Bolan drove the Datsun down Rush.
Traffic was heavy as he looked for Jimmy Kidd's and Sheba's.
The soldier had little reason to think fondly of Chicago, considering that this and his previous visits to this City of Big Shoulders, as Robert Frost had termed it, invariably tied in solely with his War Everlasting.
Still, there was about this city a vibrancy, a vitality, an immediacy that he found invigorating and quintessentially American, for Bolan recognized that the history of this one-of-a-kind metropolis squatting on the southern shore of Lake Michigan was a microcosm of the whole of American history and experience, mirroring a nation's greatness as well as its dark side; its dreams and its nightmares.
He knew something of the Windy City's past: how French explorers and trappers like Marquette and Jolliet had braved the hostile, uncharted interior of an expansive new continent, mapping the area as early as 1673; how Fort Dearborn was established in 1803.
Prosperity had first come to Chicago in the wake of harbor improvements, lake traffic and the settling of the prairies.
From the ashes of the fire of 1871 had risen a city of stone and steel that had not yet stopped growing, burgeoning into the free-wheeling big town of today, boasting a population of well over three million, a vital Great Lakes port and a busy rail, air and highway hub.
Rapidly growing industries had brought thousands of immigrants to Chi around the turn of the century, imbuing the metropolis with its rich ethnic diversity that continued to thrive.
The opening of the St. Lawrence Seaway in 1959 made Chicago a true city of the world, a major port for overseas shipping.
And if this wild and woolly, sooty, noisy, friendly town had gained itself a sometimes unsavory reputation, thanks to the likes of Capone, Accardo and Parelli, Chicago could claim equal fame for its symphony orchestra, its art institute, its civic opera and its natural history museum, barometers all of those heights of achievement in the arts and sciences of which the human spirit is capable.
The full array of the good, the bad and the ugly that Chicago had to offer were out in force along Rush Street this night.
The biting cold night wind snapped through the high, narrow canyons of this north-side district of clubs and restaurants. Shops attracted browsers, tourists, off-duty servicemen and down-and-out street people in droves around the clock, around the calendar, and this November weeknight was no exception.
Automobiles and human rabble made the night alive and slowed the Datsun's progress.
Bolan recognized the value of losing himself in the crush of people who clogged this multiblock stretch that is the principal Rush Street scene. He used the crawling pace to look for the establishments where he hoped to find Owens. As he cruised along in the traffic's flow, he thought of everything that had transpired during the short, roller-coaster ride since he had blown into Chicago earlier that night.
There had been intangibles about this mission from the beginning, but Bolan had vowed to take on the odds and deliver a strike against the Parelli empire in spite of those intangibles.
Parelli was worth Bolan's attention, damn right. The mobster had to be located and terminated.
Intangibles, yeah.
Bolan was convinced that there was more to this Chicago strike than he had first suspected. The warrior could sense a foul, evil undercurrent pulsing just beneath the surface, but time was running out too fast, and time was something Bolan had not had much of to begin with.
Bolan had never expected to survive his first assault on the Mafia those years ago when he had come home from Nam to avenge his family.
Vengeance, then, had quickly given way to duty, determination, when he fully understood the bigger picture. The Mafia was evil, sure, but it was only part of the problem.
And yet Bolan had lived his life since with the full expectation that every day could well be his last.
Thus far fate, luck, whatever, had seen him through mile after bloody mile, but Bolan understood that it could not last forever.
One day his luck would change and there'd be a bullet with his name on it. No matter.
Chicago was due for some cleansing fire.
He'd play Fate's game. He, too, had some aces up his sleeve.
He would not go to his death knowing that the truth had eluded him in Chicago.
Cold fury gripped his insides each time he thought of the sickness he had seen on Parelli's TV screen. He had to nail Parelli more than ever now, and he had to clear up this tangle before one more child came to harm.
There had to be something big, that was the only way it played, what with Parelli being so impossible to find. The Chicago boss had gone to ground and taken his terrible secrets and plans with him, but Bolan would find him, hell yeah, and Bolan would bust the thing apart so they'd never put it together again, no matter what it was.
And the best lead he had now was a creep he'd let slip through his fingers twice.
He would find Randy Owens.
He would learn the truth about Parelli and Griff and Senator Dutton and, he hoped, about a woman named Lana Garner.
If hesurvived.
Chicago seemed wired for the Executioner; there had been too many close calls already from the Mob and the cops, but Bolan would do it, yes.
He spotted his target.
Both the bar and the massage parlor had distinctive signs bearing their names and both had a steady flow of customers, Bolan saw as he cruised by.
The closest parking spot he could find on the busy street was two blocks away. He did not like being that far from his wheels, but there was little he could do about it.
He locked the car and strode back down the bustling sidewalk toward Jimmy Kidd's.
Owens almost fainted on the spot.
Heart pounding, he flung himself around, half expecting to find himself staring down the barrel of that goddamn cannon the Executioner carried.
Instead, he found himself looking up into a strong but attractive female face framed by a wild mane of fiery red hair.
"My God, Sheba!" Owens exploded. "You just about scared the shit out of me!"
The towering redheaded beauty cracked a coarse chuckle and jerked a thumb at the door of the men's room, a few steps away.
"Well, we're in the right place for that, aren't we, hon?"
She was taller than Owens by a couple of inches. The leotard she wore revealed the impressive musculature of her body, reminding Owens of the fact that she was a bodybuilder who spent every minute she could spare away from the running of the massage parlor, pumping iron, developing muscles that came in handy for dealing with customers who got a little too carried away in the parlor. The stamina she gained from her workouts made her a tireless sexual performer. Owens had used her in several movies.
"What's the matter with you anyway?" she asked, studying Owens more closely, noticing his somewhat disheveled appearance. "I've never seen you this scared."
"I've never had Mack Bolan after me, either," Owens snapped.
"Bolan?" The name burst out of her. "What's the Executioner want with you? No offense, Randy, it's just that... you don't seem the type he usually goes after."
"Don't I wish," Owens muttered, making a sour face. "Look, Sheba, can you and Jimmy hide me out for a little while? I'll get in touch with..."
He broke off abruptly, unsure of how much to tell Sheba. It suddenly occurred to Owens that perhaps he could not trust the woman.
"I'll work it out," he finished limply.