Part 8 (1/2)

The doctor said, ”No, no, just a bit of first- and second-degree b.u.ms, arms and upper torso. He'll be all right.” Drasco explained, ”Our friend Jules Sticatta, His clothes caught fire.”

Bolan clucked his tongue and said, ”I'm very sorry for our friend Jules.”

The door chimes sounded.

Bolan commanded, ”I'm handling this,” and went to the door. His hand brushed something in the breast pocket of the blazer as he smoothed the jacket over his hardware, and he discovered in there a pair of gold wire-rimmed gla.s.ses with tinted lenses. He tried them, found a slight correction in the left lens but not enough to interfere with his own 20/20. Every little edge would help, at a time like this. He left them in place and swung the door open all the way, standing dead center and blocking entry with his own presence.

A pa.s.sel of uniformed cops were on the front stoop, and others could be seen moving across the grounds.

A big sandy-haired guy in a gray suit and matching night-coat was standing just off the doorway, gazing out across the property. Another guy, a smaller Italian type, stood beside him giving Bolan the once-over.

Bolan said, ”Did you come to look at the scenery or did you have some casual hara.s.sment in mind?” The big cop turned to give him a frosty glare.

He sighed and extended a folded, official-looking paper. ”Here's my hara.s.sment chit,” he growled. Bolan did not even look at it. He said, ”All right, come on in,” and stepped out of the way. The two plain-clothes men moved into the reception hall and the little posse of uniformed cops came in behind them.

Bolan commented, ”So many to do so little?” ”Identify yourself, sir,” the big cop snapped. ”You first,” Bolan countered.

The cop flashed his badge.

Bolan grinned and said, ”You have to do better than that.”

”Who's hara.s.sing whom?” the guy growled, and held out the ID folder for Bolan's inspection. He looked at Drasco and nodded pleasantly. ”h.e.l.lo, Carmine,” he said.

Drasco said, ”Hi, Captain. You look tired.” ”As h.e.l.l,” the cop said.

Bolan ignored that interplay, pus.h.i.+ng the ID back and jerking his head toward the Italian. ”Now him,” he said.

That one wordlessly thrust FBI credentials under Bolan's nose.

Bolan said, ”Is that a federal warrant you have there?”

The FBI guy said, ”I have a right to be here but I'll wait outside if you'd rather.”

”What's the difference, it's okay,” Bolan replied, shrugging.

”Let's see your identification,” the big cop reminded him.

”He's okay,” Drasco put in. ”I'll vouch for him.”

The expression on the Captain's face seemed to say that he wouldn't let Drasco vouch for the mayor of Philadelphia.

Bolan tried to pa.s.s the wallet over but the cop, a Captain Thomkins, told him, ”Hold it in your own hands, please, and just show me your driver's license.”

Bolan said, ”Suppose I don't drive?”

”You'd better have something to show me, mister.”

Bolan grinned and displayed the New York driver's license, then the private eye ID. The cop's eyes showed interest. He said, ”New York, eh? A little out of your territory, aren't you?”

Bolan replied, ”I'm in grace. Just got here today.”

”You better drop downtown in the morning and register. Is that a gun permit there? New York?”

”I'll be back over the line by midnight,” Bolan a.s.sured him. He showed the cop the front side of the Ace of Spades, just for the h.e.l.l of it.

Thompkins commented, ”Consultant, huh? You must be a very busy man.”

”I try to be,” Bolan told him. ”You're not going through this routine with every guy in the place, I hope.”

”You want to read the warrant?”

The FBI guy was looking around, casing the layout.

Bolan told the big cop, ”Let's be men. You boys must have better things to do, I'm sure. Go on. Get with it. Let's make this quick and easy.”

”We'll need to talk to Stefano Angeletti.” ”Does it say that in the warrant?”

”No. But I'm sure he'd like to cooperate. Oddly enough we have a common cause, I'm not exactly proud to say.”

Bolan jerked a thumb toward the library and said, ”He's in there. But it's getting late and he's tired. He's an old man, remember, and this is his doctor here.” Bolan indicated Kastler with a twitch of the thumb. ”It's been a tough day and I'm sure you know what I mean.”

Thomkins said, ”You are telling me,” and , walked into the library.

Drasco and Kastler followed him in.

A younger plain-clothes cop stepped in from the outside, stared curiously at Bolan for a moment, then led the uniformed men into the big living room where the crews hung out.

Another troop moved in through the open doorway and went up the stairs to the second floor.

Bolan and the FBI guy were left alone in the reception hall.

The guy was giving him a very intent look. He cleared his throat and, in a very casual and low- pitched voice, told Bolan, ”Brognola sends his regards.”

Bolan's chest went ice cold and he tried to keep his eyes and face the same as he replied, ”Who?” ”He says it's a bad time for a hit.”

Bolan let his lips slide into a lopsided, disbelieving grin. ”Come on now,” he said. ”Not you. Ami cu di 1' amici?”

”Forget it and drop dead,” the fed replied disgustedly and went on to the library.

Bolan watched him walk away. Under his breath he said, ”Yeah, I almost did.”

A loud commotion overhead at that moment brought the young plain-clothes cop hurrying from the crew room. Two uniformed men were retreating in confusion toward the stairway landing, accompanied by a variety of flying objects, some of which were cras.h.i.+ng into the wall behind them and sending fragments of broken pottery and gla.s.s bouncing down to the main floor.

A young woman appeared at the top of the stairs, screaming vile words in an unending stream. She was clad only in bra and panties.

Frank the Kid ran into the hall and exclaimed, ”Philippa!”