"Guy asked for you personally, Carl," the Patrolman reported.
Lyons raised his eyebrows in surprise, scooped up the phone, and said, "Sergeant Lyons here."
"This is long distance so let's keep it brief a muffled Voice responded. "I want you to set me up with a federal narcotics agent. I have some information they'd like to have."
"Why me?" Lyons asked. "Where'd you get my name?"
"Reliable source," the voice replied. "I can't be too careful. Neither can you. Will you set it up?"
"I can try," Lyons said. He signalled quietly to Macintosh. The other officer went into the next room and lifted an extension telephone on the same line. "Give me your name and number," Lyons requested, "and I'll get back with you as soon as possible."
"You know better than that," the caller said, chuckling. "Can I get you at this same number at five this morning"
"I'll try to arrange it," the Sergeant replied. "I can't promise anything."
"You try. Get me a name and number I can unload this info to, and make sure it's straight. This is hot, very hot, and it can't wait too long."
"Why don't you just unload it on me?" Lyons suggested. Macintosh, staring at him through the open doorway, gave Lyons a wink.
The caller hesitated shortly, then: "I don't think you want to get involved in this."
"I can pass along anything you have to the proper person," Lyons assured him.
"This has to do with a narcotics smuggling ring. It's Mafia, Lyons, and it's big, damn big. I've got names, dates, and routes, bills of lading, all kinds of junk. It's too much for a telephone contact. And I don't want any middle men."
"I'll meet you someplace," Lyons suggested, smiling across the open space at his partner.
"You're sure you want in this?"
"It's my job, Mister . . . Mister . . ."
"Why don't you just call me Pointer. You be thinking it over. I'll call back at five to complete the set. Don't mess it up, now."
A sudden and stunning suspicion jolted the Sergeant. "This isn't Bolan, is it?" he asked.
Without a pause the reply came, "Word has it that Bolan is dead."
"Oh?"
"I'll call at five."
"Let me see if I have this straight," Lyons said hurriedly. "Are you inside the Mafia, Pointer?"
"I sure am."
The connection was then broken. Macintosh replaced his instrument and quickly rejoined Lyons. "This could be the biggest thing since Valachi," the young Patrolman commented excitedly.
"I'm just glad you heard it," Lyons replied. He pushed aside the stack of reading matter and scraped his chair back. "Let's go tell the Lieutenant. Pointer said he was calling long distance. I wonder how long a distance. I wonder where he got my name. I wonder what the hell his angle is."
Wonders would never cease, as Sgt. Lyons was to discover shortly. A few hours later, Big Tim Braddock would draw his new assignment also The life and fortunes of Mack Bolan, who was very much alive and well in Palm Springs, were beginning a new weaving which would involve them all in a new and violent tapestry of terror.
At 7:30 on the morning of October 21st, a new and highly secret undercover detail was launched at the L.A. Hall of Justice. Code-named Pointer, the operation was the ultimate in inter-agency cooperation and was staffed by Carl Lyons and Al Macintosh of LAPD; Harold Brognola of the U.S. Department of Justice, Racketeering Investigative Group; Raymond Portoccesi of the Los Angeles FBI Office; and U.S. Treasury Narcotics Agents George Bruemeyer and Manuel de Laveirca.
Mack Bolan's Lambretta mask was opening the Mafia doors to the fresh air of law enforcement, and the Executioner's unrelenting war on the giant crime syndicate was entering a dramatic and suspenseful new phase. As the various threads of the weave began coming together, pain and terror and violence and wholesale slaughter would stalk that gray no man's landscape separating the just from the unjust, Mack Bolan's definition of hell.
Chapter Fifteen
Inquest
Willie Walker and his crew had returned some days earlier with a completely negative report concerning the status and whereabouts of both Mack Bolan and Lou Pena. "That town is clean as a whistle, Deej," Walker reported. "If they've got this Bolan buried up there, nobody knows it. We pumped everybody from the Mayor to the gravediggers. As for Screwy Looey, he ain't left no tracks nowhere. If you would ask me, I'll have to say it looks like Looey is layin' low. Or else this Bolan got to him and left 'im in a shallow grave somewhere."
Walker and his crew were returned to a red-alert status and diffused into Palm Springs environs in a quiet but continuous patrol operation. All important visitors arriving at the DiGeorge country estate, of which there had been an unusual number in recent days, were convoyed from and to the airport by strong security crews, and the villa itself was a veritable armed camp. Andrea D'Agosta was under virtual house-arrest and was rarely seen about the grounds; on occasional brief visits to the family swimming pool, she had been closely escorted by several watchful members of the palace guard.
Tensions had seemed to grow rather than to dissipate and by the 21st day of October, Julian DiGeorge's uneasiness had reached an intolerable level. He summoned Philip Honey Marasco to his chambers in the early afternoon and told the burly bodyguard, "I'm getting a nervous feeling about Screwy Looey. I wonder if you could find somebody to get in touch with him."
His face an impassive mask, Marasco replied, "Looey should know better than to worry you this way, Deej. He shouldn't make you go looking for him."
"You're thinking like me," DiGeorge said. "We know what's what, Phil. Screwy Looey is laying low on me."
"A guy shouldn't be afraid of his own family," Maraseo commented. "I think it's his pride, maybe. He told some of the boys he wasn't coming back without this Bolan's head."
"Somebody," DiGeorge said thoughtfully, "ought to put the word out that Screwy Looey had better get back home."
Marasco thoroughly understood the tone of this genteel conversation. To an outsider, DiGeorge's complaint might have sounded like nothing more than idle fretting. In the language of the Family, however, the message was as clear as a military command. Marasco jerked his head in a casual nod and replied, "I'll put the word out, Deej. Is there anything special you want said to Looey?"
DiGeorge studied his fingertips and said, "In this thing of ours, Philip Honey, we either stand together or we die alone."
Marasco briefly drummed his fingers on DiGeorge's desk, then said, "Yeah," and turned to leave.
"What are you making on Franky Lucky?" DiGeorge asked casually.
Emotion entered Marasco's features for the first time during the interview. He turned back to his boss with a heavy frown. "Everything checks, Deej, but hell, I just don't know. All the boys like 'im. He's tough and hard as a rock, but he don't go throwing his weight around. It ain't like he's trying to make up to everybody, you know . . . I mean, he don't step away from trouble, he just don't go looking for any. And the boys like 'im, I mean like they kind of look up to 'im, you know . . . But I just . . . don't . . ."
"Yeah. I know what you mean, Phil. Something bothers me, too, and I just can't finger it. You're sure his history checks out, eh?"
Marasco's frown deepened. "Yeah, it all checks. He don't leave many tracks, though. I guess he's been pretty much of a loner. But I finally got a line on a guy that knew 'im out in Jersey. The guy's in jail down in Florida, though."
"You know what to do about that," DiGeorge said quietly.