m just glad you heard it,” Lyons replied. He pushed aside the stack of reading matter and scraped his chair back. “Let’s go tell the Lieutenant. Pointer said he was calling long distance. I wonder how long a distance. I wonder where he got my name. I wonder what the hell his angle is.”

  Wonders would never cease, as Sgt. Lyons was to discover shortly. A few hours later, Big Tim Braddock would draw his new assignment also. The life and fortunes of Mack Bolan, who was very much alive and well in Palm Springs, were beginning a new weaving which would involve them all in a new and violent tapestry of terror.

  At 7:30 on the morning of October 21st, a new and highly secret undercover detail was launched at the L.A. Hall of Justice. Code-named Pointer, the operation was the ultimate in inter-agency cooperation and was staffed by Carl Lyons and Al Macintosh of LAPD; Harold Brognola of the U.S. Department of Justice, Racketeering Investigative Group; Raymond Portoccesi of the Los Angeles FBI Office; and U.S. Treasury Narcotics Agents George Bruemeyer and Manuel de Laveirca.

  Mack Bolan’s Lambretta mask was opening the Mafia doors to the fresh air of law enforcement, and the Executioner’s unrelenting war on the giant crime syndicate was entering a dramatic and suspenseful new phase. As the various threads of the weave began coming together, pain and terror and violence and wholesale slaughter would stalk that gray no man’s landscape separating the just from the unjust, Mack Bolan’s definition of hell.

  Chapter
Fifteen

  INQUEST

  Willie Walker and his crew had returned some days earlier with a completely negative report concerning the status and whereabouts of both Mack Bolan and Lou Pena. “That town is clean as a whistle, Deej,” Walker reported. “If they’ve got this Bolan buried up there, nobody knows it. We pumped everybody from the Mayor to the gravediggers. As for Screwy Looey, he ain’t left no tracks nowhere. If you would ask me, I’ll have to say it looks like Looey is layin’ low. Or else this Bolan got to him and left ’im in a shallow grave somewhere.”

  Walker and his crew were returned to a red-alert status and diffused into Palm Springs environs in a quiet but continuous patrol operation. All important visitors arriving at the DiGeorge country estate, of which there had been an unusual number in recent days, were convoyed from and to the airport by strong security crews, and the villa itself was a veritable armed camp. Andrea D’Agosta was under virtual house-arrest and was rarely seen about the grounds; on occasional brief visits to the family swimming pool, she had been closely escorted by several watchful members of the palace guard.

  Tensions had seemed to grow rather than to dissipate and by the 21st day of October, Julian DiGeorge’s uneasiness had reached an intolerable level. He summoned Philip Honey Marasco to his chambers in the early afternoon and told the burly bodyguard, “I’m getting a nervous feeling about Screwy Looey. I wonder if you could find somebody to get in touch with him.”

  His face an impassive mask, Marasco replied, “Looey should know better than to worry you this way, Deej. He shouldn’t make you go looking for him.”

  “You’re thinking like me,” DiGeorge said. “We know what’s what, Phil. Screwy Looey is laying low on me.”

  “A guy shouldn’t be afraid of his own family,” Marasco commented. “I think it’s his pride, maybe. He told some of the boys he wasn’t coming back without this Bolan’s head.”

  “Somebody,” DiGeorge said thoughtfully, “ought to put the word out that Screwy Looey had better get back home.”

  Marasco thoroughly understood the tone of this genteel conversation. To an outsider, DiGeorge’s complaint might have sounded like nothing more than idle fretting. In the language of the Family, however, the message was as clear as a military command. Marasco jerked his head in a casual nod and replied, “I’ll put the word out, Deej. Is there anything special you want said to Looey?”

  DiGeorge studied his fingertips and said, “In this thing of ours, Philip Honey, we either stand together or we die alone.”

  Marasco briefly drummed his fingers on DiGeorge’s desk, then said, “Yeah,” and turned to leave.

  “What are you making on Franky Lucky?” DiGeorge asked casually.

  Emotion entered Marasco’s features for the first time during the interview. He turned back to his boss with a heavy frown. “Everything checks, Deej, but hell, I just don’t know. All the boys like ’im. He’s tough and hard as a rock, but he don’t go throwing his weight around. It ain’t like he’s trying to make up to everybody, you know… I mean, he don’t step away from trouble, he just don’t go looking for any. And the boys like ’im, I mean like they kind of look up to ’im, you know … But I just … don’t…”

  “Yeah. I know what you mean, Phil. Something bothers me, too, and I just can’t finger it. You’re sure his history checks out, eh?”

  Marasco’s frown deepened. “Yeah, it all checks. He don’t leave many tracks, though. I guess he’s been pretty much of a loner. But I finally got a line on a guy that knew ’im out in Jersey. The guy’s in jail down in Florida, though.”

  “You know what to do about that,” DiGeorge said quietly.

  “Yeah. I already started the routine to spring ’im, but it does take some time, you know. Meanwhile I sent Victor Poppy down. He’ll make the conversation and he ought to be back tomorrow sometime. Then maybe we’ll know just how lucky this Franky Lucky really is.”

  “You know, I hope this boy checks out,” DiGeorge said, sighing.

  “So do I,” Marasco replied.

  “Meanwhile you watch ’im.”

  “Sure, Deej.”

  “We’re going to have to open the family up some, you know. I’m going to take it up with the Commissione. And I’d like to sponsor this Franky Lucky. I just hope he checks out.”

  Marasco turned away again. He paused with a hand on the door and said, “He’s got his own ideas. I’m letting him run around all he wants to outside. If this Bolan is still around, I’m betting Franky Lucky is the boy to come up with him.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” DiGeorge said tiredly. “And don’t forget about Screwy Looey.”

  “I’ll have the word out in ten minutes, Deej.”

  “You know what I want, Phil.”

  “I know what you want, Deej.”

  In such simple and seemingly casual terms were the preliminaries established for a Mafia murder contract. Screwy Looey Pena was behaving irrationally, to DiGeorge’s thinking. Irrational behavior, went that thinking, was usually indicative of a guilty conscience. Capo Julian DiGeorge was intensely curious as to the reasons behind Lou Pena’s continued avoidance of the family home. He would either have those reasons within the next 24 hours, or a murder contract, or both. Philip Honey Marasco, at that moment, knew precisely what his Capo wanted.

  Thirty minutes later, no one at the DiGeorge villa knew precisely what anyone wanted. The electrifying news that rattled the family group arrived by way of a breathless “runner” who was brought to the villa in a chartered helicopter. The messenger, a “soldier” in Tony Danger’s crew, received an immediate audience with the Capo and excitedly told him, “They busted us wide open, Mr. DiGeorge. I mean everywhere. They knocked …”

  “Waitaminnit, waitaminnit!” DiGeorge growled. “They who?”

  “Federals, I guess. They knocked over our warehouse in Chula Vista and picked off all the stuff, even the stuff under the floors. Tony Danger wasn’t a block away, he just got away in time. He says to tell you the Mexicans picked up Morales just after he got off the stockpile shipment. He’s try’na get word to the boats, but he ain’t so sure it ain’t too late for that.”

  DiGeorge passed a weary hand over his eyes and muttered, “What about the boats? What about ’em?”

  “I don’t know what about ’em, Mr. DiGeorge. Neither does Tony. That’s what I meant. Tony don’t know…”

  “Tony don’t know if his ass is on or off,” DiGeorge snapped. “I mean how much of the stuff is on the boats?”

  “Oh, well the whole stockpile, Mr. DiGeorge. That’s what I…”

  “Where is Tony Danger now?”

  “He went down to the port to …”

  “Then he’s a damn dumb bastard!” DiGeorge growled. “If they know everything else, then they know about the port, too. He probably walked right into ’em. Okay. So we got a rat somewhere in the woodpile. You get in that whirlybird and get on back down to San Diego. If you find Tony Danger you tell him Deej says to kill everything, I mean all of it, everything stops. And you tell him that Deej personally wants the rat, so don’t go taking nothing on himself. Now you go on. On your way out, tell Willie Walker and Philip Honey I want ’em in here right now.”

  Some minutes later, while the villa seethed with excitement, DiGeorge confided to Walker and Marasco. “I’ve just had this feeling. Something has been wrong, and I knew it. Now I guess I know what. I’m thinking about two names right now. You know the names I’m thinkin’ of?”

  “Screwy Looey,” Marasco quietly replied.

  “Franky Lucky,” said Walker.

  “Okay, but let’s not jump too fast,” DiGeorge cautioned them. His gaze fell speculatively on Marasco. “See if you can raise Victor Poppy and see if he’s got any news for us. Let’s see how lucky Franky Lucky is.”

  Marasco nodded his head solemnly and went to the telephone.

  “Start the juice going,” DiGeorge told Willie Walker. “Any place Screwy Looey could have lit down. Get into our connections uptown, gather
up whatever crumbs you can find about this rumble, and see what can be put together.”

  Walker curtly nodded his head and departed. Marasco was direct-dialing an area code in Florida, reading the number from a pocket-sized spiral notebook. He completed the dialing and turned about to gaze at DiGeorge as the connection was being made. The conversation was brief, with Marasco doing most of the listening. Then he hung up and released an almost sad sigh.

  “Okay,” DiGeorge said impatiently, “what’s the bad news?”

  “Victor Poppy says this guy hasn’t seen Frank Lucky in over five years. The guy says the last he heard, Franky Lucky had got drafted and got it in Vietnam.”

  “Got what?” DiGeorge asked tensely.

  “Killed, Deej.”

  The room became very quiet. After a moment, DiGeorge said, “The guy in Florida could have heard wrong.”

  “It’s like hearsay evidence,” Marasco agreed.

  “We got to give this Franky Lucky a chance to clear it up for us.”

  “I hope he can, Deej.”

  DiGeorge released a long sigh. “So do I. You let me handle it. When is Victor getting back with this Florida boy?”

  “He says he already oiled the wheels and they’re turning pretty fast. He hopes maybe tomorrow. Maybe even sooner.”

  “Okay. You tell Franky Lucky I wanta talk to ’im, eh Phil?”

  Marasco said, “Soon as he gets back.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  Marasco shrugged his shoulders. “I told you, he’s got his own ideas about things.”

  “Maybe his ideas are too big, Phil.”

  “Could be. He’s been here just about all day though, Deej. Left about an hour ago. I can’t hardly buy this boy as an informer, I just can’t hardly believe it.”

  “Aaah hell, Phil,” DiGeorge said miserably, “I’ve been making plans about sponsoring this boy. You know that. I like ’im, too. But I don’t like any boy that well, and you know that too.”