Part 6 (2/2)
He'd rather be back in the navy ... almost. Not quite. But there wasn't much difference ... when a guy got to thinking about it. Same d.a.m.n chicken outfit. Guys pulling rank all the time, giving out orders right and left, expecting you to snap-s.h.i.+t every time they stepped aboard.
Let Tony Danger run his own f.u.c.kin' navy!
He stepped over to the voice tube and blew into it to attract attention down below, then he announced, ”Hear this, you f.u.c.king muddy-water sailors. The admiral has not been piped aboard and it don't look like he's coming. Secure the f.u.c.king engines-hey wait, belay that. I think his imperial lateness has finally arrived.”
A guy was coming down the steps from the sun deck of the marina's lounge. White bell bottoms, deck shoes, knit s.h.i.+rt, bright yellow nylon wind-breaker and the inevitable skipper's hat. Dark sun gla.s.ses. Carrying a briefcase.
The Turtle turned back to the voice tube and pa.s.sed the word to his two-man crew. ”Look alive, you know how his feelings get hurt if we don't show no sideboys.”
Then he picked up the binoculars and took a closer look.
h.e.l.l, that wasn't Tony Danger.
Too tall, too big all over. Too much of everything.
But the guy was sure headed for Danger's Folly, Folly, no doubt about that. And he sure looked like the real article. That briefcase was chained to his wrist. no doubt about that. And he sure looked like the real article. That briefcase was chained to his wrist.
Tarantini put down the binoculars and swung into the c.o.c.kpit of the big cruiser. He pulled a .38 revolver from the chart case, checked it, spun the cylinder, and replaced it.
”Watch it,” he growled down to the two men who were just then emerging from the cabin. ”Something's not exactly kosher here.”
Bolan had picked up the outfit at the Mission Bay ”Mariner's Shop”-and he suspected that Tony Danger had bought his seagoing togs at the same place; there'd been no difficulty whatever in duplicating the outfit, right down to the fancy sungla.s.ses with little anchors at the posts.
He spotted the guy watching him through binoculars from the cruiser and knew that he was being closely scrutinized.
It was a beautiful hunk of seagoing mahogany, definitely in the yacht cla.s.s. Powerful, sleek. Must have cost a bundle.
By the time he reached the gangway, two more guys in spotless T-s.h.i.+rts and white ducks were standing at the rail in a sort of self-conscious parade-rest stance. Each wore a navy-style white hat, rakishly c.o.c.ked over the eyes, the sidebands flaring out in the center like wings.
Bolan stepped aboard and gave the sailors an impatient toss of his head. ”We're late,” he growled. ”Cast off, haul that gangway in.”
A voice from above him snarled, ”I give the f.u.c.king orders aboard here, sir.”
Bolan angled his gaze toward the flying bridge and told the little guy up there, ”You'll be giving orders up your a.s.s if you don't get this tub moving.”
The guy grinned at him and, in a much milder tone, asked, ”Where's Mr. Danger?”
Bolan did not return the smile. His voice was softer, though, in the reply. ”Something's rumbling. There might be trouble. Tony's sitting this one out with th' boss. He shook the briefcase. ”Do we go or don't we?”
The man on the bridge raised a bos'n's pipe to his lips and tootled a shrieking command through it.
Bolan grinned on that one and watched the crewmen scramble expertly through the casting-off exercises. A moment later the cruiser was moving smoothly through the smallcraft harbor and heading for open water.
He went up and joined the man at the conn, watched him in silence for a moment, then told him, ”I'm Frankie Lambretta. Who're you?”
The guy gave him a dazzling smile and replied, ”I'm Gene Tarantini. Mr. Danger started calling me ”Turtle”-now everybody does. You may as well, too.”
”Okay.” Bolan ran his hands along Tarantini's body in a quick frisk, then growled, ”Hey, I told you there might be trouble. Where the h.e.l.l's your hardware?”
The guy glanced toward the chart case and said, ”In there.”
Bolan commanded, ”Wear it!”
”Yessir.”
”Do your boys have hardware?”
”Yessir, we keep it down in the quarters.”
”I can handle the wheel for a minute,” Bolan said. ”You go tell those boys to get dressed.”
Tarantini flashed another big smile, turned the wheel over to his pa.s.senger and descended quickly to the main deck. He was back seconds later, reaching into the chart case and tucking a revolver into the waistband of his trousers. He said, almost shyly, ”You're a real torpedo, aren't you.”
Bolan relinquished the conn and growled, ”Yeh.”
”I knew it the minute I saw you. I ain't seen a dude like you since Manhattan. You don't take no orders from Mr. Danger, do you?”
Bolan made a derisive sound.
”I thought not. You're cla.s.s, Mr. Lambretta ... real cla.s.s.”
”Thanks,” Bolan said. He was silent for a moment, then he told the impressionable Mafioso, Mafioso, ”Listen, Turtle, I might be sliding into something very uncomfortable. You know?” ”Listen, Turtle, I might be sliding into something very uncomfortable. You know?”
”Yessir. I already figured that.”
”I'll appreciate some close support from you and your boys, if things get to that.”
”Yessir, you can count on that.”
”Okay. You've got a sharp crew here. Stay that way.”
”You offer odds on that, Mr. Lambretta.”
Bolan punched the guy lightly on the shoulder and went below to the main deck.
The Ventura Boulevard bridge was just ahead.
In a few minutes they would be in open sea.
Where to from there?
It was a wild-a.s.s play he was making. He knew that. So ... why change the name of the game now? His entire life had become a wild-a.s.s play.
He walked toward the stern and reached into his armpit to activate the miniature shoulder phone, then turned his face to the side and s.h.i.+elded his mouth with a hand as he spoke into the sensitive microphone. ”Gadgets.”
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