He gave her a solemn wink.
She closed the door and stepped back. He beeped the horn at her and swung back into traffic.
Most of it was headed the other way. It was that time of day, and the city was emptying itself.
But not entirely.
The plot was simple, sure, but Bolan was hoping it would keep a very select number of people inside the big, gutsy city this evening.
Yeah, a very select number.
Barney Gibson would not let him down, Bolan felt sure of that.
But it still was not all in place and... no Mary, Mack Bolan was not feeling that much better yet. Not yet. It was time for the Executioner to add his ante to the growing pot.
It was time to pay a call on an ambitious hood who thought he was destined to rule the earth.
Then maybe, the Executioner would feel a lot better about his world.
It was time to show some style to the king of style.
He stepped out of the private elevator and iced the foyer sentry with the muzzle end of the Belle, firmly against the forehead.
"It's up to you if you live awhile," Bolan coldly announced.
The guy was a hard item, sure, and those eyes didn't flinch much but he was thinking about long life and happier times. The voice was strained with controlled fury as he replied, "Sure, tough, let's live a little."
Bolan asked, "Who's in there?"
"Just th' boss."
"No one else?"
"Would I lie to you, guy? At a time like this?"
Bolan promised him, "If you're wrong, silk, I'll finish you on my way out."
The bodyguard felt that perhaps he should explain, to cinch the deal. In a cordial tone, he reported, "They're all out chasing your tracks. He's in there alone, buy it. Who'd of thought you'd just waltz in here? In broad daylight yet?"
"You don't like the guy much," Bolan decided.
The hardman shrugged, but carefully. "Pay's the same whether I like 'im or not. There's no pay for dead men."
If the guy was expecting a pat on the back, he was sorely disappointed. The Executioner felled him with a jolt to the throat, then made sure with a Beretta slap to the head.
He fished the key from a special pocket and quietly let himself into the penthouse suite.
A stereo tape system in the corner was recreating the Nashville sound, with Johnny Cash artistically relating the glory of the old days of railroading. Bright lights were on behind the bar. The bar itself was littered with soiled glasses and overflowing ashtrays, and it reeked of stale beer.
Franco had been entertaining.
Bolan passed on through the living room and into the glass side of the joint. All of San Francisco and goodly portions of Alameda and Marin Counties were laid out there for inspection.
The sliding doors to the terrace were open. Bolan paused beside a planter with a real live tree embedded in it and called out, "Franco?"
The enforcer was on his terrace, leaning against the safety wall on both forearms, enjoying the sight and smell in the late-afternoon sun of his city.
He was in shirtsleeves and a pearl-handled snub was clipped to the belt at his waist.
Franco turned his head only, about halfway around, and said, "Yeah, who's there?"
"Me," Bolan replied quietly.
"Me who the hell?" Franco asked nastily, turning fully around.
Bolan had moved through the doorway. He was standing there with the Belle extended for easy viewing, and he must have presented an unsettling sight.
The enforcer jerked upright and took one staggering step to the side, his hand snapping up with the movement in an automatic reaction.
Bolan growled, "Uh-uh!" freezing the hand with the suggested threat. It hung there, beside the pearl handle, clawing impotently and helplessly at the air.
"Let's talk this over," Laurentis suggested in a strangling voice.
Bolan said, "Talk is cheap, Franco."
"We can make it expensive. Uh, I like your style, man. I really do. Always have. Look. I don't blame you for hitting the old man, Christ knows I don't. I been thinking about something like that myself. I mean it."
"Save the long-winded hope, Franco," Bolan suggested. "There's nobody here but you and me. So let's talk expensive. How expensive?"
"Huh?"
"How much are you willing to gamble on talk?"
The ambitious hood stared at his visitor for a long moment, trying to read him, and Bolan could feel the cogs turning behind those eyes. Presently he replied, "I guess we could work out most anything. Couldn't we?"
"Not quite," Bolan said in that icy voice. "Here's the choice you can make. Certain death right here and now. Or a chance to get away slightly dirtied and no doubt marked for death later. If you want to gamble, I'll give you that much of an out."
The eyes had narrowed, almost closed completely. "I don't get you."
"I'm going to drill you right between the eyes and shove your carcass over that wall there."
Franco stiffened again and threw a quick glance toward the city. He must have decided that there was little style in going that way. He didn't want to join the damned thing, he wanted to own it.
"Or what?" he asked tensely.
"Or you can walk in there to your telephone. Pick it up. Make two calls. One to Tom the Broker. The other to Vince Ciprio."
The guy nervously wet his lips. "And then what do I say?"
"You offer them a chance to come over with you, under you. You make it convincing as hell, or it's over the wall."
"I don't... I don't get you."
"Sure you do. Everybody in town knows what you've been setting up, Franco. You and Wo Fan."
The guy was starting to jerk around like a puppet trying to shake off his strings. He started to say something, choked, then tried it again. "You're telling me to slit my own throat, guy."
Bolan smiled the thin grim smile of death. "Depends on how you want to go, Franco. My way. Or yours. With a chance. An outside chance, sure. But... for a savvy boy like you, at least a chance. You've got thirty seconds to decide."
"Well wait..."
"Go for your gun if you'd like to, Franco."
"No I wait a minute!"
With ice forming at his lips, Bolan assured him, "Thirty seconds, twenty-five now."
"So how do I know you won't rub me anyway, after I've called?"
"That's part of the gamble, Franco. Twenty seconds."
"You'll have to rub me. You won't just walk away and leave me standing here!"
"Fifteen seconds. I'll help you this much. I plan to lock you in a closet. I'll leave you a penknife. I figure I'll be well clear before you can cut your way out. Time's up, Franco."
The Belle raised higher and closed the distance by about six inches. Bolan gave him a clear view, right up the silencer.
"Okay! Okay! I'll play your silly fuckin' game!"
Bolan closed on him, lifted the pearled snub-holster and all and dropped it into his own pocket.
"The phone, Franco," he said coldly. "Go cut your rotten throat."
That, Franco knew, was pure style.
17
Leaning Together
By eight o'clock the DeMarco mansion had become the scene of much coming and going, tense consultations, and urgent telephone messages.
Thomas Vericci and Vince Ciprio were very much on the scene, as were many of their lieutenants and hardmen.
The developments which gave rise to this feverish pace of activity occurred in a chronological sequence which was roughly as follows:
At a little before 4:00 PM, an urgent long-distance conference connection was established between San Francisco, Buffalo, Washington, Philadelphia, Boston, and three separate offices in New York City.