Part 1 (1/2)
Panic In Philly.
by Don Pendleton.
Chapter 1
The Announcement The Announcement.
Panic came to Philadelphia on a cool Spring morning and its name was Death-purposeful, clad in black as a symbol of utter finality, moving swiftly in its inevitability.
It stepped silently into the rear office of Cappy's Liberty Garage and gave the five men in there a stricken moment to see what had come for them.
Al the Mouth DiLucci was the first to unglue himself from that frozen confrontation. He yelled, ”Jesus, it's-” and spun away from the stacks of money which were being counted at the battered wooden desk.
The furious chatter of a light automatic pistol cut short the final declaration of Al the Mouth, the hot little missiles from its blazing muzzle forming a shattered-flesh wreath upon his neck and shoulders as he spun into eternity.
The other four targets were lunging about in scattered patterns of flight, two of them making electrified stabs toward their own weapons.
The chatter-gun tracked onto Iron Mike Cappolini and shredded the elbow of his gun arm just as his revolver was clearing leather. The .38 kept moving, flying from the grasp of suddenly nerveless fingers to shatter the painted gla.s.s wall of the office. Meanwhile the firetrack of death swept on, seeking and finding vital matter. Iron Mike's throat exploded in twin crimson geysers; the big guy twisted to his knees and flopped face down into his own blood.
Jack the Bartender Avanti managed to jerk off two panicky shots toward that furiously blazing muzzle of death as he sprinted for the rear door. Then Death overtook him and pummeled him into a twisting, sliding heap at the back wall.
Collectors John Brunelli and Ham Magliocci, noted and feared throughout South Philly for their uninhibited pursuit of payday loan ”vigorish”, received their final collections as they scampered for cover behind the wooden desk stacked with the fruits of their toil. Brunelli's out flung arm raked the desk clean as he oozed across it; the collectors and the collected shared a common heap within the pool of blood that quickly marked the end of vigorish.
Death had ”come fearful quick” to Cappy's Liberty Garage-so quickly, in fact, that a mechanic and a customer standing just beyond that shattered gla.s.s wall were still frozen into shocked statues when the chattering knell ceased and quiet descended.
Gawking at the carnage through the broken wall, both men reacted with swiftly raising hands as the tall figure in executioner black turned calm attention upon them.
These two would later aver that the sight of Death Alive and Looking was even more unnerving than the sudden presence of Death Eternal Still. It was clad in black tight-fitting combat garb -belts crisscrossing the chest, another encircling the waist, ”guns and stuff hanging from them”, the machine pistol suspended from a cord about the shoulders, eyes of bluest ice regarding them from an expressionless face of chiseled steel.
The muzzle of the chatter-gun dropped. The tall man's hand moved in an almost imperceptible flick of motion. A small metallic object flew through the shattered wall and clattered to the cement floor at the men's feet.
”That's for Don Stefano,” a cool voice informed them. ”Tell him. It's over. Tell him.”
And then the tall apparition in black was gone, fading quickly into the shadows at the rear wall.
Perhaps ten seconds had elapsed since the first rattling burst of automatic weapons fire.
The two spectators to the awesome event did not move until they heard the door open and close; then the customer took a staggering step backwards and exclaimed in an awed whisper, ”Christ-did you see see that guy!” that guy!”
The mechanic knelt to extend a shaking hand toward the metallic object on the floor. He picked it up, examined it, and released a hissing sigh.
”Yeah. That's what it is,” he declared with a quiet rush of breath, ”What? What is it?”
”A marksman's medal. The Brotherly Love Outfit is in for it now.”
”You saying that was Mack Bolan, the guy they call the Executioner?” the Executioner?” the other man said, awed. He bent forward for a closer look at the medal, ”You saying this place is a the other man said, awed. He bent forward for a closer look at the medal, ”You saying this place is a Mafia front?” Mafia front?”
”It was,” was,” the mechanic replied quietly, peering toward Death in the next room. ”But ....like the guy said ...it's over now.” the mechanic replied quietly, peering toward Death in the next room. ”But ....like the guy said ...it's over now.”
Not quite.
Mack Bolan knew better.
The Panic in Philly had only just begun.
POLICE BUSINESS.
**RESTRICTED COMMUNIQUE** SCRAMBLE CIRCUIT AUTHY #PH105 FROM PHILA PD 141025L.
TO H BROGNOLA/USDOJ/WASHDC **URGENT**
BT.
BOLAN STRUCK THIS CITY APPROX 0900 THIS DATE. MACHINE-GUNNED LOAN RACKETEER MICHAEL J CAPPOLINI AND FOUR UNDERLINGS. LOCAL INFORMANTS REPORT Ma.s.sIVE MOVEMENTS ORGCRIME TRIGGERMEN. REQUEST ALL FEDERAL a.s.sISTANCE POSSIBLE.
BT.
DOUGHERTY PHILA SENDS.
EOM.
Chapter 2
Gradigghia.
In a western Ma.s.sachusetts city several hundred miles removed from the developments at Philadelphia, the number two man in that city's local Mafia arm paced restlessly about his modest headquarters in a downtown office building.
He was a handsome man in his early thirties, medium height and build, with darkly glinting eyes which could switch in a flash from affable warmth to frosty speculation.
His name was Turrin; sometimes he was referred to but never directly addressed as Leo the p.u.s.s.y.
Leo Turrin was a blood nephew of the late Sergio Frenchi, the boss of Western Ma.s.sachusetts until his organization committed the blunder of the century-it was the Frenchi ”family” which had figured in the birth of Mack Bolan's home-front war against the mob.