Bolan said, "She mentioned something about a houseboat. In Sausalito, I believe."
"They wouldn't have gone over there. They're shooting a picture. It's too hard for them to run back and forth when they're shooting. They crash around town all the time they're shooting."
"How'd you get mixed up with those kids, Mary?"
She sniffed. "They're not as bad as they talk it. Panda is pretty mixed up, about sex and what her's is, I mean, but... well, they're okay kids. I met them through Wo Fan, at a business bash he was hosting a few months ago. They were, uh, paid guests."
Bolan said, "I see."
"I was not."
He chuckled. "Where do you go from here, Mary?"
"Into the woodwork, I guess. How about you?"
A faint smile pulled at his lips. He said, "I've got this war."
She wrinkled her nose at him and said, "Tough. You're a tough guy, Mack Bolan. Can I tag along and load your guns for you?"
He sighed. "Hell no."
"Well... I knew better than to ask. Mack..."
"Yeah?"
"You'll have to kill Wo Fan."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. He's a nationalist, and my sympathies, of course, go with that cause. But he's running with the wolves now. And he's turned into a wolf himself. I suspect — no, I feel it in my bones. Wo Fan and Laurentis are up to something sneaky. I believe they are trying for a coup in the San Francisco underworld. An unholy alliance. Laurentis will help to keep the commies out. Wo Fan will help to put down the ruling Mafia family, and Laurentis will move in. I think that's it. I think that's what it's all about."
Bolan was thinking it over.
"Like Wo Fan suggested, it's a big conflict," she added quietly.
Bolan said, "And a complicated one. My war is a bit narrower than that."
"Well you'd better broaden it."
"You believe Wo Fan is a real threat? To me?"
She nodded. "Like I said, he's a wolf now. He'd stop at nothing. If Laurentis learns that Wo Fan has been in touch with you... and if Wo Fan decides that it would help his cause to turn you over to Laurentis... well, I'm just saying, lookout lover. That's a hard old world out there."
Bolan consulted his wristwatch. It was a few minutes past noon. He sighed and told her, "End of detente."
"End of what?"
"Do you know the place where those girls shoot their pictures?"
"Yes."
"One more thing. Where does Barney Gibson fit into all this?"
"I'm not sure," she replied slowly, thinking about it. "He's had his problems with the mob. For years. I think he's trying to pull them down."
"On his own?"
She nodded. "Way I read it. I think he doesn't trust various people in his own department."
"Could you set up a meet between Gibson and me?"
Her eyes flared. "Whatever for?"
"A secret meet, a secure one. Could you do it?"
She stared at him with wondering eyes for a long moment, then she daintily nodded her head and told him, "I guess I could."
He said, "So do it."
Quietly, she asked, "Does that mean you trust me now?"
"That's what it means," he growled.
She squeezed his hand. "Great. That's really great."
So it was great.
The R&R was ended.
It was time, once again, to come out shooting.
14
The Sell
It was an incredibly beautiful and peaceful spot, and Bolan had to wonder how often the native San Franciscans actually visited the place.
It was called the Japanese Tea Garden, and it occupied a relatively small area of Golden Gate Park. Winding footpaths through exotic shrubbery, pygmy trees and authentic Japanese statuary led the visitor beside reflecting pools and across an arched bridge where you could take your choice of an open-air tea house, a temple, or a shrine — and, yeah, this was a place where a guy could go to meet his soul.
At the moment, though, Bolan's primary interest lay in a meeting with a grizzled old maverick cop who just maybe wouldn't mind a bit of official larceny, if a greater cause were thereby being served.
Bolan was betting that Barney Gibson was that kind of cop. He was, in fact, betting his life on the idea.
He watched from behind the cover of purple sunshades and a poised teacup as the girl and the cop made their prearranged meet beside the pool. Gibson had not yet been told the reason for the meeting and — watching them now — Bolan knew the precise moment when that reason was revealed.
The big guy stiffened, but just across the shoulders. He did not break stride nor was there any other gross reaction, but Bolan knew.
They were talking about it now. Mary Ching, selling the Executioner. Not, he hoped, selling him out... just selling him.
And the cop was buying. That face became immediately evident. The pair strolled on, into the enfolding garden, and just as they disappeared from view Mary hung a white flower in her hair.
Bolan promptly left his table at the tea house and went around the other way, on an intersecting path.
He got there first, per plan, and watched them approach.
Gibson was one of those guys who could fool a casual observer. On the surface he simply looked overweight, grumpy, a bit dull — maybe even a bit dumb. The head was too large, the jaw too overslung, the eyes bloodshot and masked with indifference.
But that was just the surface man.
Bolan had learned to read men, just as he read Jungle signs and trails. Men, after all, were a jungle product.
All the deeper signs of Barney Gibson revealed him as definitely a cop of the old school. He wasn't a constitutional lawyer, he wasn't a civic moralist, he wasn't even a law officer. He was a cop. He wasn't there to protect anybody's civil rights, he was there to protect his town; to keep it straight; to keep it safe. He would bend the law — even break it — to do his job as he saw it.
Yeah, Bolan had known a couple of cops like Barney Gibson. Flaming, stubborn anachronisms who absolutely refused to get in step with the times. And there was still room in the world for a few Barney Gibsons.
There was no introduction, nor did the two men shake hands. Both pairs of hands, in fact, were pointedly kept in full view. The Captain said, by way of greeting, "So you're the guy. What d'you want with my town, Mister?"
Bolan solemnly told him, "Your town has a rotten smell, Captain. I sniff Mafia every step I take."
"So what's new?" the cop growled.
"Me, I'm new," the Executioner replied.
The Captain snorted. "You're practically dead, fella."
"A dead man can do things," Bolan said. "Things a living man wouldn't even think about."
"I guess you're right there. What've you got in mind?"
"I left a couple of samples around," Bolan said.
The big guy grunted. He stared at the Executioner for a moment, then admitted, "Yeah, I saw your samples. Pretty impressive. Those were just samples, eh?"
Bolan said, "Well, call it a pattern."
"I like your patterns, Mister. But somewhere else. Not here. Gives the town a bad feel. Look. I wouldn't have come if I'd known what was up. I can stretch, but not that much. You turn around and walk away from here. And keep going until you're clear out of town. That's as far as I can stretch."
"The thing is going to split wide open, Captain. Whether I leave it or not."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Things have become too good here. For the mob. It's time for the thieves to start falling out. They've already started."
"You have some definite knowledge of that?"