"Are you Captain Braddock?" the man asked.
Braddock nodded. "Yes, I am."
"They sent me up here. I was in Hollywood last night, and saw these men running out of this building, see. I saw in the papers this morning—*
"Right down the hall, please. First door on the left."
"Sir?"
"You want to make eyewitness report on the robbery at the Tri-Coast Studios, don't you?"
"Yes sir. They sent me up here."
"Please go into the large room just down the hall, first door on your left. They'll take your statement there. And thank you for coming in."
"Are you sure?" The man was peering uncertainly along the corridor, standing half-in and half-out of Braddock's doorway.
"What?" Braddock was becoming impatient.
"Well, I passed that room. There's radios and stuff in there. I just want to report..."
"That's the proper place to give your statement, sir. Just walk right in and tell the man at the desk why you're here."
The man smiled. "Well... okay."
"Thank you, sir," the captain said, forcing a smile.
The man moved uncertainly down the hall. Rickert was wearing a strained smile. "That's twentieth century, eh? Saying 'sir' to a wetback?"
"That's right," Braddock replied through tight lips. "A citizen is a citizen, and every one of them rates a 'sir' in this building—until they're booked, anyway. And he wasn't a wetback. I'd say Cherokee or Navajo. That's about as citizen as you can get."
"An Indian?" Rickert asked, slowly stiffening upright in his chair.
The two men locked eyes for a tense instant. Braddock half-rose from his seat, then settled back with an embarrassed grin. "Hell, Charlie, you made my blood run cold for a second there," he said.
Rickert chuckled. "Goes to show how subjective you can get on these twenty-four-hour cases," he replied. He leaned forward to crush out his cigarette. "What the hell would Bolan's Indian be doing up here at Hardcase Central?"
"Go ask him," Braddock suggested, grinning.
"Ask him yourself, you're the coordinator," Rickert replied, entirely satisfied with the change of atmosphere in the captain's office. He had over reacted to Braddock's decision for a Mafia drag, he realized, and he had needed that little diversion. Thank God for stumbling, wide-eyed, dumb-ass "citizens" who, lost or not, were determined to do their civic duty. Bolan's (ha-ha) Indian had pulled the twenty-four-hour cop's fat out of the fire. For the moment, at any rate.
Down the hall, a bronzed man with prominent cheekbones was performing a citizen's duty, filing a written eyewitness report of a crime—and mentally filing an unwritten eyewitness report on the plan and layout of Captain Braddock's control room. Bolan's Indian had plenty to do at Hardcase Central.
Chapter Ten
The Soft Sell
"A directional mike is out of the question," Schwarz reported glumly. "It's a hard building, any way you look at it."
"Internal security is a loose goose, though," Loudelk told Bolan. He tossed a small notebook onto Bolan's lap. "They call the operation Hardcase. The names of the detail leaders and their areas are in the notes there. Got that from a duty roster pinned to a bulletin board in their control room." He withdrew a three-by-five card from his hip pocket and waved it gently in front of Bolan's eyes. "And guess what this is. Phone numbers and radio frequencies on the front, code words on the back." He produced a folded paper from his shirt pocket and added it to the loot on Bolan's lap. "And this is an area map, showing zones of responsibility for the various details."
Bolan was wearing a broad grin. "Bloodbrother, you're a master craftsman," he said.
"Place was wide open. I just walked in and picked it up. This Braddock, the cop in charge, looks more like a judge than a cop. He's hard, though, and the other cops respect him. They call him Big Tim. Behind his back, anyway. His office adjoins their control room. Floor plan's in the notebook. They're running a military operation there, Sarge. I'd say they want us real bad."
Bolan nodded, the grin still in place. His eyes were traveling down the list of radio frequencies printed on the card. "Can you cover these frequencies, Gadgets?" he asked.
"Yeah, but I'll have to get some more gear. I'll need some cash. I'd say ... oh, about at least two thousand. If you want to cover all those at the same time."
"Money is no object," Bolan replied. "What better use for Mafia green, eh? Draw what you need from Politician. Need any help?"
Schwarz shook his head in a decided negative. "I shop better by m'self," he said.
"Okay, but play it cautious. Don't excite anyone's curiosity. Brother, you cover him, separate vehicles, SOP. From this moment forward, no one leaves base camp without a cover man."
"Let's chow up first," Loudelk suggested, his eyes on Schwarz. The electronics man nodded, and they went off together toward the kitchen.
Schwarz halted in the doorway and turned back to Bolan. "You get anything worthwhile from that tape I sent back?"
"Plenty," Bolan assured him. "Chopper and Gunsmoke are out reconning a couple of leads right now." He got to his feet and strolled over to join Schwarz in the doorway. "And a special little chunk of dynamite I saved for myself. I didn't know quite how to use it but now ... well, I believe Loudelk's intelligence has shown me the way. Listen, Gadgets, get those radio monitors set up just as soon as possible. They're going to be a hell of a weapon for us." He started to walk away, then whirled back and added, "And listen—I don't care how much it costs—set up a mobile capability. Maybe we can use the horse as a rolling command post. You know what I'm thinking of?"
Schwarz was smiling with bright enthusiasm. "I know exactly what you're thinking of. I dunno if I can do it in one day, though."
Bolan slapped him on the rear and said, "Sure you can. A genius can do anything."
Schwarz grinned and went on into the kitchen.
Bolan walked back across the big room and onto the patio. Deadeye Washington was out there, working over his sniper piece with a cleaning cloth. "You ate yet?" Bolan asked him.
Washington nodded solemnly. "If you can call a TV Dinner eating," he replied. "When we gonna get a cook around here?"
Bolan ignored the question. "We have work. You're on me. Side-arm only, street clothes. Meet me out front in ten minutes."
Washington sighed and grunted up out of the chair. "Good thing," he said, chuckling. "Gettin' lazy. Been about twelve hours since I sweated bird turds."
Carl Lyons pulled his car into the driveway of the modest tract home, thoughtfully eyed the sack of groceries on the seat beside him, and mentally ran over the list of items Janie had asked him to buy. He had detoured via the barber shop for a quick trim, where he had further dwadled over some television replays of the latest Rams games, and unavoidably the shopping list had become somewhat blurred in his memory. He poked absently into the sack, hoping he hadn't forgotten anything. He needed to lie down for at least an hour before dinner and then return to duty. He certainly had no desire to spend the balance of his free time running back and forth to the supermarket.
The young policeman stepped out of the car, dragging the sack with him and then swinging it under one arm. He kicked the door shut and headed up the walk to the kitchen door, pausing momentarily to reposition a child's tricycle that was blocking the way.