Part 6 (2/2)
He knew that the entire neighborhood was crawling with cops, that blockades were undoubtedly being set up to firmly contain him within a closely defined geographical trap-that it was only a question of time until once again he would be hearing that dreaded command, ”This is the law... throw down your weapons. . . dead or alive.. your choice.”
But no . . . they wouldn't be saying it again. They would be shooting on sight, to kill-and actually he'd rather have it that way than the other. There was no decision to be made with a screaming bullet-no options, no alternatives.
It might even be a tossup as to whose bullets got to him first. This was no social club he'd ventured into. Angeletti had no less than twenty guns prowling this place, perhaps twice that since the Emperor's incident.
He had beefed-up gun crews coming down from Buffalo and Manhattan, plus an elite field general delegated by the boss of the storm troopers, Mike Talifero.
He had, maybe, also a couple of unsuspected wild cards in the personages of Leo Turrin and Wils Brown.
Wils had worked with Bolan on their last brush. But maybe that one had been simply for old time's sake, and maybe the war-maimed ex-football great had been kicking his b.u.t.t ever since for not cas.h.i.+ng in on that hundred-grand bounty collectible from Bolan's blood.
Leo Turrin was a great guy and a good friend. But he had his own thing to protect-and Bolan had always felt that a good cop would go on being a good cop above everything else. There was no way of ever being ”for sure” about a cop-especially one who was himself balancing delicately above a chasm of certain disaster.
So . . . what else was there to play but the ear?
Three times in ten minutes Bolan had heard the tense breathings and cautious footfalls of the police bush-beaters right at the boundary of the Angeletti property.
Twice in as many minutes he had stood within touching range of curious Angeletti hardmen who were trying to figure out what was going on in the neighborhood.
Once the old man himself had appeared on a screened-in back porch to ask the yard chief, ”Did'ja hear anything yet on that explosion?”
The reply had been to the effect that there had been a ”car wreck or something down the block”, and Angeletti then volunteered the information that, ”Must'a been bad; our d.a.m.n phones are out.”
Another yardman muttered something about hearing gunshots mixed in with that explosion. Before Angeletti could comment on that, yet another man had come hoofing around from the front to announce, ”Cops wanta come in to shake us down. They say this Bolan's in the neighborhood.”
”Tell them to shake the neighborhood down, then,” the old man barked. ”We'll take care of our own!”
”They mean business,” the hardman reported. ”They say they'll get a warrant if they have to.”
”Let 'em get their warrants then,” Angeletti had replied, and slammed back inside the house.
So . . sure . . . what else to play but the ear?
What did a dead man have to lose?
And this was precisely the state of mind of the desperate warrior in black when the vehicle gate swung open and a gleaming foreign car-obviously of great value-eased onto the property, piloted, no doubt, by an elite ”wild card” who had the whole wide b.l.o.o.d.y world to lose.
Chapter 12/ Aces Wild.
Maserati it may have been, but it looked like a cruising shark as it crept silently along that winding drive. The top was down. The guy behind the wheel must have once been touched by the Grand Prix madness, or at least by the American image of how a European racing gentleman should look-or maybe it was the Red Baron Bolan was thinking of.
He was bareheaded, except for a white silk scarf draped vertically from the top of the head down, then swished across the throat and trailing out to the rear. He wore racing goggles and a white car- coat with the collar turned up.
Both car and man could have just driven out of an ad as an answer to ”What sort of man reads Playboy?” This guy could have started the whole idea.
Most of what Bolan could see was an impression of a strong chin and plenty of good teeth as the Maserati came to a gentle halt at the intersection with the front walk.
The yard chief was standing there, a hand raised in the air in a silent command. He stepped forward to the driver's side and Bolan could hear the respectful challenge, ”Identification please, sir.”
The goggles went up and a strong, nicely modulated voice came back with, ”How many times do I have to do this?”
”Sorry, sir. Routine.” The yard boss accepted a wallet-sized folder, looked at something inside there, and handed it back. ”Glad you're here, Mr. Cavaretta,” he said. ”You can go in from here. I'll park the car for you.”
The guy chuckled and replied, ”The h.e.l.l you will. I paid for it, I drive it, and I sure as h.e.l.l park it.”
”It's a beauty,” the hardman said, backing off for a better look. ”Must've cost some bucks.”
”Try thirty thou' as a base, then work up through another ten in specials,” said the playboy of the western underworld. After all, what comfort was a hunk of machinery like that if you couldn't flaunt it at somebody? Then he volunteered the information, ”Just got her today. This is here maiden voyage.”
”What'll she do? About one-fifty?”
”Try one seventy-five. I would have been here twenty minutes ago but-what gives with all the roadblocks around here? Thought I was crossing over the iron curtain or something.”
”Aw, that guy, you know, our wise guy has been playin' games with us around here. Got all the cops in the state, I think, spooked up and chasin' shadows everywhere. They say he's in this neighbor- flood right now.”
The guy in the forty-thousand-dollar shark laughed and said, ”Let's hope so, eh? A hot blonde in New York is waiting for me to come home and cool her down.”
The yardman laughed with him. ”Think this will be a pretty quick one, huh, Mr. Cavaretta?”
”Quicker than you can learn to call me Johnny,” the guy replied, and sent the car inching forward The wild card from New York had no idea how quick it was going to be.
A living shadow in combat black was pacing him across h.e.l.l's last acre.
He pulled the gleaming vehicle into the end stall, stepped out, walked all the way around it once in an admiring inspection, then went to the front and raised the hood over the engine.
Bolan had moved into the shadows of the interior and was standing less than ten feet from the guy.
The yard chief was striding across the grounds, headed toward the gate out front.
Another yardman stood beneath the eaves of the house, about thirty feet from the carports. Still another was prowling slowly along the north wall, maybe fifty feet distant.
A fourth man came out of the house, carrying a cup of coffee; walked right past Bolan, and approached the Maserati. It was Frank Angeletti.
He stood at the front b.u.mper of the car through a moment of awkward silence, then told the visitor, ”Don Stefano knows you're here. He's waiting for you.”
The guy didn't even look up. He said, ”I'll be there in a minute. I think this d.a.m.n thing is throwing oil.”
”He's waiting,” Frank the Kid repeated. He stood there in uncertain hesitation for a moment; then went back past Bolan's shadow and returned to the house.
Bolan felt a twinge of sympathy for the Kid. Must be h.e.l.l, he was thinking, to try to fill a pair of shoes the size of Don Stefano's-especially when the old man insists upon walking around inside them all the time. What could a thoroughly domineering parent expect but a thoroughly dominated kid?
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