Part 4 (2/2)
”I still got plenty more, but I don't know. I mean, you know, those boys didn't stop a thing. I mean, like paper dolls. I'm not so sure about these boys, Augie.”
”Yeah.” A pause, then, ”I guess we can talk about that later. Right now, I want you to feel a.s.sured. You know. We're not letting you down. We got a . .. listen . . . I can't say too much . . . we got a specialist on the way to you. He's-just a minute.”
Bolan heard off-telephone whispers, then Marinello's voice came back directly into the line. ”He's on his way there now. Driving. Look for him in about another thirty minutes.”
”One guy?” old man Angeletti fumed. ”Just one guy?”
”Well, one, yeah, but not just a guy, Steven. I told you, a specialist. Listen . . . relax. This guy is recommended by the very best. Our friend Mike sends his best.”
Bolan also remembered their friend Mike. Talifero. Bolan had last seen their friend Mike lying in his own blood on a Vegas casino floor.
”I thought Mike was . . . is he up and around now?” Angeletti was asking, voicing Bolan's own interest in the matter.
”He's getting around some now. He's here now, right beside me. Sends you his best, Steven. You understand me.”
”I understand you,” the old man replied, sighing. ”But one man, Augie. . .”
”Oh, we're sending more than just the one. Buffalo is sending down a delegation. We got a couple groups leaving Manhattan in another hour or two. You know, it takes awhile to round these delegations up. And with, uh, you know, our little troubles over in Brooklyn, uh. . .”
”Yeah, I know,” the Philly boss said, understanding. ”Well, I appreciate everything you can do, Augie. You know that. This thing is looking real serious. This, uh, specialist. Do I know him?”
A pause, then, ”Mike says you do and you don't. n.o.body really knows this guy, Steven.”
”Oh, that guy!” Angeletti crowed, the old voice crackling with new interest.
”Yeh. So, look, take it easy, eh? Just keep yourself covered the best you can and let nature take its course. Everything is in our favor, you know that.”
”Sure, okay, you know how much I appreciate- listen, I still want those other guys I mentioned. Leo the p.u.s.s.y and the football player. And any more you might know about.”
”That might be hard to engineer, Steven. But I'll try. You have my word.”
”Look, it's no time to be holding out trumps,” Angeletti pointed out.
”I know that. We're not holding anything out on you, Steven. You have my word. How's, uh, how's Frank?”
”Frank's just fine,” Frank's papa reported. ”I been real proud of him today.”
It was a lie. Bolan knew it, and he knew that Marinello knew it.
”It's nice to have a son who can take some of the pressures away,” Marinello was saying. ”Most of 'em today aren't worth a d.a.m.n. You know that, Steven.”
”Yeah, I know that,” Angeletti agreed stiffly.
”Well, I know it's a comfort to have a good strong son in the house. I never had a one with legs under 'im. You know that. But . . . we gotta accept some things. Right? We gotta learn to live with pain sometimes.”
It was a gentle hint from the boss of bosses to the boss of Philly. Bolan knew it. Angeletti knew it. '[he old man sighed and told New York, ”Frank's coming along. Don't worry, Augie, I'm no idiot. I know what I know. Well, listen. I better hang up. I got a jillion things to do. That, uh, that specialist. How will I know him?”
A whispered consultation preceded: ”Mike says you'll know him when he wants you to.”
”I need more than that,” Angeletti complained. ”We're not taking chances on anything that moves around here. You better give me something for recognition.”
A new voice came on from the New York end, a hard businesslike talker with a Harvard accent that set Bolan's teeth on edge. It was Mike Talifero, lord high enforcer of all Mafiosi everywhere. ”Steven, h.e.l.lo, I've been listening in. Do you understand who it is we're sending you?”
”Hi, Mike, sure I know who you're sending. Problem is, the guy's a wild card. Never the same face two times outta the deck. I gotta know what to look for.”
”Look for a Maserati.”
”A what?”
”You know, a car. That's what he's driving. just let him in the gate. He can handle the ID from, there.”
”Oh, I get you. I guess that's good enough. You just better hope the guy doesn't switch cars on the way.”
Talifero laughed and replied, ”No way. He just blew his last dollar on that bucket. Listen, Steven.. This boy is good. Give him his head. Don't try to tie him down.”
”You sending him down here to take charge?' Angeletti asked soberly.
”It's the only way he works, Steven. You know that.”
”Yeah. Well. I been letting Frank run herd on . . on these boys here.”
”Let's be men, Steven.”
”I see what you mean. Okay.” The old man sighed heavily and said, ”Put Augie back on.”
Marinello reported, ”I'm still here, Steven. Listen. Soon as this all blows over, come up and see us. We need to have a long talk.”
”Yeh. Thanks, Augie. And thank all our friends up there for me. Oh, and don't forget, you're sending me more than just this wild card from Mike.”
”I'll do all I can, Steven.”
”Thanks. 'bye, Augie.”
”Good-bye, Steven.”
Bolan waited until both clicks canceled the connection entirely, then he pulled his patch out and pushed that conversation through his mind several times around.
Things could be coming to a head quicker than he'd expected. Bolan had heard about this ”wild card”-a Talifero trouble-shooter who carried Commissione credentials and who acted with all the authority of that ruling Mafia body.
The guy was an elite hit-man. He was usually saved for very special jobs, like hitting outside VIP's who'd earned themselves a contract, or errant capi who refused to knuckle under to Cosa Nostra edicts. The rumors were out that this very same ”wild card” had been very busy of late in Brooklyn and Jersey.
Bolan had once impersonated the guy.
Maybe, just maybe, the Philadelphia problem was deserving of an encore performance by Mack the Wild Card Bolan.
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