Damage Radius. Don Pendleton
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Stony Man file Bolan had reviewed during his flight to New Orleans. A little white had begun to creep into his hair, and the short, well-trimmed mustache and goatee showed lighter hues as well.
Bolan knew that the pressure of running any huge business—legal or otherwise—got to a man.
McFarley extended his hand and Bolan shook it. “I’ve been wanting to meet you, boyo,” the Irishman told Bolan with a big smile. “Ever since you started beating up my heavyweights.”
It was a statement rather than a question, so Bolan remained silent.
“I’m hungry,” McFarley said. “Let’s eat.” He turned and led Bolan to a long banquet table, much as Sugar had done earlier on the way to the elevator. But, Bolan noted, the view following McFarley wasn’t nearly as interesting as it had been when he’d trailed the woman in the see-through shift.
Places had been set at the head of the table, and just to the left-hand side. Bolan couldn’t help but wonder if McFarley was trying to send him a message by the seating arrangement. If so, that message had to be I’m about to offer you an important opportunity. But you aren’t my right-hand man. At least not yet.
Bolan took his seat as a woman dressed in a low-cut French maid’s outfit—nearly as sexy as Sugar’s shift—brought out a bottle of white wine and two glasses. The soldier held up his hand when she started to fill his glass. “No, thanks,” he said. “Just some water or iced tea, if you would.”
“You don’t drink?” McFarley said in a surprised tone.
“Gave it up years ago,” Bolan said. “Impaired my judgment. Almost got me killed a time or two.”
“Smart, boyo,” the Irishman said. “I drink. But lightly.” He chuckled as he turned toward the French maid. “Too much alcohol interferes with my true pleasures in life. Just half a glass, Maria,” he said, running his hand up under the back of the woman’s short skirt as she poured his wine.
A moment later, the woman he had called Maria left the room and returned with salads for the two men. Another quick trip through a swing door brought a variety of salad dressings in silver bowls. Both times, she gave Bolan a lewd smile like the one he’d gotten from Sugar downstairs. She also exaggerated her bend when she set the bowls on the table, allowing her already short black skirt to ride up over her bare buttocks.
There were a lot of different crimes that were coordinated in this house, the soldier realized. But if there was one theme that ran through all of the operations it was sex. Bolan was a warrior, not a psychologist. But it didn’t take a Freud or Jung to see that McFarley had an enormous appetite—or more likely an addiction—to amorous adventures with the opposite gender.
McFarley began to eat and Bolan followed suit. The kitchen was obviously on the other side of the swing door—unusual here on the fifth story of the mansion. It appeared that, like the installation of the elevator, McFarley had done some extensive remodeling within the old house.
When the salads were finished, Maria appeared holding a silver tray. The smell of roast duck wafted through the room as she set it down, this time doing so on the other side of the table from Bolan to allow him a view of the cleavage barely hidden by her low-scooped, laced neckline. Several more trips brought out bowls of potatoes and vegetables. As well as more exposures of female flesh.
“Not a bad spread,” Bolan said, breaking the silence.
“You talking about the food or the waitress, Mr. Cooper?” McFarley laughed.
“I meant the food,” Bolan said. “But the scenery isn’t bad, either.”
“Nothing but the best around here,” McFarley replied. “Sure beats a po’boy on Bourbon Street. Or the disease-ridden hookers who work the jazz clubs.”
“It does indeed,” Bolan said.
McFarley laughed out loud. “Our waitress also works downstairs,” he said. “She’s yours later, Mr. Cooper, if you’d like. And it’s on the house. Any of the girls you want. And however many you can handle—if you’re into that sort of thing.”
Bolan nodded. “If you’re giving me gifts like that, you’d better start calling me Matt. Mr. Cooper just doesn’t quite have the right ring for an orgy.”
“All right then, Matt, me boyo,” McFarley said in a thick brogue. “And while I don’t extend this to many of my other employees, I think you should call me Tommy.”
“You sure you want to do that?” Bolan asked as Maria sliced a large piece of duck breast and set it on his plate. “I’m just a gym manager.”
McFarley laughed again. “Not after tonight,” he said. “I’ve got a feeling about you, Matt Cooper.” He paused for a second then went on. “Plus, I know far more about your past than you think I do,” he said in a slightly lower voice.
I doubt that, Bolan thought. The fact was he knew exactly what the man knew about him. Aware that McFarley had connections high within the New Orleans Police Department, Bolan had seen to it that Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man Farm’s wheelchair-bound computer expert, had hacked into police files the world over and set up dummy files for Matt Cooper. They included arrests in many of the same criminal activities McFarley engaged in.
But no convictions.
The types, and vast number of arrests, had told McFarley that Matt Cooper was a player.
The lack of convictions told him that Cooper was smart.
“My question is,” McFarley asked after swallowing a mouthful of roast duck, “why did you want a job as a gym manager in the first place? It’s like a neurosurgeon working in a car wash.”
“Without boring you with the details,” Bolan said, “I presently find it advantageous to keep a low profile. There’s been a misunderstanding between two parties I worked with. It’ll blow over with time, but right now, I need something that keeps me out of the limelight within our own peculiar little loops.”
The Irishman scooped up a forkful of green peas and stuck the utensil in his mouth as he nodded. When he had swallowed again, he said, “I understand.” He started to cut another piece of duck with his knife and fork, then stopped. “You know, Matt,” he said, “with your experience you might be more valuable to me in other areas besides managing my gym.”
Bolan reached for a bowl of applesauce and spooned some onto his plate. “I’ve already told you, Tommy,” he said, finally using the man’s first name. “I’m laying low for a while.”
“When you’re with me,” McFarley said, “you’ve got nothing to worry about. We can change your name if it’d make you feel better. Even change your face if you’d like. I’ve got a cosmetic surgeon who—”
“That’s okay,” Bolan interrupted. “I’ve had my face changed a couple of times in the past. That’s enough.”
The statement was not an idle comment. It was the truth.
“Good enough, then, laddie,” McFarley said. “I don’t think you’ll be running across any of the people you’ve worked with in the past anyway. I’ve got my own pipelines, and like you said, we’ve got ‘loops’ not just one ‘loop.’ We may know what the other folk who do our kind of business are doing, but we aren’t in league with them all.”
Maria returned, clearing the table of dishes and bowls, and making sure Bolan got a good look at her again, both top and bottom.
“Are you up for dessert?” McFarley asked.
“I’m already stuffed,” Bolan said. “Better skip it. Besides, who knows which of your boxers I’m going to have to beat up tomorrow?”
McFarley stood up. “Like I told you,” he said. “Your days at the gym are over. I can hire any number of punch-drunk old fighters to hold the heavy bag and mop the floor of that place. The only time you need to go back there is to get whatever