Bolan lit another cigarette and returned his attention to the mirror. When he'd finished the smoke, he carefully crushed it in the ashtray, got out of the car, and walked briskly to the stucco bungalow which had been occupying his attention. A hooked screen door offered the only discouragement to an uninvited caller. He ran the blade of his penknife through the flimsy wire screen, opened the door, and went in.
He found the girl lying across the bed in bra and panties, face down, the rise of ample rump presiding majestically over other interesting topographical features. She raised her head in a mute inspection of the intruder. Her makeup was smudged from persistent tears, but this offered no contradiction of Bolan's earlier assessment of her beauty. The enormous dark eyes were wide with undisguised fear, but she met his level gaze and said, "Wh-who are you? What do you want?"
Bolan removed his sunglasses and dropped them into his pocket. "We nearly met this morning," he told her, "but at a distance of about 500 meters."
"Wh-what?"
"You didn't see me," he assured her. "But I saw you. In the crosshairs of my scope. And I could have punched a hole through that lovely head just as nasty as the other two." He smiled. "But I didn't, you see."
She lay very still, staring at him with growing apprehension. She whispered, "I don't even know why you killed them, or anything about you. You have no reason to kill me."
"Maybe you're right. What do you know about Portocci?"
She shook her head. "Nothing. I never saw him before this morning."
"What's your name?"
"J-Jean. Kirkpatrick. I'm a model."
"What were you modeling this morning?"
"I . . . I . . ." Her eyes dropped in embarrassment and confusion.
"What?"
"Sometimes . . . when I don't have any modeling assignments . . . Mr. Balderone hires me to . . . as a companion for . . . his friends."
"Who is Balderone?"
"You k-killed him, and you don't even know him?"
"How would I go about getting a date with you, Jean?"
"Huh? You mean . . .?"
"Yes, that's what I mean. If I'd never met you, and knew nothing about you, how would I go about getting an introduction?"
"You, uh, you don't understand."
"I'll listen while you give me an understanding."
She had decided that Bolan was not going to murder her. She said, "Can I get up?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. Let's get this understanding first."
"I'm not a prostitute, if that's what you're thinking. I mean, there's a difference, a very important difference."
"All right, there's a difference. Tell me about it."
"I work for Mr. Balderone. He pays me himself. Between me and his friends it was just like fun, like a party . . . you know. I mean, no money passed. No business arrangements. You know what I mean?"
"Were all of Mr. Balderone's friends Italians?"
Her eyes blinked rapidly. "Not all the time."
"Look, kid, let's get something straight. How you make your living is your business. I'm not interested in that. I just want some live information, and I want it straight and quick. Are you reading me?"
The girl had begun to cry. Bolan was feeling miserable for her, but his face kept the secret. "You're mixed up with the Mafia," he told her.
"The what?"
"Portocci was the junior boss of a western family. Now I want to know . . . who was Balderone? What was his connection to Portocci?"
The girl shook her head. The tears were rapidly drying up. Bolan snared a box of Kleenex from a dressing table and tossed it on the bed. She rose to hands and knees, rocked back in a kneeling position, grabbed a tissue, and dabbed at her eyes and nose. Bolan understood the maneuver. She was giving him a good look at the object of his abuse.
He let her know that he was looking and not buying. He pressed on. "You ever hear the name Ciro Lavangetta?"
"Yes. He's a . . . he was in business with Mr. Balderone."
"That's a good answer," Bolan murmured. "Okay. How many other girls are on Balderone's payroll?"
"Quite a few. Sometimes there are — were big parties."
"Always at the same place? That same hotel?"
She sighed and shook her head. "No. Different places. Sometimes on a boat, a yacht, the Merry Drew."
"How are the bookings right now?"
"Uh . . ." Her eyes dropped from his intent gaze. "Things are booming."
"Tell me about it."
"A lot of his friends are in town. Some sort of convention, I believe. They're all over the beach, though, here and there. Too many, really. He had to bring some girls in from the Gulf Coast."
"Okay, get a pencil and paper."
"What for?"
"I want a list. Every place Balderone has girls booked for this week."
"That's crazy. I don't know all that. Are you a cop? You can't use any of-"
"Shut up!" Bolan snarled.
She blinked and recoiled, as though expecting physical violence. "So you're not a cop," she said breathlessly. "I'm sorry, I don't know all the places."
"But you do know a few."
"Well, yes. I know a few."
"Then get to writing."
"I believe you're getting me into a lot of trouble, mister."
Bolan shook his head. "You're already there, kid. I didn't put you there. I found you there."
The tearworks went back into operation. Bolan pulled out his notebook and placed it in her hand, then gave her his pen. "Start writing," he said coldly. "And keep it straight. I wouldn't want to see that beautiful head in my crosshairs again."
"I didn't know they were M-Mafia," she blubbered.
"You know it now."
She sprawled out across the bed, pen and pad in hand, and began the list. She paused to dab at her eyes and to shoot a reproachful look at Bolan. "I'll bet I know who you are, too," she announced.
"Yeah? Just write, kid."
"Yeah," she said, imitating his voice. "I know what you are, too. And they know it. I heard them talking about you. I didn't understand it then, but now it all makes sense. You're in more trouble than Iam, Mack Bolan. I wouldn't change places with you for all the money in Miami. You think you're their judge and jury. You're as wrong as they are."
"It takes one to know one," Bolan replied curtly.
"And it takes a killer to kill," the girl fired back. She seemed more in command of herself now, and not at all frightened of Bolan. She finished the list and returned his notebook and pen. "There's your information. Go on out and drown yourself in other people's blood."
Bolan said, "Thanks." He pocketed the book. "If you mention any of this to them, you know you're as good as dead. And not from my hand. I'll keep the secret if you will."
"I guess I've been dead a long time already," she said, falling back to the pillow. "How much deader can you get?"
Bolan smiled. "I'd like to discuss that with you some time."
"Sure."