According to Bolan's poop sheet, the guy was forty-one years of age, married to, but living apart from, a genuine Italian countess, had two youngsters who spent most of their lives in European boarding schools.
He owned a joint in Grosse Pointe Woods — not far from the mob's yacht club. He kept offices downtown, not far from civic center, and had a "retreat" up near Bald Mountain between Pontiac and Flint.
At one of those spots, or upon some jungle trail connecting them, Bolan expected to discover the key to the riddle of Georgette Chableu's fate.
Let the earth shake where it would, there came a time for every man when he had to stand down from the impersonal war and deal entirely on the people level.
Georgette was special people.
Somehow Bolan had to isolate Cassiopea from those who watched and waited, maneuver him into a section of unpatrolled "jungle," and pin an Executioner badge on the guy. Somehow. Yeah. But how?
15
Counted
Bolan proceeded directly from the strike room to the police garage. Pool vehicles were being serviced there and put on the line with the special strike net radio frequencies plugged in. It was a routine operation made difficult only by the quantity of vehicles involved.
The master of "role camouflage" needed one of those vehicles.
His senses flared into the situation and unerringly focused upon the service boss, a harried man in his middle years with too much to do and too little to do it with.
Bolan possessed a special knack for getting "in step" with people. Perhaps it was one of the secrets of his success.
He approached the service boss with a sympathetic grin and told him, "Don't rush, just get it done yesterday, eh?"
The guy grinned back, sourly, and replied, "Same old shit. When it gets this bad, I stop worrying. It can only get better."
Bolan chuckled. "Maybe not. I could be coming down here to tell you the game's changed again. Take it all out and put it back like it was."
The guy's grin faded. He muttered, "Is it?"
Bolan laughed again and playfully poked the guy's shoulder. "Nah. No time for cheap jokes, is it?" He handed over a business card that had thoughtfully been handed to him in the strike room. "Skipper wants you to check your list for this guy. Make sure he's on it."
The service boss accepted the card and frowned at it. "Why don't the feds furnish these vehicles?" he complained. "If they're going to send the man, they should send the car with him."
Bolan shrugged. "You know how it is during a flap. Hey, we don't want to send the guy over to Avis — right? Detroit tries harder because we're only number three — right?"
The guy laughed. "Well ..."
"He is on the list, huh?"
"Naw." A tired sigh. "But he will be."
"I should pick up the car right now. This is, uh, you know, one of those protocol things. Skipper doesn't want these guys going back telling tales out of school."
"Yeah," the guy growled. Now he was being sympathetic. "Same old shit." He was scanning a log book. "Okay." He spun the book around and indicated a line with his finger. "This one's ready."
Bolan accepted a ball-point pen and scribbled a badge number in the space provided. "Thanks. Remind me to buy you a beer."
"Buy me a couple more mechanics instead."
Bolan laughed and looked toward the vehicles. "Head of the line, eh?"
"Right. Gassed and ready. That one just had a brake job. If it pulls a little, let the self-adjustors burn in."
Bolan thanked the guy again and went to claim his vehicle. It was fairly new, unmarked, with an inconspicuous antenna. Perfect. He slid in, cranked it, checked the radio, and checked the hell out of there.
The plan was only vaguely formed in his mind, but he knew what he had to do. How he would do it remained to be seen.
Off the numbers now and by the ear, the Executioner was again on the offensive. Let friends and enemies stand up and be counted. The jungle would claim her own.
Officers Larson and Papado were two short hours into their vigil and just beginning to settle into the tedium of a long stake-out.
They were positioned for surveillance of the main entrance to the Cadillac Tower Building, with a third detective stationed in the lobby and in direct radio communications with the vehicle.
Blown-up photos of one Bobby Cassiopea, lifted from a magazine and a couple of old newspapers, lay on the seat between the two men, sharing honors with composite sketches of the man of the moment, Mack Bolan.
Larson uncorked a thermos of coffee and poured a slug into a paper cup. "Want some?" he asked his partner.
Papado responded with a negative grunt, then added, "My ass is going dead."
"Shift to the other cheek," Larson suggested.
"I've run out of cheeks."
"Play with your balls or something. That'll get the blood to pumping again."
Papado chuckled. "What we need on these gigs is female partners. I'd feel self-conscious playing with my own."
Larson sipped his coffee, then swiftly lowered the cup. "Get a look at that guy?"
"Yeah. Right build but too old."
"Better check him anyway."
Papado sighed and spoke into a small transistor radio. "Paul. Close-sight an incoming."
The response crackled back immediately. "Right."
A moment later, "Strike three, you're out."
Larson grimaced.
Papado sighed.
The watch went on. Both men rubbed their eyes and stretched their necks, repeatedly. Papado cracked his knuckles, cast an apologetic glance at his partner, separated his hands, shifted his position on the seat.
"Police work," Larson muttered ten minutes later. "The glamor of it all is damn near overpowering, isn't it? I'll end up with bifocals, barnacles on my ass, jock itch clear to my knees, and the ringing cry of 'Pig!' on my tombstone. Why, Pappy? Why the hell do we do it?"
Papado shrugged. "It's a living."
"So's playing tennis. Or golf. For God's sake, why this?"
His partner sighed. "We have to get into that again?"
A moment later, Larson said, "Sandy wants a divorce."
"Smart girl," Papado commented.
"I'm serious. She's at the ultimatum stage. I have to choose between her and the force."
"Too bad. You're going to miss that girl, Chuck."
"Get serious."
"I'm always serious."
"We're just not making it. Financially, I mean. Hell, we just worry through from one payday to the next, juggling bills, dodging them sometimes. Have you been grocery shopping lately? Hell ... I don't know, Pappy."
"You don't know what?"
"We can't touch those bastards, anyway."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Larson muttered, "May as well take their envelopes."
"Oh, boy," Papado said heavily. "I'm going to let you have one right in the mouth."
"Shit," Larson said.
"That's it exactly. Rub it all over you, why don't you? Eat some, too. That'll make you feel a lot better, won't it? Listen. I'd let my wife sell her ass first."
"I don't know, Pappy. I just don't know."
"Then take it from one that does. I grew up with that shit. You take their envelopes, buddy, then it's fair trade. They take your trembling immortal soul and use it for ass wipe. Look, I don't even want to talk about this. Now I just don't want to talk about it. You reading me?"
"I'm reading you." A moment later: "Pappy, I was just bellyaching."
"I know it"
"Next time, go ahead. Do let me have one in the mouth."
"I probably will."
The partners lapsed into another silence.
Cops on stake-out duty had a lot of time to do nothing but think. It was perhaps their chief enemy.