"I want no shooting in my streets, Braddock," Conn said coldly.
"Neither do we," Braddock replied. He arose with a sigh and moved toward the telephone. "Can I use this phone?"
"Reverse 'em."
"Huh?"
"The charges. L.A. is a 45-cent call."
Sgt. Lyons grinned and reached for a cigarette, watching the color flow into his Captain's face. He winked at Chief Conn and lit the cigarette as Braddock's index finger was stabbing into the telephone dial.
"You don't say much, do you?" Conn observed.
The Sergeant exhaled the cigarette smoke, smiled, and said, "No sir." He drew a finger across his throat, rolled his eyes toward the Captain, and sent Conn another wink.
The Chief soberly returned the wink and bit another plug from his cigar. He liked the youngster okay, but that Braddock . . . well now, there was something else. Conn did not give a damn about the 45-cent toll call. The youngster realized that, and apparently Big Tim knew it also, judging by the color of his face. But Big Tim also knew that he wasn't going to just walk in and take over Genghis Conn's town. That was the important thing.
Another important thing was occupying Genghis Conn's mind also. If the Executioner was in town, there was only one reason why he would be here . . . and only one place he was likely to be interested in. This was something the big shot L.A. cop did not know. But Genghis Conn knew. And Genghis rather liked the peaceful balance which had been achieved in his town. He had already decided to keep it that way.
Chapter Seven
Lou's crew
The Cosa Nostra was the only "family" Lou (Screwy Looey) Pena had ever known. Born in the forbidding slums of East Harlem in the early twenties to a tubercular and dying mother and an imprisoned father, he had been left to more or less shift for himself at a tender age and had grown up as an unofficial ward of the neighborhood. As his mother lingered and his father languished, young Looey ate wherever he could find a place at a table and slept in any crowded bed which would admit him, the tenacious youngster learning early to "live off the streets" and to accept graciously any crumbs tossed his way. It had been a mixed neighborhood of Italians, Jews, and Irish, in which ethnic feuds and rivalries erupted with monotonous frequency. For his first eight years of life, little Looey did not recognize ethnic differences; his hungry belly was receptive to bagels and raviolis alike; a bowl of Irish stew had been his idea of a feast. Pena's life took a dramatic new direction in his eighth year, however, when his dead mama's niece arrived from the old country and took the youngster under her wing. From Cugina Maria, then but 22 years of age herself, Pena found an identification of ancestry and learned to be proud of his Neapolitan roots; he also began attending school, at first reluctantly and then feverishly as his young consciousness responded to the challenges of knowledge. During his sixth year of schooling, Maria "moved in with" a member of a neighborhood gang known as "The 108th Street Raiders." She took Looey with her into the new environment; unknown to Maria, Pena immediately quit school (he was then 14) and became a part-time member of the Raiders, working under the tutelage of Johnny "Third Leg" Saccitone, Maria's lover. It was at about this time that the infamous gang wars and underworld intrigues were reaching the climax which would see the firm establishment of the Cosa Nostra families.
Pena served six months in a reformatory at the age of 14, another four months at the age of 15. During this latter stretch, he killed a fellow inmate in a knife fight on the athletic field. He beat this rap by successfully feigning insanity and was transferred to the State Hospital, from where he was discharged at the age of 16. Now wise to the ways of his world, he successfully evaded the reach of the law thereafter and was formally initiated into a Cosa Nostra family somewhere around his 21st year. He was never again arrested or hospitalized throughout a long career as a Mafia "soldier," serving mostly as an "enforcer" and bodyguard to various Capos, or family bosses. He had participated in more than a score of murder contracts and had come west with DiGeorge when the latter ascended to the rank of Caporegime, or lieutenant, in the early days of the Los Angeles Family. The nickname "Screwy Looey" had stuck with him through the years, but was rarely used to his face. Pena had long been a power in the Western Family, though without official rank until Mack Bolan's execution of DiGeorge's chief enforcer in the Beverly Hills fracas.
Married only to his job and faultlessly loyal to his Capo, Pena had received the nod from DiGeorge to fill the sudden vacancy. Even Pena, however, realized that this promotion had been largely based on a scarcity of qualified candidates. It was generally acknowledged that whatever Pena lacked in brains was more than made up for by his brute strength, stubborn tenacity, and unflagging loyalty to his Capo. No one doubted that Screwy Looey would succeed in his new post. More than he himself wanted to succeed, however, he wanted to please Julian DiGeorge. This desire overrode all other considerations. He had vowed to serve up Mack Bolan's head "on a platter" for his Capo's extreme pleasure.
Pena arrived in Palm Village on the morning of October 5th in the lead vehicle of a five-car caravan which proceeded directly to the public parking lot at the edge of Lodetown. There they were met by Willie Walker (nee Joseph Gianami), an advance man who had already obtained city permits for "door-to-door selling," and who, moments earlier, had rented an empty store building on the Lodetown square, ostensibly for use as a book crew headquarters.
Willie Walker led the caravan to the alleyway rear entrance to the store and chatted with a uniformed policeman as Pena's soldiers unloaded heavy cartons of "books" from the trunks of the vehicles.
Moments later, with Pena's 25-man crew sprawled about in the comparative coolness of the rented store, Walker reported his conversation with the policeman. "He said it was okay to park in the alley, but we can't block it."
Pena nodded and said, "I'd rather just stay in the cars. At least they're air conditioned. It's hot enough in here to cook us alive."
"The building went with the permits," Walker replied, grinning. "Not much, is it? They got a law here that you gotta be an established firm in this town to do business here. It cost me five a head for the permits, fifty for a week's rent on the store, minimum, and fifty for what they call an associate membership in the Merchant's Association." The grin widened. "And they call us racketeers."
"Everybody has to make a living, Willie," Pena growled, dismissing the implied graft. "Well . . . hand out those permits and get the kids busy unpacking those boxes. There's hardware and extra ammo under the books."
"Okay."
"Get the books stacked around, make it 1ook good. Put a couple of empty boxes up by the window and let the label show, in case anybody wants to look in and see what we got here." Pena wiped a trickle of perspiration from each temple and added: "Make it quick and get the kids back into those cars. Christ, we'll dehydrate in this dump." He held out a hand. "Gimme some of those business cards, I'm gonna pass some around to our next-door neighbors. Community relations, you know, and it'll give me a chance to look around." He winked, pocketed the cards, and walked toward the front of the building, dragging Walker with him. "Listen, I want one of those big choppers on the floor in each car. And put some books in the back windows, and I want every man with a book in his hand. This has gotta look good. And listen . . . I don't want those cars parked in a alley when we're all mobbed up in here. One car in the alley, in case we need it quick . . . the others you spot around close. Just make sure they're where we can get to them, and that we're not gonna get blocked off or locked in."