"At the hotel. I'm beat. I'll be in pretty soon."
Bolan could hear DiGeorge's quiet rumble in the background but could not distinguish the words. Marasco said, "Deej wants to know about the picture."
"What picture?"
"The subject was supposedly carrying a surgeon's sketch of another interesting subject. Do you have it?"
"Of course not, Bolan snorted. "I don't go around collecting souvenirs."
Another background rumble, then: "He wants to know where you left that contract."
"Where the mountain meets the desert," Bolan reported cryptically, "and where one subject might wait for another."
"Okay, I got that. Deej says come home as soon as possible."
"Tell Deej I took a five-mile stroll in the sun. Tell him I'll be home when I can forget that."
Marasco chuckled. "Okay, Franky, I'll tell him. Get yourself rested, then come on out. There's things you should know about."
"I'll be there," Bolan said. He hung up, stared at the floor for a moment, then opened a fresh pack of cigarettes, lit one, and stretched out across the bed.
"Yes, I'll be there," he repeated in a dull monotone, speaking to himself. "With bells."
Philip Marasco led the search party out the little-travelled desert blacktop which links Palm Springs and Palm Village. Two cars, each carrying five men, made the short trip to the crossroads and found the scene of Franky Lucky's "hit" with no difficulty whatever.
The ten Mafiosi ran excitedly about the scene of action, poking, pointing, and animatedly reconstructing the details. Marasco searched each body thoroughly, went over the vehicle with precision, then arranged his troops at arm's-length intervals for a wide scrutiny along the entire length of the death car's travel.
Returning to the villa, Marasco dolefully reported to his Capo, "If Lou had a sketch, he must've ate it. And you should see the mess this Franky Lucky made of those boys. I never saw nothing like it."
"It don't make sense that he had no sketch," DiGeorge argued fretfully. "He had to have something up his sleeve or he wouldn't have been beating it back here. I guess there was nothing left alive, eh?"
"Not hardly," Marasco replied, shuddering. "There wasn't hardly anything left even whole. I never saw such a mess. This Franky Lucky is a mean contractor. And let me tell you, Deej, he don't mess around on a hit. Remember those six-to-one odds we was talking about last night?"
DiGeorge soberly nodded his head. "Didn't mean much, eh?"
"It wouldn't have meant anything at twelve to one, Deej. I tell you, when this Franky Lucky does find himself a piece of that Bolan, I want to be around to see what happens."
DiGeorge was staring thoughtfully into empty space. He noisily cleared his throat and said, "I wonder if you've thought of something, Phil. I wonder if you realize that someone has been playing games with old Deej."
Marasco inspected his Capo's face, found no clue to his thoughts, and replied, "What kind of games, Deej?"
"What was it Franky Lucky was telling me about this fight he had with Bolan? He said he saw Bolan down at the corners, and he recognized him, and they shot it out. And this was just a few days after Bolan ducked us over at th' Village. Right?"
"Yeah." Marasco was chewing the thought. "But I . . ." His eyes widened and he said, "Whuup! Willie Walker says on the phone that Bolan got his face carved the day of the hit."
"That's just what I been thinking, Philip Honey," DiGeorge mused. "Now somebody has got a story crossed. I wonder who?"
"Why would Franky want to cross you up, Deej?"
"That's what I have to wonder about, Phil. We're just saying if, now. If Screwy Looey was telling it straight. Have you ever caught Lou in a lie, Phil? I mean ever? An important lie?"
Marasco was thinking about it. He shook his head and replied, "I don't believe Lou ever gave you anything but a straight lip, Deej. But we got to remember one thing. Lou could have thought he had something. Maybe someone else wanted him to think that."
"You ever know any boys that got face jobs, Phil?"
"Yeah. It used to be the fashion back East."
"How long before they're out of bandages?"
"Oh, two or three weeks."
DiGeorge grunted. "And the boys I knew, they went around with puss pockets and Band-Aids for sometimes a month after that. It's a messy thing, this face job."
"They're even moving hearts around from body to body now, Deej. Maybe they got better ways to give face jobs now, too."
"I want somebody to find out about that," DiGeorge commanded.
"Sure, Deej."
"Meanwhile, Franky Lucky is right back in probate. If Bolan did get a face job, Franky didn't see him at no desert corners a few days later, no matter how fancy they get with face jobs. There's only one of two ways, saying that Bolan did get carved. He either saw him in bandages, or he saw him wearing the new face. Now that's plain, ain't it? Franky Lucky could not have recognized Bolan three days after a face job!"
"That's a fact, Deej," Marasco said. He appeared to be slightly out of breath. "Saying, of course, that Lou had the straight lip, then Franky Lucky has been using a curved one."
DiGeorge sighed. "That's a fact, Philip Honey." He sighed again. "You say the boy shoots a hard hit, eh?"
"You'd have to see what I saw, Deej, before you could ever know."
"Wouldn't it be hell," DiGeorge said tiredly, "if Franky Lucky turns out to be this Bolan's new face."
Marasco lost his breath entirely. His face paled. "I wouldn't go that far, Deej," he puffed.
"I would," DiGeorge stated matter-of-factly. "That's why I'm the Capo, Philip Honey. I would. When is Victor Poppy due in?"
"L.A. International at two o'clock," Marasco replied mechanically. "Franky might have lied a little, Deej. About shooting it up with Bolan. Just to get your attention."
"I thought of that, too. I have to think of everything, Phil. Don't worry, I'm thinking. I sure want to see this gift Victor's bringing us."
"I'd have to guess that Franky Lucky is straight, Deej," Marasco stated, phrasing the strongest argument he dared.
"You do the guessing, Phil," DiGeorge replied with a weary smile. "I'll do the thinking."
Bolan stopped at a secluded public telephone booth and gambled on finding Carl Lyons at the contact number. The gamble paid off. Lyons immediately asked, "What do you know about the events at Palm Village early this morning?"
"Enough," Bolan said. "I'll trade some intel with you."
"No trades," Lyons clipped back. "Tim Braddock's at the point of death, and the most grisly damn piece of . . ."
"I know all about it, Lyons," Bolan said humbly. "Will Braddock make it?"
"The doctors are hopeful, At the very best though, he'll be out of things for quite a while."
"He's a good cop," Bolan said, genuinely regretful.
"Better than some I know," Lyons replied in a faint self-mockery. "What'd you call about, Pointer?"
"My cover's in danger. I need some intel."
"Just a minute . . . Brognola's here and frothing. He was doubling up between us and Braddock, and . . . just a minute, Pointer."
Bolan heard a whispered consultation, then the light click of another receiver coming on the line.
"Okay," Lyons said. "Brognola's on with us. You give us some words first. Who made that hit up there this morning, besides Pena?"
"I don't know all the names, but you can identify the remains," Bolan replied. "You'll find them scattered around the junction of the Palm Springs high and low roads. Six of them, including Pena."