During this conference, Roman DeMarco was advised to cool things down in his town, particularly a rumored impending territorial war. It was also suggested that the commissione would view with harsh disfavor any outside arrangements of DeMarco's which could conceivably compromise the organization's infra-relationships.
Mack Bolan's name did not enter the conversation.
Roman DeMarco quit this telephone conference in a rage.
At about five o'clock both Vericci and Ciprio, at their respective offices, received telephone calls from Crazy Franco Laurentis. Each received the identical ultimatum join Laurentis in a move to overthrow Roman DeMarco or take the slide with the Capo.
Both underbosses soberly promised to give Laurentis their decision before midnight, and then each promptly telephoned Don DeMarco to report this curious development.
DeMarco immediately sent a "delegation" to "the top of the joint" to summon the crazy man to a consultation with the Capo.
The delegation reported back that Franco's suite was deserted and that there was no clue to the whereabouts of Crazy Franco.
At 5:40 PM a "paper conference" involving DeMarco, Vericci and Ciprio was conducted in the study of the DeMarco Mansion. A contract was drawn and reportedly sealed in the blood of the three participants. Immediately thereafter, a number of tersely coded telephone messages were relayed around the town and to Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Portland, Seattle, Honolulu, and Phoenix.
Meanwhile, less formal communications spread throughout the city via, mostly, word of mouth with the result that "the silk suit brigade" disappeared suddenly from their usual haunts and became notably difficult to locate.
Speculation arose in various quarters that perhaps the underworld dragnet for Mack Bolan was falling apart.
At about six o'clock a "friend" at Harbor Precinct telephoned the DeMarco mansion with an urgent report to the effect that Captain Barney Gibson was quietly preparing a huge strike force to descend upon various quarters of Chinatown.
Several minutes later this same friend again called to breathlessly add to the earlier report. Gibson was also reportedly collecting warrants secret warrants for "a big sweep" early the following morning, this one directed against specific members of the Occidental community in and around Little Italy. It was further rumored that the warrants were being secretly coordinated with similar efforts in adjacent communities of the bay area.
At roughly twenty minutes past the hour of six, a physician was summoned to the DeMarco mansion to administer medication to a hypertensive old man.
As the doctor was departing, a man with an icy voice who identified himself as Mack Bolan was passed through to the DeMarco library via telephone. He talked to Tom the Broker Vericci and suggested that midnight could be the hour of doom for everyone connected with Roman DeMarco. The caller gave special mention to a "Mr. King."
By seven o'clock all lights were lighted, inside and out, at the mansion on Russian Hill and jittery men prowled ceaselessly about the grounds and along the streets surrounding the property.
While, in the library, there was standing room only as the talk got down to the nitty-gritty business of personal survival in an uncertain world, and the hissing voice of Don DeMarco devoted itself to a series of cryptic telephone consultations with an unnamed "friend" who seemed entirely reluctant even to accept the calls.
Finally, at eight o'clock, DeMarco completed the last of these telephone conversations and turned to his cadre with a relieved sigh.
"Okay," he reported tiredly. It's set up. He'll meet with us in an hour. But we got to come alone. And we got to talk Wo Fan into coining with us."
At ten minutes past the hour of eight, a cautious acceptance from the Chinese community signalled a sure meet with Mr. King.
The hollow men, the stuffed men, had cast their vote to lean together... to the bitter end.
From his eagle perch, Mack Bolan watched them depart three big limousines moving slowly out of the drive and easing onto the streets of the city.
He scrutinized them closely, burning details into his scout's memory cells, and he watched until they turned down Lombard, "the crookedest street in the world."
Then he made the scramble to his battered, mud-streaked war chariot and picked up the procession as it crossed Taylor.
They made a stop and a pickup at the gates of Chinatown, and one of the vehicles remained there.
Bolan prudently made a swing around that plant and picked up the remaining two vehicles of the procession at the corner of Stockton and Sacramento.
They turned up Market. Bolan spotted them a light signal, then he swung out in casual pursuit.
The limousines went on all the way up Market to the Portola district, then started the climb toward Twin Peaks. Another vehicle dropped out there.
Bolan again ran a disengaging pattern and came onto the taillights of the target car halfway up the hill.
He was getting an idea, now, of where they were headed, and he relaxed a little. But not much. A pair of lights had kept swinging on him throughout the trip, dogging him all the way from way back on Russian Hill somewhere or, at least, they seemed to be the same lights. He did not wish to get overly hung up on that rear vision whatever might be back there, the target was ahead and this was where his primary concentration must be focused.
Twin Peaks is one of those "mustn't miss" tourist magnets of the San Francisco area, the geographic heart of the whole scenic wonderland that is San Francisco. From her overlooking peaks, which rise majestically above the other terrain like the proud thrust of a sleeping woman's breasts, the breathless visitor gets the entire bay area spread out below him and for a seemingly infinite distance, and it is especially spectacular at night time. In fact, the many observation-point lanes and pullovers once provided a heady lure to the lover's lane crowds, before the car-window bandits and rapists found the lure equally rewarding.
Bolan had been there many times, but neither as lover nor bandit, and tonight he was feeling a bit of tugging from both frames of consciousness. He was, he hoped, going to rob the mob... and he was going to love doing it.
Not in any bloodthirsty sense, hell no. Bolan had long ago reached the point of gagging over blood offerings... but, yeah, this was a damned important mission. Much more so than he had suspected just 24 short hours earlier. And he hoped, he hoped with an almost romantic fervor, that Twin Peaks was the appointed place for the meet. Up here, way up here where on a clear day the entire kingdom was spread out for inspection, would be the most ironically proper spot to meet the hollow men.
And, yeah, it was the place.
He saw the limousine pull into one of the little lanes which circle into a secluded observation park, and he killed his lights on the curve and dead-sticked it on in.
Something flickered in his rearview mirror as he rolled to his stop, but he could not be sure that it wasn't a reflection of distant city lights and he for damn sure was not going to start chasing rear-guard phantoms at this point of the pursuit.
He snatched up the stuttergun and pulled a brief and silent recon to the rear, then he went on forward, sticking to the hillside and blending with the shadows until he was looking down on them.
The Mafia limousine was standing there with her horns to the safety rail, engine idling, parking lights on, all doors closed and the lights of town reflecting from raised windows.
A light standard rose up between the limousine and another car, a drab looking little foreign job, Japanese or something, and the lamp which was supposed to discourage smooching and robbing also seemed to be discouraging the lone occupant of the smaller vehicle.