A muscle bunched in Braddock's jaw. He fixed Conn with a wide-eyed stare and said, "Where? By whom?"
"Up at the New Horizons."
"Is there a plastic surgeon there? Is that a . . . well, Goddammit, Genghis! New Horizons! Are you telling me that's a plastics clinic?"
"Thought you knew," Conn said mildly concentrating on his chew.
"Conn, I'm going to bust you for this!" Braddock spluttered.
"My five minutes ain't up yet," Corm replied, eyes twinkling.
"Five minutes!" Braddock yelled. "I could get you five years!"
"Yeah, but you already gave me five minutes," Conn pointed out. He scratched at the fresh scar traversing his ribs, tilted his hat further down across his forehead, and said, "And now I'm giving you five seconds to get your fat ass outta my office. Beat it, Big City. Run and get your warrants."
Resisting suggestions that he "mob up" at the DiGeorge villa, Mack Bolan had maintained his accommodations at the resort hotel in Palm Springs while enjoying a free and ostensibly unrestricted run of the estate. He knew, of course, that few of his movements within the villa went unwatched and he suspected the existence of hidden observation posts behind various walls and ceilings. He had even discovered "bugs" in his hotel room. He had nevertheless managed to gather considerable intelligence concerning the combine's operations, such as the information he had been passing to Carl Lyons of the Pointer Detail. Contacts with Andrea D'Agosta had been both rare and fleeting, and characterized by a marked hostility on the girl's part. Through idle conversation with the other "soldiers," Bolan had learned that the girl had been but 20 years of age when her husband of less than a year drowned in a boating accident near San Pedro two years prior to Bolan's entry into Andtea's life. She was, of course, tolerated and deferred to by the palace guard but — as far as Bolan could determine — not actually liked by many of the men in DiGeorge's command. She was "the Capo's kid" and as such could do no wrong. She was variously referred to as "the American beauty rose" — "Miss Hot-ass" — "Th' damn debbatant" — and "Deej's bitter harvest" — none of these, however, within earshot of DiGeorge or his daughter or any of the officers in the guard.
Bolan had managed to identify himself with the common soldier, though most of them understood that he was "in probate" and undoubtedly destined for high rank in the organization. They talked freely in his presence and delighted in the gossipy tidbits which Bolan dropped in their midst from time to time. In less than a week of in-and-out presence at the villa, Bolan already could boast a considerable cadre who were ready to follow him up the trail of exaltation. "Franky Lucky's going to get a territory," was the consensus, and many bored (and relatively poor) palace guards were hopeful of being taken into his crew when the big day arrived. Bolan encouraged this type of thinking, through never overtly, and was quietly marking certain soldiers for his possible use in an emergency.
As Bolan was departing the villa on the night of October 21st, he took the short cut across the patio to reach the parking area, resulting in one of his infrequent encounters with Andrea D'Agosta. She was seated beside the pool in a deck chair and wore a light wrap over her bathing costume, Bolan paused beside her chair and said quietly, "How's it been, Andrea?"
"Oh it's just been a ball," she replied in a dull voice. Her eyes flashed up to his then and her face became animated. "Haven't you been told that the pool is out of bounds to you hoods?"
"I guess I forgot," Bolan replied. He smiled. "No, that isn't true. I was hoping I might run into you."
"You 'ran into' me once too often, Mr. Lambretta," she said coldly.
"I'm sorry, Andrea," he told her, and moved on.
"You'll be a lot sorrier when Victor Poppy gets back from Florida!" the girl hissed.
It was more the tone of voice than her words that halted Bolan. He spun slowly on his heel and retraced his steps to stand in front of the deck chair. "What do you mean?" he asked in a subdued voice.
Andrea's eyes darted about the patio. She lifted her arms to him and pursed her lips. Bolan bent to the embrace but she avoided his kiss, moving her mouth to his ear. "They think you might be a phoney," she whispered. "I'm betting you are. What is it . . . FBI or Treasury?"
Bolan pulled her out of the chair and clasped her to him, burying his lips into the soft flesh below her ear. "What's this about Florida?" he murmured.
"Phil Marasco sent a goon there to get a man out of jail. The man says he knew you, years ago, in New Jersey."
Bolan kissed her full on the mouth. She gasped and curled her fingers into his hair. "Get me out of here, Franky," she moaned.
"Don't worry, I will," he assured her. "Just play it cool. You understand?"
She nodded and began silently crying. "It's awful to feel this way about your own poppa, but I hate him," she sobbed. "I just hate him!"
"Save the hate for someone who deserves it," Bolan advised her.
"He deserves it, all right," she said. "I want you to look into something for me, Frank. Promise."
They kissed again. Bolan said, "What makes you so sure of me, Andrea?"
She ignored the parry. "Promise!" She hissed.
He nodded. "What do you want me to do?"
"Find out how Chuck really died," she whispered.
Bolan furrowed his brow and said, "Who's Chuck?"
"Charles D'Agosta, my husband."
Bolan stiffened and drew away to stare into her eyes. She read the question in the gaze and nodded her head emphatically. Bolan grunted, "I heard he drowned."
"Chuck was an expert yachtsman," she whispered. "And he could swim before he could walk. Promise me you'll look into it."
Bolan said, "I promise. Now what about this Florida deal? Who's the guy?"
"I don't know. But they're bringing him here to confirm your identity."
"If you hear something else, let me know. Get word to me somehow."
"Then you really are someone else," she whispered excitedly.
Bolan grinned and stepped away from her. "Maybe I just don't like surprises," he said. He blew her a kiss and went on across the patio.
As he rounded the corner to the parking area, a figure moved out of the shadows and held up two fingers in the peace sign. Bolan recognized the smooth-faced youth who had been assigned to Andrea's guard.
"I spell peace p-i-e-c-e," the bodyguard said with a low chuckle.
"So do I," replied Franky Lucky Bolan. He squeezed the youth's shoulder and went on to his car.
The boy held the door for him as he climbed inside, then closed it and leaned down to peer admiringly through the open window. "When you leave here, Lucky, I'd be proud to go with you," he confided.
Bolan winked and said, "I'll remember that, Benny Peaceful."
The bodyguard grinned delightedly. "Hey, that's a name that could stick," he said.
"Bet on it," replied Bolan. He wheeled around, flashed his lights at the gate guards, and sped through with a clutch-jumping whine of the powerful engine.
"There goes Franky Lucky on the prowl again," observed one of the guards.
"I'm glad my name ain't Mack the Blacksuit Bolan," said the other.
"Ain't I," replied the first quietly, staring after the fast-disappearing tail lights.
Chapter Eighteen
The interrogation
Philip Marasco awakened Julian DiGeorge at shortly past dawn on the morning of October 22nd and said, "Five of the boys are missing, and I think they've gone out to join up with Pena."