Part 10 (2/2)

”Maybe they did.” All of the old man's starch had deserted him. ”I'm going to bed. I don't feel so hot. I thought that was too much for one lousy guy, I knew it was too much. I'm old. I'm tired. I'm going to bed. I respect you, Johnny. For this, I mean. Thanks.”

”Let me tell you this, Steven. It will make you sleep better. There was a split decision. Understand? A split decision. Some said yes, some said no. Until that's finally talked out, Mike says we step in. Right? Understand me? We step in, Steven.”

”I'm glad to hear that. Just tell me this. Was Augie saying yes or saying no.”

”Augie was saying no.”

”G.o.d, I'm glad to hear that. You're here to, uh, see that the yeses pull back their horns. Is that it?”

”That's about it, Steven. Go on to bed. Don't worry. Let me handle it.”

”Put the kid to bed, will you?”

”You know I will. Now, you put yourself there.” ”I wish to G.o.d I'd had a kid like you, Johnny.” Bolan had to turn away from that and clear his mind of that pathetic sick old face.

He had to remind himself that the melody played by ear was not always the one a guy would choose for himself if there had been a choice.

For a moment-for one tumbling instant-he debated going out there and climbing in that forty thousand-dollar shark and simply driving the h.e.l.l away from that place.

But . . . if he did that . . . what would have been accomplished in Philadelphia? What good all the dead, what good all the extra pressure and expense on a city already overburdened with her share of problems . . . what good any of it?

The Executioner had not come to Philadelphia for a split decision.

He had come for a knockout.

So, at the end of that tumbling moment of hesitation, Bolan reminded himself that there was no morality in warfare, no right and no wrong to any of it.

You had to hit them where you could, and drop them where they stood.

Even soul-sick, dying old men.

Chapter 16/ The Mark.

Bolan had never regarded himself as a superior strategist nor as a genius at anything. He simply made use of what he had, and kept trying.

He knew that he could not have set up the Angeletti family for this sort of an inside knock over with any amount of genius or planning. It was daring, sure, and fraught with mortal consequences with every move, every word, every action. But that was what life had been for Mack Bolan ever: since the beginning of his home-front war. And he could not have set the family up that way had the stage itself not already been well prepared by circ.u.mstances far beyond any one man's control or manipulation.

He had simply barged in and played his game upon their stage.

It was as simple as that.

And it was quite a stage the mob had built for themselves. Constructed of rotting timbers upon unreliable foundations, erected with l.u.s.t and malice, well-garnished with deceit, dishonesty, and a callous disregard for the essential n.o.bility of mankind-it was a veritable hall of horrors, even for those who misspent their lifetimes strutting before its footlights.

Yes, it was quite a setting for any maestro who had the nerve to leap into the orchestra pit and strike up a funeral dirge.

Nerve, probably-in the final a.n.a.lysis-was Mack Bolan's chief stock in trade. And the market, in Philadelphia, was definitely bullish.

This was Bolan's own understanding of himself and of his task. Perhaps, however, he was too modest in his evaluations of self.

Perhaps there was a spark of greatness to the man, an effervescent something at the base of his being that just instinctively turned him into the right word at the crucial time, the proper deed at the intersection with its need.

None would deny that Mack Bolan had been ”as good as dead” at that very moment when a police spotlight pinned him to an overhead perch, defenseless, within shouting distance of his enemy's stronghold.

Few would have given him any edge for survival, afoot and surrounded by hostile forces of over whelming superiority, even after his miraculous escape from that stunning confrontation with the law.

One or two, perhaps, would have guessed that he might seek refuge in the most unlikely spot-the enemy's camp.

But none in G.o.d's green world would have dared to predict that this desperate fugitive, within minutes after penetrating that enemy stronghold, would have seized upon his own stark misfortune and jeopardy to mold of it the grand-slam knockout punch that would rattle not only Philadelphia, but be experienced around the Mafia world.

It was precisely what he was attempting.

And perhaps Mack Bolan was not exactly a new idea in that cosmic experiment called mankind. From an ancient Chinese military manual (c.500 B.C.) The mark of greatness is upon that general who, through daring and resourcefulness, rescues resounding victory from certain disaster.

And, yes-who knows? Maybe ”the universe” does reserve a special place here and there for men such as these.

Had Mack Bolan asked the question, he would have his answer within a short few hours.

But he hadn't asked. He was simply trying. It was the mark of Bolan.

Chapter 17/ Intimations of Mortality.

Bolan sent the house captain upstairs to keep vigil outside Don Stefano's bedroom door and he gave the other two inside boys to Sammy, the yard boss.

This left Bolan alone, downstairs, with Frank the Kid, who was pa.s.sed out on the bar.

He went exploring, and found a music room or something adjoining the library at the bar end. There was a concert grand piano in there, a harp- a real, honest-to-G.o.d harp-that stood taller than Bolan, shelves piled with well-indexed sheet music and, in the back corner, a twentieth-century marvel which was a stereo theatre built into a cast-form plastic chair, made like a big bubble and looking a bit like a small helicopter's cabin, comfortable- looking padded seat, console, the whole bit. A neat stack of cla.s.sical LP alb.u.ms completed the picture -and somehow none of it fit the image of anyone whom Bolan had seen in the joint so far.

A record on the turntable attracted his attention -the label, mainly. It was pale lavender and had no distributor's tag on it. Printed on that label, though, was the answer to the entire room. The record, obviously privately cut, was tagged simply: Phil Angeletti, Private Moods for Concert Piano.

The find was quite a revelation. Bolan idly started it going, listened to the first minute or so, then stopped it. He was no impresario, but it sounded d.a.m.n good to him. Who would have thought it of Philippa the b.i.t.c.h?

He went out of there, then, and continued the exploration, finding that which he sought a couple of minutes later; a doorway off the kitchen led to a darkened stairway and a bas.e.m.e.nt room-a crew room with six bunks in it, small refrigerator and hotplate, table and four chairs.

Beyond that and past a door about a foot thick was a pistol range, well lighted, probably acoustically engineered and soundproofed. At the far end were regular target pits and four steel targets in human form. One of these targets was wearing a black suit similar to Bolan's. It was bullet-riddled and torn half off the target.

Bolan bit his teeth and went out of there.

It was a little before eight o'clock when Bolan helped Frank the Kid upstairs and to his bedroom. He steered him on to the bath, bent him over the toilet, stuck a finger down his throat and urged up everything in the guy's stomach.

Then he washed his face with cold water and put him to bed fully clothed.

<script>