Bolan lit a cigarette and said, "Okay. But you won't see anything."
The police sergeant swivelled about with one arm on the back rest and peered into the darkness of the rear corner. He made out only a lean figure in a lightweight suit, a felt hat pulled low over the forehead "We'd like to have your name," he said faintly.
"You'd better be satisfied with what you're getting," Bolan replied. "You know a town called Blythe?"
"Sure, it's just this side of the Arizona border." The policeman was still trying to make an identification. He noted that his informant wore tight-fitting suede gloves. The cigarette glowed faintly as the man took a heavy drag, allowing Lyons to see enough to produce a curious feeling of letdown. "I guess I've been halfway thinking that you were Bolan," he said.
"And now?"
"Well I know you're not Bolan. The voice is close enough, but not the face. Okay, Pointer. What about Blythe?"
"It's in the package I'm leaving you. There's an old B-17 base near there. It was closed down right after World War Two Being used now as a public airport, but very little traffic. A lieutenant by the name of Gagliano is running the operation there, in an old building that used to be a hangar. It's a powder plant."
"A what?"
"It's where they cut the H, dilute it down, and package it. Then they wholesale it out from that point. Deliveries are made in small, private airplanes. The wholesale end of it is all done by air. I don't have any poop on the retail lines, and I gather that the organization isn't even working that end of it."
"How's the market?"
"Frantic, since the border pressure. The stuff's been stockpiling on the Mexican side, retail outlets are flipping for buys."
"Price should be good, then," he said.
Bolan grunted. "They're buying uncut H at a little over two thousand per kilo, then wholesaling the cut stuff at a going price that has lately gone to 14 thou the kilo."
Lyons whistled softly. "The profits in junk," he commented in an awed tone.
"Yeah. I wouldn't recommend moving on Blythe right away. They'll be cooling it after your hit this morning."
"We let one of their boats get through," Lyons said. "We're watching it."
"Good thinking. Play it right and you can line up their entire wholesaling operation."
"You know," Lyons said thoughtfully, "you could be Bolan."
His guest laughed and replied, "You just won't t let it go, will you?"
"You think like him and you talk like him and it wouldn't take too damn much to make you look like him."
Bolan laughed again and replied, "The word's all around that the guy got it at Palm Village."
"We've never found a body. Just how much do you know about Palm Village, Pointer?"
"An old gunner by the name of Pena was in charge up there. Somehow he's missing in action, or something. The whole mob is wondering about him."
"Pena is in custody," Lyons said.
"Yeah?"
"You interested?"
"I guess I am. Fair exchange?"
"No reason not to tell you," Lyons said. "The news is probably out by now, anyway, or will be. Braddock went up there today and busted the thing wide open."
"What do you mean? What thing?"
"The Palm Village police have had Pena under protective custody since shortly after the fireworks up there. His own request, as I understand it." Lyons laughed. "That head cop up there is something else. He's been hiding Pena in his own home. No charges, no nothing — just sanctuary. Or that was the way Braddock read it." The policeman's eyelids dropped to a half closure and he added, "Aren't you going to ask me who Braddock is?"
"I know who Braddock is," Bolan replied coolly.
"I know who you are, too," the Sergeant said. "You're Mack Bolan."
"You're out of your mind," Bolan said laughing.
"It's a good face job, Bolan. I had no idea it could be done so quickly. What's your cover? Maybe I can help you strengthen it."
"Thanks, but you're still out of your mind." Bolan cracked the door and Lyons got a good look at the face as the interior light flashed on. "I'll give you a call for the next setup."
"Do that," Lyons murmured. "One of the people in this detail would be interested in anything you might learn about the Palm Village massacre. He'd appreciate some intelligence, asked me to tell you that."
"Who's the interested party?"
"Agent named Brognola, Justice Department. He's interested in rackets."
"Everybody's interested in rackets these days," Bolan said. "Brognola, huh? I'm not sure I like the name."
"Hell, he's straight. Just because his name sounds Italian, you can't . . ."
"I know, I know," Bolan protested, chuckling. "Some of my best friends have Italian names." He got out of the car and walked into the darkness.
Julian DiGeorge stepped forward to greet Franky Lucky with a wide grin and a warm clasp of arms. "Come on in, siddown, siddown," the Capo said. "I was just fixin' some drinks. You still with Scotch?"
Franky Lucky Bolan smiled tiredly and dropped into a chair. "Sure, that's great, Deej," he replied. Philip Marasco leaned over to light Bolan's cigarette. DiGeorge thrust a glass of Scotch and ice into his hand and settled into the other chair. They sat in a sort of triangular arrangement, with Bolan at the point. The implications of the overly warm hospitality were not lost on Bolan. He realized that a lot of effort was being exerted to put him at ease. Outwardly, it worked — but his mind was seething with the possibilities of directions which the interview could take.
"You're looking tired, Franky," DiGeorge observed. "You're sure a go-getter. I guess you don't hardly stop all day long, eh?"
"It's not that bad," Bolan said. "I'm used to depending all on myself. I'll get used to an organization around me pretty soon."
"Feel like you're getting any closer to this Bolan?" Marasco asked quietly.
"Yeah and something else, too," Bolan replied quickly, staring steadily at the bodyguard. "What's this I hear about the big Mexican bust?"
"Just one of those things, Franky," DiGeorge put in hurriedly. "We learn to roll with the punches. Forget it. Hey, you always worked alone, eh? You never were in the army or navy or anything?"
Bolan snickered and flashed a broad grin to Marasco. "Hey, Philip Honey, does the boss think I'm that big a sucker?"
DiGeorge chuckled and hid his eyes in his glass. He sipped the drink, then came back with, "Only suckers put on the uniform, eh? Did you burn your draft card, Lucky?"
"Only suckers burn their draft cards too," Bolan said genially. "There's better ways. Some guys I heard of even bought themselves a stand-in."
DiGeorge's eyebrows elevated and his eyes locked with Marasco's. "Yeah, I guess I've heard of something like that myself," he said thoughtfully.
"They're not getting no uniform on Franky Lambretta," Bolan said tightly. "Behind a uniform, behind bars, it's all the same. No, thanks." He waved his hand as though to dismiss the entire subject, saying, "Listen, Deej, I stumbled onto something today maybe you should know about. Especially since this big Mexican bust everybody's talking about."
"Yeah?" DiGeorge was smiling archly at Marasco. His gaze flicked to Bolan. "Where you been all day, Lucky?"
"That's what I'm talking about. Listen. I was up around Palm Village. Now I've heard the boys talking about this Screwy Looey Pena. Listen I think the guy is a bird in a gilded cage."
Marasco's hand jerked toward his pocket and emerged with a pack of cigarettes. DiGeorge exhaled sharply and said, "What're you onto, Lucky?"