"It was a couple of years ago." Dutton breathed heavily, fear and shame intermixed on his face. "Some friends of mine, they have a daughter... I offered to take her to Washington, show her the sights. I was an old family friend, her parents trusted me. My wife was out of town, so I took the girl to my apartment there. I... I... For God's sake, I never meant to touch her, but I did, I did, I couldn't help myself..."
"How old was she?"
"She was... fifteen." Dutton hesitated, then went on hurriedly. "It never happened again and that's the truth! It was... just one of those things. I didn't... rape her or anything."
"Yes, you did," said Bolan icily.
"It was only that one time," Dutton blurted. "And the girl... she wasn't hurt. She's fine today, just fine. You wouldn't kill me for something like that, would you, Bolan?"
"Did her parents find out?"
Dutton shook his head.
"No, not that I know of. But Parelli found out, damn his soul. I don't know how, but he discovered what happened that night in Washington."
"Guys like Parelli, guys shopping around for power, make it their business to know things like that," said Bolan. "You ought to remember that, Senator."
"The weird thing is," said Dutton, looking honestly baffled now, "in the time since, Parelli hasn't asked me to do anything. I was sure he'd want money..."
"He wants the power he can control through you and others like you," Bolan told the politician.
Dutton licked his lips.
"A few times... when some legislation came up, I would get a call. It was just a matter of looking the other way, that's all."
Bolan started to back away from him.
"You've betrayed the people's trust, Senator."
Dutton read something in Bolan's eyes that scared another near scream out of him.
"Wait!" Dutton pressed his back against the wall. "I'll resign! I'll quit politics forever... D-don't kill me, Bolan. There are things I can tell you. You wouldn't kill me just because I was weak one time! I have a wife, a family..."
Bolan paused, not exactly sure what he should do with this walking slimebag.
"What can you tell me?"
"Parelli. That's who you're after, isn't it? He's why you're in Chicago! I know things you don't know!"
"Tell me what you've got," rasped Bolan, constantly aware of the atmosphere around them, "and make itfast."
11
The kitchen noises from one direction and the ballroom sounds from the other continued unabated. No one had ventured into the narrow passageway connecting the two areas during the thirty or so seconds of this exchange between Bolan and Dutton. But Bolan knew that luck could not last forever.
"I've... only heard rumors," Dutton said haltingly, "but they could be rumors you haven't heard."
"You're stalling, Senator."
"All right, all right. It's... his mother. Parelli's mother."
That caught Bolan's interest, but he did not let Dutton know that.
"What about Denise Parelli?" he growled.
"Well, uh, it's unsubstantiated, but I've heard some people in the know suggest that... well, that David Parelli is a figurehead, that he only appears to run things, but somebody else is really pulling the strings. You know how those gangsters would feel about taking orders from a woman. The Mafia is sexist, to put it mildly."
Bolan frowned thoughtfully, wondering if he had finally found what he was searching for since he arrived in Chicago.
"Are you suggesting that the real head of the family is Denise Parelli?"
"That's what I've heard," Dutton answered with a nod. "It's just a rumor, but I've heard that Denise took over the reins when old Vito was fighting off the Big C. Everyone thought The Butcher was still running things, and after he died Denise didn't let go. Her son gets all the respect, but she tells him what, when and how much. But like I said..."
"Right," growled Bolan. "Just a rumor. Now tell me where Parelli is."
"I have no idea! We've never met. I only received phone calls from the man."
That was the only way it would be handled, thought Bolan, turning this provocative tidbit over in his mind even as he decided what to do about Dutton.
The senator sounded sincere enough and he was sure still scared enough. He was either telling the truth or he was a consummate liar, which, considering his line of work, was altogether probable.
It was not often Bolan heard something new from the underworld grapevine, but Senator Mark Dutton was close enough to the source that there just might be something to it, which put an interesting new twist on things.
Sleek, attractive Denise Parelli, the actual boss of a ruthless Mafia family, ruling things from behind the scenes with an iron hand?
Yeah.
Bolan could see it, all right.
The revelation didn't really change things that much, though.
There were still too many loose ends, too many dangling questions.
When the time came for the all-out blitz that would write a fiery end to the Parelli family... son, soldiers and maybe mama, too...
Bolan wanted no loose ends, no questions.
Dutton's eyes were darting left and right frantically, looking for the first opening so he could bolt from the man who had him cornered here, but no one had showed yet from either end of the passageway.
"W-well?" he asked Bolan. "You won't kill me, will you, Bolan?"
Bolan made up his mind. "Not this time, Senator. You just bought your life back."
Dutton sighed all the way from his shoelaces.
"Because of what I told you?"
"Because of the things you said to the crowd in that ballroom," Bolan corrected. "Because of a check for forty thousand dollars to a ghetto playground. That bought you your life, Senator. Clean up your act. You won't get another chance."
"I... I..." Dutton was too shaken up, then he found the words. "Thank you," he said fervently.
"And don't raise a ruckus while I'm on my way out of here, and maybe you'll be lucky enough never to see me again."
"W-whatever you say," Dutton replied, pale and trembling.
Bolan left the politician standing there and elbowed his way through the swing door, back into the ballroom.
12
For what seemed like a long time, Mark Dutton stood there, his ears ringing, his throat dry, his heart pounding, but it could not have been more than a couple of seconds before he forced himself to raise his eyes and look up and down the passageway.
The Executioner was gone.
Dutton did not care where, but that was all right. Just as long as Bolan wasn't here with that hard voice and those cold eyes.
The politician wondered what to do next. He pulled out a silk handkerchief and dabbed his sweaty brow.
Dread made him almost nauseated.
The door from the ballroom suddenly opened.
Dutton practically jumped out of his skin, jerking around to see who was there.
"Oh, there you are, Senator. I wondered where you had gone off to."
The mild voice belonged to Floyd Wallace, who ambled into the passageway to peer more closely at the visibly shaken Dutton.
"My God, Mark, what's wrong?" he asked. "You look like something's just scared you out of your wits."
Dutton held out his closed hand, then opened it, revealing to Wallace the marksman's medal clutched in his fingers.
"Bolan was here," he croaked hoarsely.
Wallace's eyes widened behind his thick glasses.