Part 14 (2/2)
Sammy's face was twisted with an inner torment. He cried, ”Mr. Cavaretta, I don't think-”
Bolan snapped, ”No you don't! That's my department! He goes!”
The cop went, and Bolan continued on to the house.
It was an incident he could have done without. He needed to get d.a.m.n quick to the telephone and get some more numbers into the game.
He went directly to the library and picked up the desk phone just as someone somewhere else in the house was hanging up an extension.
Bolan re-cradled the instrument, his gaze s.h.i.+fting to the ceiling directly overhead, then he picked it up again.
He got a no-interference dial-tone but again waited several seconds, then called the number which Drasco had left with him.
Carmine himself answered the first ring. Bolan told him, ”This is me. You know what is coming at you right now, this very minute. You better be ready.”
Drasco's cautious reply was rea.s.suring. ”Thanks, we are. How many?”
”Forty-two all told. Half to you, half to Jules. You better call him.”
”Okay. You know we appreciate it.”
Bolan said, ”Wait. I heard this much, also. What's that recognition signal you boys been using?”
”You mean with the lights?”
”Yeah.”
”Okay, well, just two clicks high beam and hold, two clicks low and hold, another high and fast back to low.”
”That's the one,” Bolan said, hoping so. ”Watch for that. It means something else tonight. It's their signal to each other. It means everything looks okay, crash right in.”
”They'll crash, all right,” Drasco muttered, and hung up.
Smiling solemnly, Bolan consulted the telephone directory and made another call, reached his party after some haggling over names and departments, quickly had his say, and hung up.
Then he went upstairs to see why the Don was playing with the telephone.
Captain Thomkins was hunched over his desk, staring glumly into a pint carton of milk. He told Joe Persicone, ”When they bury me, I want them to make my tombstone out of recycled milk cartons and sandwich wraps. I've spent half my life in their company, I may as well go on through eternity that way.”
The FBI man was stretched across two chairs. He s.h.i.+fted his feet and grunted a tired groan. ”We may as well hang it up, Wayne. I think we missed our guess. I don't think we'll ever hear of the guy again.”
”Don't start that,” Thompkins growled. ”I haven't given up yet.”
As if to reward his perseverence, Bolan's call came at that precise instant.
The Captain s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone and his eyes found the interested gaze of Persicone as he said, ”Yeah, yeah, this is the big cop in the dirty gray suit. Who's this?”
The eyes blinked at the FBI man as he said, ”Who?”
Persicone kicked his feet clear and slid to the edge of his chair.
The cop was saying, ”Sure, I know where. You say there'll be-wait! How do I know you're really who you say you are?” The eyes crackled. ”Okay, fella. Hey! Do me a personal favor, will you? Get the h.e.l.l out of our town!”
The FBI agent could hear the crisp crackling of the telephone receiver, the methodical voice that rattled it.
The Captain's eyes were alternately narrowing and widening, in some weird rhythm of attentive listening.
Finally Thomkins yelled, ”Wait, dammit! Did he -? He did!” He flung the telephone down and said, ”He hung up on me!”
”Who did he say was calling?” Persicone inquired, knowing already.
”He said it was Mack Bolan. He said the foreign army, what the h.e.l.l ever that is, is storming the hall of horrors, whatever the h.e.l.l that is, and we should rush right out to Drasco's and Sticatta's ready to pick up the pieces.”
Persicone was on his feet. He said, ”Well? Are we going?”
”Well, wait, I want to. . .”
”I think we should.”
”I already have a force at each place. Let me. . .”
”Was that all he said?”
”It's not all he said. I hope I got a recording of that. He says we should send fingerprints on all those mala-macaroni or something to-”
”Malacarni?”
”That's the one. What's it mean?”
”I'll tell you later. Go on, what else did he say?”
”We should send these fingerprints to Interpol, we might be very interested in the results. Joe. . . ?”
The Captain was giving the FBI man a very searching gaze.
Persicone found it discomforting. He said, ”What?”-a bit testily.
”Level with me. Is this guy working with you people?”
”Bolan? You know better! Come on, what else?” Thomkins sighed. ”He just said the numbers were falling. And he hung up.”
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