Poison Justice. Don Pendleton
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another pot on the stove, turning the flame on low, he emptied the marinara into the new pan. To think he’d been cooking for these assholes galled him. Fuck ’em. If they insisted and pleaded for his linguini and white clams, however, he’d reconsider, only next time he’d flavor the sauce with some less appetizing ingredients.
He tossed the empty pot into the sink and grinned at the clattering sound that echoed through the lodge. He was taking a slab of Italian sausage out of the fridge when he found he had company. It was one of the marshals, Gravy or Groovy or something, perching himself on a stool, smack in the doorway, laying the assault rifle across his lap. Like he was making a statement: Jimmy would have to politely excuse himself in order to get past. Was this just another disrespectful asshole move, or was it something else? Marelli wondered. Did the guy want conversation? Was he boxing him in the kitchen for a reason?
Marelli washed a thick cloud of cigar smoke over the guy. Taking a butcher knife, he began chopping up sausage on the cutting board. “What?” he growled. “You wanna shoot my sauce off the stove?”
“He shouldn’t of done what he did, Jimmy. That’s just between us, okay?”
Marelli stared at the guy, didn’t trust something he read in the eyes. He’d been around the block too many times to buy into whatever the guy was selling. No matter how much he gave them, he knew he was still just a murdering scumbag to these guys, smart enough to know all about lines in the sand. He turned and dumped sausage into the pot, turning the flame a little higher. Why were the hairs on the back of his neck rising? Something felt all wrong.
“We’ll get you a new TV.”
“How about a VCR with that shake?”
Groovy nodded. “That can be arranged.”
Marelli grunted, took the knife and sliced open a sub roll.
“Hey, that smells pretty good, Jimmy, whatever you’re cooking.”
Marelli snorted. “Tellin’ me you want some?”
“If you think you can spare a plate.”
“I’ll see what I got.”
THE CABRIANO GENTLEMAN’S club was called the Fireball. For Bolan’s intent and purpose it couldn’t have been more aptly named. Unlike Big Tony’s, the beauty of it was that the building sat alone. Bolan briefly wondered how many city officials were greased to give the immediate area an urban facelift, meaning plenty of elbow room from the Fireball to other establishments.
According to Justice intel, a fair amount of dirty money passed through the back room for the daily count of proceeds from drugs, extortion and local bookies paying their tribute. Agent who had the strip joint under surveillance, inside and out, figured four to six playboy hoods had enticed the girls for some after-hours celebration. The big spenders were enjoying a few hours away from the wife and kids.
The Executioner was moving, north by northwest, ready to veer due west after this stop to the Don’s pier on the East River. That’s where the big money was counted, but Bolan figured to help himself to a nice war chest at the Fireball before raiding the bank by the water. Take the Mob’s money, and more often than not that slammed them with far more impact than blowing away a few street soldiers. After getting a sitrep from his agents, Bolan knew Cabriano was making a pit stop of his own in Cobble Hill, mixing pleasure with the mistress before proceeding to the warehouse on the pier.
Time enough for Bolan to light another fire.
An HK MP-5 with attached sound suppressor hung from one shoulder and a nylon sack dangled from the other side as Bolan rolled out of the alley, Beretta at the ready. He would have picked the lock on the back-door exit to breach the way, but found a wise guy had practically opened the gate for him.
The beefy slab was jangling around about five pounds of gold chains, giving instructions to the girl as he put his hand on the top of her head. It would have been better for him if he’d taken her to some bushes or used a back seat. Animal instinct for more than pleasure sounded the alarm in his head next, as he looked up, his lips moving at the sight of an armed voyeur marching his way.
Bolan saw the man was ready to bark his indignation about the infringement, then his eyes widened, Bolan not much caring what he saw or thought in his final act of desperation. The mobster shoved the girl away and was clawing for his .45 when Bolan tapped the trigger on his Beretta. The man went down, a dark third eye in the forehead. Bolan aimed the sound-suppressed snout at the girl. Shaking from blond mane to high-heeled pumps, she started to plead for her life.
“Do not speak to anybody about what you saw here,” Bolan said. “You never saw me.”
She bobbed her head.
“If you do, I know where you live. Go.”
She went, and the Executioner slid through the door, dragging the body in behind him. He homed in on the laughter and the rock music at the end of the corridor. Bolan stowed the Beretta and filled his hands with the MP-5. Intel had advised Bolan that the office was on the other side of the bar, which was in the middle of the room.
Bolan rolled out into the open and took in the sights on the march. Four big spenders and four party girls in all, they had the place to themselves. To his left, two men were at the far end of the bar, one playing grab ass with a brunette in a string bikini, the other with his face buried in a pile of coke. The blonde on his arm was nudging him to move over and laying on some sass. Off to Bolan’s immediate right, there was a twinkle toes, back turned, hopping from foot to foot in a drunken jig. He was waving bills at a playmate on stage, who, at Bolan’s first glance, appeared to have enough money shoved in both garter belts to balance California’s budget. Number four was the music fan, off with another brunette, fanning the pages on the jukebox, punching in favorites he’d never hear. The young hoods of the new Cabriano generation had probably never heard of Frank Sinatra, but Bolan noted they, like many who had gone before them, still preferred big .45s.
Mr. Hands was the first one to notice the party crasher, losing the girl with a shove and a shout and reaching for his weapon. Bolan responded with a 3-round burst to the chest that blew the gangster off his stool.
Mr. Selfish pulled his face out of the powder long enough to take the next brief 9 mm stream, a rising burst up the spine that pinned him to the barfront before he crumpled in a boneless heap at the feet of the blonde. The after-hours girls were screaming now, but holding their ground. Bolan figured they knew the score, having romped with their playboys long enough to know their day would come, but that they weren’t the targets.
It worked for Bolan.
Tracking on, the warrior hit Twinkle Toes in the sternum as he was digging out his gun. Twinkle Toes was airborne across the stage, gun and cash taking to the air, hammering into and bringing down the mirror when the Executioner finished Jukebox Hero. Another triple load of subsonic 9 mm rounds, this time through the ribs. The wise guy bounced off the jukebox to a spray of glass, and Bolan looked to the partition that separated the office from the games. On the march, he issued the same directive to the party girls as the one he’d encountered on the way in. They were moving out, when Bolan heard a voice he assumed belonged to Bennie Guardino, the club’s manager, cry out from hiding, “I ain’t armed! Goddammit, who are you? Whaddaya want?”
“You alone?”
“Yeah!”
“Step out, hands up.”
A skinny figure in a white silk jacket with slicked back black hair stepped into view.
“In the office. Move,” Bolan commanded.
The guy kept blubbering questions as Bolan spun him and marched him down the short hall. Inside the office the soldier found Bennie had the day’s take piled on his desk. The open safe revealed more rubber-banded stacks of bills. Bolan figured his war chest would settle in at three, maybe four hundred large. Not bad for a few minutes of work. He was sure the Justice Department’s Task Force on Organized Crime would appreciate the effort.
Bolan shoved Guardino toward his desk. “This