Part 4 (1/2)
”Bolan don't use no triggermen,” Lucasi said quickly, a hint of fire returning to his voice.
”He did this time. There were two of them. Come up on me just like a couple of G.o.dd.a.m.n shadows. I didn't know from nothing, boss. Just ail of a sudden here was this d.a.m.n Beretta looking down my throat.”
”The guy works alone, alone, you dumb s.h.i.+t!” Lucasi shouted. ”Now you get your story straight!” you dumb s.h.i.+t!” Lucasi shouted. ”Now you get your story straight!”
”Jesus, I swear, it happened just like I said,” Simonetti moaned.
Lucasi turned his back on the courier and, to no one in particular, commanded, ”Take Sammy outside and get his story straight.”
A large man who had been lurking near the door opened it and gave the nod to Simonetti. ”Let's go,” he growled.
The black-money courier's eyes rolled; he started to give an emotional protest to the boss, then quickly changed his mind and stumbled out the door. Another man fell in behind him, solemnly pulling the door closed behind their exit.
Lucasi was flipping the marksman's medal like a coin, staring past it unseeingly, his eyes characteristically locked into a dead focus while his mind whirred.
Presently he said, quietly, ”Somebody could be shooting us full of juice, Diver.”
The large man at the door, Lucasi's house captain, replied, ”Could be. I been wondering when somebody would try something like that. Those marksman's medals can be picked up most anywhere.”
”It doesn't sound like a Bolan hit,” Lucasi said.
”No, it don't, Ben.”
”You were back east last month. How many of the boys did you run into?”
The large man shrugged. ”I guess a dozen or two. Why?”
”New York boys?”
The man nodded. ”Yeah. Them too.”
”Did you talk to one-just one one-who'd ever seen Bolan face to face?”
The big man just grinned.
”Of course you didn't,” Lucasi said, smirking. ”The only boys who've seen Bolan, you'd have to go to h.e.l.l to talk to them. Right?”
The house captain jerked his head in agreement. ”He don't f.u.c.k around much, the way I hear it. He just hits and splits, and when he's gone, there ain't n.o.body around to tell what happened.”
”Exactly.” Lucasi tossed the medal again and deliberately let it fall to the floor. ”So who's got my G.o.dd.a.m.n hundred thou, Diver?”
”It sounds fishy, all right,” the captain agreed.
”You go out and help talk to Sammy.”
The large man grinned sourly and went out.
Lucasi lit a cigar and worked furiously at it until the tip was glowing fiercely, then he walked stiffly out of the room, along a short hallway to his sleeping quarters.
He went directly to the bed and whipped the covers away from the nude woman who was sleeping there. He yelled, ”Outta that rack, you lazy b.i.t.c.h!”
Dorothy Lucasi sleepily sat up, swinging the long Vegas-showgirl legs over the side of the bed. ”Are you crazy, Bennie?” she inquired in a practiced monotone. She often asked him that, in the same tone of voice.
His wife stood a full head taller than Lucasi. He glowered at her as she lurched to her feet and looked about dazedly for her dressing gown. Instead of helping her find the wrap, he yelled, ”Yeah, I'm crazy to have married a floozy like you!” Lucasi often said that, also.
”You get some clothes on that million dollar meat and hustle it into the kitchen. It's seven o'clock and I G.o.ddammit want something to eat!”
She was sleepily complaining, ”Why can't Frenchy fix ... ?” when her chin dropped and the words quit coming.
Lucasi thought at first that she was looking at him in some new way he'd never yet seen, then he knew that her transfixed gaze was going beyond him and onto something behind him.
A chill seized his spine and shook it, and he turned slowly to find the object of his wife's rarely undiluted attention.
A big tall guy was just standing there against the wall, next to the window-and he must have been there all the while. He was dressed all in black, with guns and belts and things strapped all over him, and that face was like carved out of Mount Rushmore, except for the peculiarly hot-icy eyes that smouldered out of that deepfreeze.
Yeah. Bolan had come to town, all right.
Lucasi felt himself crumbling inside.
His voice sounded high and squeaky to himself as he told the impressive apparition in black, ”So. Sammy had it straight.”
The guy wasn't even holding a gun on him ... the wise c.o.c.k. He was just standing there, sort of relaxed, staring a hole through Ben Lucasi.
The seconds ticked away, silently. Dorothy sat back down on the bed and modestly covered her lap with a sheet. It was the first act of modesty on her part that Ben Lucasi had ever been aware of. He found himself wondering about the effect this guy had on the dames.
Presently Lucasi cleared his throat and said, ”Uh, what do you want, eh?”
”Harlan Winters,” the guy replied, and it was a voice straight out of h.e.l.l.
”Who?” the Mafia chieftain nervously inquired.
Dorothy giggled, like some nut. ”Harlie Winters,” she said, very helpfully.
”He ain't here,” Lucasi declared quickly, wis.h.i.+ng he could bust that broad right in the nose.
”He's dead,” the big guy said.
Lucasi whispered, ”G.o.d I'm sorry, I didn't know that.”
”Friend of yours?”
The guy sure didn't use many words.
”Uh, well... in a way. We, uh ... met once or twice.” He snapped a quick glance toward his wife. She was wearing a shocked face. He hoped to G.o.d she'd keep her flannel mouth shut and he kept right on talking to edge her out, just in case.
”Winters was a nice man, G.o.d-that's terrible. How'd he die?”