"Count me into your foot force," the federal man volunteered.
"Thanks. Uh, you were saying something a while ago about the guy in Los Angeles."
"Brognola? Yes, he was very close to the Bolan case out there. Left word for him to call. Possibly he can fill us in on the Bolan M.O. in ways that others can't. I thought it might be helpful."
"Hell, yes," Harmon quietly agreed.
"Who's Brognola?" Wilson inquired.
"Justice Department," Dunlap explained. "He has actually spoken with Bolan and . . . well, I guess he was even working with him toward the big Mafia bust out there!" He aimed a pencil toward a manila folder on the desk. "That Project Pointer report there tells all about it."
"Doesn't sound exactly kosher," Wilson commented uneasily.
Dunlap shrugged. "Sometimes we have to go for the end, and not the means. I guess Brognola figured the Mafia was the greater enemy. That's our big hangup right now, anyway, you know. Federally speaking." He smiled. "Not to put down the local cops, you understand, but we're not nearly as interested in everyday street crime as we are in the big underworld combines."
"I hope you're not speaking of the present case," Hannon said heavily. "This is no everyday street crime staring at us. We have one goal, and that's to prevent a hot war from erupting on our streets. Agreed?"
The federal agent showed his usual cheery smile and said, "I'm yours to command, Captain." He got to his feet and headed for the door. "I'll be upstairs. I want to stick close by in case Brognola calls. But yell if you need me."
Hannon nodded his head and Dunlap went on out. Wilson said, "I get the feeling that guy knows more than he's telling us. You get that feeling?"
"Hell, I'm sure of it," Hannon replied dismally. He went over and closed the door, then returned to the desk and sat down with a heavy sigh. "The Justice Department would like to play footsy with Bolan, and that's the whole truth of the matter. Maybe not the department per se, but someone up there with authority is trying to make intercessions with the police forces around the country. You don't see the FBI getting all lathered up over Bolan, do you?"
"What do you mean, what kind of intercessions?"
"They're suggesting it might be in the greater national interest if we just try to contain Bolan. Sort of turn our backs, you know, unless he really gets out of line."
"And what does he have to do to really get out of line? I mean, sure, so far today all he's done is gun down a couple of people who were peacefully passing the time of day around the old swimming hole. Where do we draw the line? When Miami Beach starts sliding into the Atlantic?"
The captain grimaced and reached for his pipe. The battered meerschaum in his hand was always a symbol of an inner agitation. "So far Bolan has reserved his gunsights for his natural enemy," he explained. "He has never harmed a law officer or an innocent bystander. Someone in Washington seems to think he's performing a national service."
"Miami isn't buying that crap, are we?"
"You better bet we're not, son," Hannon growled. "They'll be no Mafia massacres in Miami. I have a request in to the chief now. I've asked for an additional fifty men, all motorized. The Executioner is going to strike out in this town, Bob. Or else."
"Or else what?"
The captain shrugged. "Or else there's going to be a massacre like we've never witnessed." He pointed a quivering pipestem at the pile of papers atop his desk. "That intelligence data there points conclusively to one thing. A mob-up in Miami. The mob is here. And Bolan must know it."
"What mob-up? You mean a convention? Like at Appalachian?"
"That is precisely what I mean."
"Well, goddammit, let's bust 'em!"
"We can't bust 'em unless we can find 'em. And I have a feeling that Bolan has the edge in this footrace."
"Oh, hell," Wilson said miserably.
"Yeah, that's what it's going to be," said the captain. "Just hell."
Bolan checked into the Tidelands Plaza, a swank hostelry in the lower beach area, using the name Michael Blanski, and went directly to his room. There he unpacked a new suitcase, removed the tags from a recently purchased Palm Beach suit, and called for service from the valet shop. Next he called room service and put in an order, then carried a small spray can into the bathroom and silverized the hair at his temples. He critically inspected the job, then added a touch of silver to the locks directly above his eyes. Satisfied, he capped the can and dropped it into the water tank of the toilet.
The door buzzer sounded. He donned his sunglasses and admitted the bellman who brought in a covered tray with bottle, mix, and ice. Bolan inspected the man closely, taking note of his dark hair and skin and slightly foreign manner. "That's fast service," he said gruffly, and handed the man a large bill. "Keep it," he added grandly.
The bellman said, "Thank you, sir. I brought also the late newspaper, it is on the tray. You had something also for the valet shop, sir?"
Bolan took note of the stiffly constructed speech, the soft and barely noticeable improper stressing of syllables. He said, "Yeah," and pointed to the suit on the bed. "Just get th' wrinkles out so I'll look irresistable to the girls, eh."
The bellman smiled dutifully and crossed to the bed to pick up the suit. "Prettiest girls in the States right here at the Beach, sir," he advised Bolan.
"Yeah, but they're spookish. What's the best way to get introduced in this town, eh?"
The bellman draped the suit over his arm. "There are ways, sir. I mean, channels."
Bolan laughed. "Yeah, I'll bet. How much?"
"The price for every taste, sir." He was moving toward the door. "Fifty to a hundred and fifty. Even more for more expensive tastes. One simply makes the right contacts."
"Yeah, well, I'll think that over," Bolan said.
"I wasn't inferring, sir, that I—"
"Sure, sure," Bolan said.
The man went out and pulled the door softly shut. Bolan grinned and went to the service tray, opened the bottle, and poured a water glass full of bourbon. He went to the bathroom, washed his mouth with the whiskey, and spat it out, then dumped the remainder of the glass and flushed it down the toilet. He returned to the tray and filled the glass with crushed ice, added some mix, and sipped it as he undressed. He could not allow his mind to become fogged with alcohol, but the scene also needed to be properly set.
His eye fell on the newspaper, precisely folded to afford a quick look at the page one feature story. His own face glared up at him from the newspaper. He set the glass down and picked up the paper. The headline above the story read, HAS THE EXECUTIONER COME TO TOWN? The picture was a pretty close artists' sketch, close enough to make Bolan feel uneasy. The story was a rehash of the Executioner story, from Pittsfield to Palm Springs, coupled to some strong hints of the morning's work at the Sandbank. He put the newspaper down and returned to the bathroom, shaved and showered, taking care to preserve the color added to his hair, and had just finished towelling dry when the bellman returned with his suit.
Bolan watched curiously as the man leaned into the closet to hang the suit. He was looking for the telltale bulge of concealed hardware, but found none. The man was a head shorter than Bolan, but thickly built and powerful looking. Bolan just did not read him as a bellman. He gave the man another tip and growled, "How's th' food around here?"