He died instantly.
Davis drew his own service revolver and fired four times into the ceiling.
Down here! Davis screamed. Down here! I think Paulson is hit!
Davis wiped his prints off the cold gun with his handkerchief, then slid it thirty feet down the aisle. He mopped sweat off his forehead, ran three more aisles over, then saw a uniformed cop coming.
Hold your fire! He got out a far window down there, all the way on the end.
The uniformed officer found Lieutenant Paulson first, as Captain Davis had planned.
Christ! The lieutenant is dead! the cop said as he knelt beside the body. Jesus! You never said...
Dont just sit there! Captain Davis roared. Call for an ambulance! Move it!
The cop ran down the main aisle, the fifty dollars in his pocket feeling like blood money. Hed had no idea anyone was going to die! He radioed for an ambulance and the coroner. He tried to throw up, but he could not.
An hour later people still milled around the death scene. An assistant chief, Larry Jansen, kept shaking his head. Paulson had been the chiefs fair-haired boy. Jansen had helped promote him over a dozen older men who had scored higher on the testing.
Davis watched the two cops warily, but they said exactly what they were supposed to. The suspect fled into the warehouse. They didnt see that he was armed. They blocked off all the escape routes but one. The killer used it after shooting the officer. They had no idea why he dropped his gun. Perhaps the captain had wounded him, maybe hit his arm and the weapon fell. It was too dark in the warehouse to describe the man except by saying he appeared to be black and in his twenties.
Captain Davis sat on a box. He was visibly shaken. He did not have to fake it. He had killed before, but never a cop he had worked with, and not this way. He knew he had to do it, but he was sure he could never do it again. He had paid his damn dues! If the Mafia don wanted more from him, he would have to raise the pay scale to three thousand a week.
Chief Jansen touched the captains shoulder.
Harley, take the rest of the day off. Dont come in tomorrow, either. I know how this hurts. Youll get over it. Itll pass. But dont rush it. Come on, Ill drive you to your car.
3
After he talked with Nino Tattaglia, Mack Bolan looked up the pool hall on Grand, then dialed. He talked to two flunkies before he got Wally The Beast Franconi on the line.
Is this Wally Franconi?
Yeah. Whos asking?
Recent acquaintance of yours. Remember the guy who broke your arm last night?
Bolan waited until Franconi stopped screaming. Eventually, the flood of words and insults tapered off. When the Executioner could interrupt, he spoke sharply.
Franconi, youre not very well adjusted. Are you still there?
Im here, you fucking bastard!
Good. We should get together. I figure I proved to you that you need a guy like me around.
Hell, no! I... hey... whaddaya mean?
Protection. Those goons who were with you didnt help you much. You aint all that big without your rod, and like I thought, you sure as hell need some help.
Man, I gotta say you got guts. But even if I agree to a meet, why wouldnt I show up with six guys bigger than you and bust both your goddamned arms?
Youre smart, thats why. And so am I. Busting me up aint gonna make you no money. Staying alive and healthy so you can use your equipment makes you a money man. I can help you stay in action and turning the coin. Just figures.
I got protection. Who you with before?
West Coast. Got a little hot out there. Boss said take off a year. I dont need the money. But I work for six hundred a week.
Hell, I dont know. Maybe we should have a meet and talk. No promises.
Hey, none needed. Im nuts about racing. Know that little one-eighth-mile dirt track just north of town by Parkville?
I can find it.
Just to talk. About noon.
I dont know. Damn arm still hurts.
Take some pain pills. A long drive in the countryll do you good.
Okay, okay. Ill be there. Just be sure you come alone.
Right, Franconi, alone. See you then.
It was eleven oclock when Bolan arrived at the little race course. There was a dirt track. There were rickety stands for about two hundred people and pits with no garages. A summer operation. The gate to the track was open, so he put the rented Chevy around the oval at a leisurely pace, figuring to shake loose somebody in charge.
A grease-marked man wearing only shorts and running shoes waved the car into the pits. The Executioner stopped.
You run the show here?
Me and the bank.
Hear you got some hot destruction derbies going.
Now and then.
You got a car I can buy for the destruct?
Might. Cash?
Right on the radiator. Its got to have a good solid rear end and reverse and low forward.
Any make?
Most of them are several makes.
The man laughed. Bolan figured he was thirty. The Executioner got out of the car and extended his hand. Scotts the handle. Where is this bucket of bolts?
The man said his name was Castile and that he owned the spread. He led Bolan to a battered car and outlined its history.
The destruct racer had started life as a 69 Chevy, had outlived three engines and six radiators and all its fenders, but it still owned both low and second and reverse.
Got a V-8 in there right now that can snarl your pants off. I won the last two destruct derbies we had here with that little cranker.
How much?
Well, I got six seventy-five in her and shes a winner. Purse goes two hundred. Eight-fifty and shes yours.
Sold, if I can use your track this afternoon for a couple of hours. Youll have to clear out. Want the place all to myself and this guy who challenged me. The Executioner took out his wallet and counted out nine one-hundred-dollar bills. Close enough, he said.
You own it, Castile said.
Bolan found what he needed in the shop after Castile left. He put strands of strong wire in six places around the front bumper, and looped them for quick use. Then he wedged some sheet steel between the steering wheel and the dash a perfect shield, in case he was fired upon. The pliers went in his back pocket.
He fired up the Chevy and backed it around the track. A giant X-shaped roadway marked the infield, where the close-clearance races were held. He soon got the knack of driving in reverse, putting the battered hulk exactly where he wanted it.
It was eleven-thirty by the time Bolan was ready. He put two weapons in the battered veteran the flesh-shredding .44 AutoMag and a French infantry rifle, the 5.56 FA MAS, which is easy to handle, has great balance and keeps on target even when firing fully automatic. It spits out 3-round bursts or full-auto and holds a 25-round magazine. Four loaded mags were on the seat beside him.
The Executioner counted on Franconi bringing at least two cars full of armed soldiers. He figured The Beast would talk first, size him up and plan some diabolical end to the man who had humiliated him before his peers.
Satisfied with the weapons and the battered Chevy, Bolan drove to the small shack that served as office, ticket booth and living quarters for the owner. He nosed the vehicle into the shop section backward so he could race it into combat. He climbed the open steps to the upper floor and opened the window to check his field of fire. Perfect. The enemy crew wagons would probably not stop until they were directly below.
His only problem was getting Franconi alone inside the shack. The upstairs window would be a good firing point to fall back on. He checked the Chevy destruction monster and removed the weapons. If he stood at the front door, he should be able to lure Franconi inside. He knew the Mafia hit man would not be satisfied with a quick kill. And he would not let any of his men do the killing except in an emergency. This would be Franconis show, and that would be his fatal mistake.