"All dead," Brognola's smooth voice stated.
"That's right," Bolan said. "Now can we talk about my problem?"
"Who killed them?" from Brognola.
"Call it a double contract," Bolan said. "Julian DiGeorge got the idea that Pena has been informing. The other five boys were siding with Pena."
"Then the rubout had no connection with the murders of the Conns and the plastic surgeon?" Brognola asked.
"I didn't say that," Bolan replied.
Lyons snarled. "This guy is playing games with you, Hal. Bolan, you executed those men, didn't you!"
"Who's he talking to?" Bolan asked Brognola.
"They found out that Brantzen had altered your face, and they went up there to wring something out of him! That much is obvious so save all of us the time and stop playing games. You happened along, saw what they'd done to your doctor friend, and went gunning for them. Now you're saying that your cover is in jeopardy. What kind of information did Pena get back to the mob before you killed him, Bolan?"
"Just a moment, before you answer that, Mr. Pointer," Brognola said. "Please don't leave the line."
Again the sounds of a muted, off-phone discussion came to Bolan's ears. Then Brognola came back on. "Mr. Pointer," he said, "we appreciate the work you've been doing for us, and we have no wish to compromise your position. You don't have to say anything to incriminate yourself."
"Fair enough," Bolan replied.
"We are not questioning your identity. Just tell us this much. Were the murders at Palm Village this morning ordered by Julian DiGeorge?"
"No," Bolan said. "It was all Pena's idea."
"I see. And now Pena and his squad are dead."
"That's right."
"At DiGeorge's orders?"
"There was a contract out on Pena"
"I see," Brognola replied with some confusion.
Bolan sighed. "Okay, Lyons," he said. "I don't want you people to start questioning my intel. You're right, it's no time for games. Besides, I'm about as incriminated as one person can get already. This is Bolan. I've penetrated the DiGeorge family, and I pulled off the hit on Pena this morning. I was acting purely for myself on that one, though. You saw, or heard, what they did to Brantzen."
"Yeah," Lyons said softly. "Braddock gave a pretty good description of the guy who helped him, Bolan. It fits a man who was sitting in my car the other night, in Redlands."
"Yeah," Bolan said. "About my problem."
"Go ahead," Lyons sighed.
"I hear that: the Commissione employs a private staff of enforcers. I need to know who runs that show."
"That's your department, Hal," Lyons said.
"Presently only ten bosses sit on the Commissione," Brognola reported. He rattled off the names. "You'll note that DiGeorge's name is not present. He walked out in a huff two years ago over some dispute about the narcotics traffic. He sits in from time to time, though, when some subject important to him comes up for discussion. Technically, he still has a voice on that council."
"But there are tensions?" Bolan asked interestedly.
"There are tensions," Brognola assured him. "The council wanted to regulate prices. DiGeorge won't go for it. He controls a big slice of their narcotic imports. He feels that the pricing is his affair, and he wholesales to the other families on his own terms. Yes, there are tensions."
"Thanks," Bolan said. "That gives me something to parlay, I'm especially interested in the council's enforcers, though. What can you tell me about that?"
Brognola coughed and said, "The Talifero brothers, it is said, have the most feared crew of enforcers in the country. These brothers are loosely called 'Pat and Mike.' They are . . ."
"Okay, I've heard of Pat and Mike. What you say wraps it up. Maybe I can keep my neck out of . . ."
"Be careful, Pointer," Brognola urged. "These Talifero boys are double trouble. It's said that once they get their orders, they are like guided missiles, there's no way of calling them back or scrubbing the hit. The triggermen in their crew are like an elite Gestapo, taking orders from no one but Pat and Mike. The brothers themselves operate directly out of the Commissione."
"Exactly what I wanted," Bolan commented. "I'd better bug off now."
"Uh, Pointer . . ."Brognola said hurriedly.
"Yes?"
"I'm flying to Washington tonight. I'd like to make a representation on your behalf."
"What sort of representation?"
"A sort of unofficial 'forgive and forget' representation. Do you follow me?"
"Who's playing games now?" Bolan said, chuckling.
"He's dead serious, Bolan," Lyons broke in.
Brognola said, "Rather, uh, high offices have been apprised of your successes here. We've suspected your true identity and now that you've confirmed it . . . well . . . I'm not promising anything, but . . . I believe I can get you a portfolio — unofficially, you understand — if you'll agree to continue on in your present role."
"It is my intention to continue," Bolan said. "Unless I die soon."
"You aren't going to die soon, are you?" Lyons said, chuckling.
"Not if I can help it."
"Can we do anything to help?"
"I doubt it. I guess it's my show — win, lose, or draw. Uh, you might look into the death of Charles D'Agosta two years ago, age about 20, supposedly drowned on a boating accident off San Pedro."
"Mafia rubout, Bolan?" Lyons asked.
"Let's can him Pointer," Brognola broke in nervously.
Bolan laughed and said, "The rubout is an outside chance. Look into it, will you?"
"I'll do that," Lyons assured him. "Anything else?"
"You might pray."
Lyons and Brognola chuckled. Bolan said, "Well . . ."
"Braddock says thanks," Lyons added hastily.
Bolan said, "Sure," and broke the connection. He returned to the new Mercedes, checked his gunleather, and set off for the villa. Police-community relations had never seemed better for Mack Bolan. He wondered vaguely what was implied by acquiring a "portfolio."
"Maybe it's a license to kill," he muttered to his Mercedes. "And then again," he added thoughtfully, "maybe it's a license to die."
Either way, Mack Bolan was not too impressed with licenses. He had his rage to keep him warm.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The enforcer
The gate guard grinned warmly and said, "Hi-ya, Franky. God, I heard about the fracture this morning. They say it was like a wild man. I wished I'd been with you."
Bolan kept his face straight and said, "You might get a chance, Andrew Hardy." He soberly winked one eye and eased on over to his usual parking place. He noted that the gate guard had trotted down to engage another guard in an animated conversation.
Benny Peaceful appeared as Bolan was leaving the Mercedes. He showed Bolan the peace sign and said, "Somebody has been waiting for you by the pool for a couple of hours. Somebody's gonna be terrible disappointed if you don't go in that way."
Bolan acknowledged the message with a nod of his head. He paused to light a cigarette and said, "What's rumbling, Benny?"
"The whole joint's rocking over your work this morning," the youth replied, laboring to maintain a sober visage. "Don't surprise me none, of course. I knew what you could do, Franky."
"I need your help, Benny Peaceful," Bolan said, staring over the boy's head. "I think I know what you can do, too."
Benny seemed to grow an immediate inch. Following Bolan's lead, he averted his eyes in a casual inspection of the sky. "You just say it, Franky Lucky," he said solemnly.