Jack Grimaldi's life had been failing steadily since birth.
Life itself was one big schtick.
But Grimaldi was not yet quite ready to write it all off. He had not even reached the midpoint yet he hoped. In a few more months he'd be thirty. Maybe. Twice this day he had stared into death, and twice he had walked away from that unsettling view. It was enough to make a guy think.
He took a deep pull from the bottle, choked, wiped the spillage away, and looked at his watch. Ten minutes past midnight.
Yeah, it had been a hell of a day.
He stared back around the bumed-out hulk and walked straight into the big mean bastard in the black suit.
He was wearing one of those tight, mirthless smiles, and he said, "Enjoying the party, Jack?"
Goodbye, thirtieth birthday. So the son of a bitch had made it through, after all.
Grimaldi sighed and said, "Okay, where do you want to go this time?"
The guy chuckled like a skeleton clearing its throat. "You got some wings?"
"Sure." He uncorked the bottle and handed it over. "The windmill type. Gassed up and ready to fart. What the hell are you doing here, Bolan?"
The guy refused the bottle. "Looking for wings," he said. The bastard didn't waste many words. "And a pilot."
"You don't want to hang around and crash your own party?"
"That's my party?"
"Sure. I guess I never got around to correcting an erroneous impression. But let's not tell them now," he added hastily. "I figure let 'em live a little. You know? Or no, I guess you wouldn't know. I, uh, I caught your fireworks at Puerta Vista."
The guy had him by the arm and they were walking quietly toward the rear, skirting close beside the end bungalow. He said, "Yeah?"
"Yeah. But I, uh I guess I jumped to a hasty conclusion. Well, I guess the curtain was for Lavagni, huh?"
"Buried at sea," the guy said.
"Uh huh. It figures better that way. Uh, after you turned me loose I circled back along the waterfront. Sat there on a damn rock just outside of town, and I guess I was thinking about a lot of things. Then I heard the baloom and I saw the flames, and I said, 'Contact, there goes Bolan.' I guess I should have said, 'Ho ho, there's Bolan!' Well anyway, I sat there a little while longer, then I went on into town and found one of the company cars. I hotwired the ignition and here I am with a lonely bottle at a false wake."
He didn't know why he told the guy all that. He wasn't talking for his life, and this realization came with quite a shock. He didn't give a damn anymore; that was the shocking part. He just didn't give a damn.
They reached the helicopter and they stood there for a moment, the big guy just sort of looking around, then those icy eyes lit on Grimaldi and he said, "I've noticed you don't pack hardware, Jack."
"Never," the pilot replied unemotionally. "My only crime, Bolan, is carting these clowns around. It brings me two grand a month and an unlimited credit card for expenses. The price of a soul, eh? But it beats anything else that turned up after"
"After what?" the guy asked, as though he was really interested.
"Well you don't know the routine. I mean, you never really tried the returning serviceman routine. You just went from one war right into another. No employment problems, right?"
"You were at 'Nam?"
"Yeah. Flew everything from single-engine scouts to Huey close supports. Enlisted pilot, later a warrant officer. You know what kind of jobs I got offered when I got home?"
Bolan said, "I can guess."
"Well, a cousin got me this job. And I kissed his shoes for it. But I guess"
"You guess what?"
"Nothing. Where're you hijacking me to this time?"
A soft hardman staggered across the yard about twenty feet from where they were standing and disappeared around the carport.
The big guy watched him out of sight, then he dug inside his suit and fumbled around with something at his waist and came out with a lot of green. He counted the stuff out, twelve Clevelands, and laid it in Grimaldi's palm.
"No hijack this time," he said gruffly. "I came looking for you specifically, Jack. I want to take you up on that suggestion that we laughed about earlier. I'd like to pay your salary for a day. That's what's left of my war-chest, twelve thou."
Yeah, the guy was too much. Grimaldi mumbled, "What the hell, all you gotta do is point the gun, I'll fly you anywhere."
"Special mission," the guy said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Not the kind you take a guy into with a gun at his head. I need you. Your skill and your guts. I mean, cooperatively. What do you say?"
The fuckin' guy was insane!
"Do I have to handle a gun?"
"Not unless you want to."
"This a kill mission, Bolan?"
"Yeah."
"A biggee?"
"A hell of a biggee."
"Suppose I say no?"
The guy shrugged. "Then the hit is off, I hijack you back to the mainland, we go our separate ways."
"A real biggee."
"A hell of a biggee."
So what the hell. It was the end of schtick.
Grimaldi counted off six of the Clevelands and gave them back to Mr. Death. "Split it down the middle," he said quietly. "And call it a deal"
Chapter Thirteen
Death brief
An old salvage boat cruised a slow circle in the sparkling Caribbean several miles off Bahia de Vidria. In the pilot house, Juan Escadrillo stood a tense watch over the radio equipment while the man with the handlebar mustache stared expectantly into the moonlit skies.
The mate brought coffee from the galley, and drank most of it himself, and twice the engineer came topside to restlessly roam the deck and gaze toward shore, and the quiet watch went on.
At almost exactly 12:30 the radio in the pilot house crackled and a familiar voice came through the international distress frequency to give the awaited announcement.
"Okay Juan, we're off and running. The number here is 25, 12, 12, 14. That is two-five, one-two, one-two, one-four. Thanks to all of you. And give those treasures back there my, uh, deepest regards."
"Ok," Juan replied immediately. "Run with luck, my friend."
"Adios, amigo."
"Return to us one day."
"Ill try, Juan. Leave a light in the window."
"It will be there."
The boy's eyes were brimming with moisture as he shifted the gear to the harbor frequency. The crew had moved outside to search the sky for visible evidence of the small aircraft.
Juan made the call in the Spanish language. This is salvage tug Salvadore calling Puerta Vista Harbormaster.
"Go ahead, Salvadore."
"I am ready with the Matilda report."
Evita Aguilar's voice responded. "Matilda. Go ahead, Salvadore."
"It is done. Ok. The numbers are two-five, one-two, one-two, one-four. He sends love. We return to port."
In the little shack on the Puerta Vista wharf, Evita turned away from the radio and spoke into a waiting telephone connection to San Juan.
"Success," she reported, using the official language. It is clear. Suggest that you move on Glass Bay immediately."
"Right," was the reply. "We are moving."
"Connect me now with Glenn Robertson."
"Right, standby."
A moment later an American voice came on the line and the language shifted to English. "Robertson here."
"Glenn, Matilda."
"Save it, I know. Bolan busted loose."
"Yes. Ramirez is now moving on Glass Bay."
"Yeah, I heard. So there goes your sweet little intelligence drop. Should've played it my way, pretty lady."
"The sweet drop was gone the moment he arrived. Do not fear, we are awaiting the reorganization and we know whom to watch. As for doing it your way, I would have more compassion on a pig in a slaughter pen."
The American sighed heavily. She heard the snap of a cigarette lighter and he said, "You know that none of us like the order, Matilda."
"We may as well drop the 'Matilda' now, also."