There was no guard at the door. Bolan slipped silently inside. An old man wearing thick glasses sat humped over a drawing board, a dazzling light shining on the work in his hands. Bolan watched him for a moment; the man was an artist. Bolan slipped back out, resumed his search, and at last found the ammo dump, his other main objective.
All during his recon, Bolan had kept mental notes, drawing a mental map, counting his steps between each building and establishment. Once he had it down, he widened his search, looking for Don Cafu's headquarters.
He found another trail leading on down toward Agrigento. An on-shore breeze occasionally carried the odor of the sea to Bolan's nostrils. The trail led to a dirt road and Bolan went on. The road made a turn, and ahead, Bolan saw the huge house, well-lighted. He stopped for a check. At least five men roved the grounds, carrying submachine guns.
Now, what the hell! thought Bolan, having no way of knowing Don Cafu had rebelled against his fellow bosses and the hardmen were not prowling to stop Bolan, but possible assassins sent by the other dons.
As he watched, Bolan saw a flaw in the way the guards patrolled the grounds. Bolan stripped off his gradigghia uniform, slipped the Beretta rig back on, fitted a full clip into the butt, then moved like a shadow in his black combat garb.
Bolan moved to within a dozen yards of the place he'd chosen to penetrate Don Cafu's home grounds when someone shot him in the back.
16
Pprey
At the sound of gunfire just outside his home, Don Cafu felt his heart leap into his throat. He ran toward the door leading down into the fortresslike cellar, yelling at his inside hardmen, "What was it, what was it?"
"I'll check," said Tony Guida, finding himself swallowing heavily.
"Where's Eddie?" Cafu demanded. "I want Eddie!"
"He's up the hill, boss; you know that. With the troops."
"Get him down here. Right away. You call up there and get him down here right away."
"Sure, boss, if you say so," said Tony, not moving toward the intercom box hooked to a battery-powered line connecting the house with the malacarni camp. Tony had long since intended himself as Eddie The Champ's replacement. Champ. Of what? The slob worked his ass off with those greaseballs trying to make soldiers of them and he still looked like a blivit, two pounds of shit in a one pound bag.
"It sounds okay out there now, boss," Tony said. "Why don't I have a look-see, huh?"
An idea sprang full-blown into Tony's head. One of the outside men was a hype, a creep Tony called Riarso because the creep was always licking his lips like he was thirsty, dry-mouthed. Riarso would do anything Tony Guida told him; he would squat and crap on his own heels if Tony Guida ordered him, then lick his heels clean; because no one else in the crew besides Tony Guida knew the creep was a hype and Tony his connection. Tony decided that tonight Eddie The Champ was going to get his ass blown off — accidentally. Riarso was going to make a mistake in the dark, and with his chopper cut Eddie The Champ in half. Accidentally.
Tony consoled his boss again. "Easy, boss, huh? Just keep it cool'and let me check around." Tony turned toward the front door, taking up his own Walther P38 machine-pistol. At that moment, the intercom speaker squawked to life. "Boss! Hey, boss! Anybody there, hey, you! Tony!"
"Quit yelling, you dumb bastard," Tony said, striding to the intercom and pressing the lever.
"Okay, look, we got trouble up here, bad, Tony. Real bad."
"So what's the trouble."
"Is the don there?"
"Yeah, he's here. Quit farting around," Tony commanded, watching Don Cafu come slowly back into the room.
"Jeez, Tony. Tony, Eddie's dead, he's shot, he's dead as heU, Tony."
"I heard you the first time, dumbutt. Dead how? What the hell happened?"
"Bolan," said the don; it came out as a squeak.
"No," said the voice on the intercom. "It was Francesco."
"Francesco!" Tony Guida shouted. "You're outta your friggin skull."
"No, no, listen. Francesco, he's been carrying wine up with him on watch, and today he must've come in drunk. Eddie beat his face off, but Francesco got off a shot I mean we checked the pistol and everything, Tony."
Jeeez-uss, thought Tony Guida, how much luck could a guy have? The bastard I want hit so I can take over gets blown up while I'm sitting here with the boss, and I don't have to trust a lousy goddam junkie on the job.
Eddie pressed the lever. "Okay, cool it, huh? Now, who's in charge up there?"
"Well, no one, I guess. Gino was sort of taking over, I mean, you know he did some army."
"Okay, let me talk to him."
"Well, that's what I mean. He ain't here. I think he was coming down to report in, you know, about Eddie."
A huge sigh of utter relief gushed from the don's lips, and Tony watched the old man slack into a chair, wiping his sweaty gray face.
"Well," Tony said flatly, "you better take charge yourself, because I got a feeling Gino ain't coming back. We just had some gunfire down here, and I think one of our outside men took Gino down."
Tony paused a moment, thinking, totally aware of the don watching him. He had to make a good impression, and he had to do it now, in a crisis, while the don watched. No one ever knew what that blank-faced, conniving, ruthless old bastard was thinking. He may have had someone else already picked out to replace Eddie, if Eddie ever got blown up; so I won't get a better chance to show my stuff than right here, right now.
Tony pressed the lever. "Okay, do this. Tell the troops I said you're in charge till I get up there. Get the cooks to put out a good meal, I mean good; and plenty of wine for everyone. Get something going up there, card games, anything, I'll send for some girls. Just get to work smoothing it all out, settle everything down up there and I'll do the rest."
"Sure, okay, Tony. You, ah, you taking over for Eddie?"
"That's right," Tony Guida said flatly, turning his head and looking at Don Cafu, "I'm taking over for Eddie. I am speaking for the don."
Don Cafu nodded, and he smiled briefly.
Tony felt elation zing through him like a shot of God-power.
"Don Cafu's right here if you want to verify it."
"Hell, no, Tony. You're the man. I'm with you all the way, and don't forget, huh? The name is Giacomo, I mean Jack Vincent, huh, Tony. I'm your guy up here."
"Right, Jack, now get your ass in gear and take charge. Anybody gives you any shit, have'm check with me, or the don. But it better be goddam important, like life'r death before they bother the boss."
"No sweat, Tony. Most of the guys are here now, listening."
"Okay, move it!"
"Check, boss!"
Another ambitious son of a bitch, Tony Guida thought, turning from the intercom. But let him work his ass off. Who gets the credit? Me! The don's new right arm. Tony went to Cafu and gently put a hand on the don's shoulder. "Anything I can get you, boss? You okay?"
"You done fine, Tony. You done as good as Eddie."
"Eddie's dead, boss. Dead." Tony spoke flatly, with an edge on the word.
"You're right. Eddie's dead and now I got Tony. I like you Tony, how you handled everything."
"Okay, boss, now I got to check outside, see what to do with that dumbass Gino who got hisself shot, coming down without warning us." Tony picked up his machine-pistol again and went outside, whistling. He had another thing to take care of, too. Anybody who trusts a junkie is crazy; it's crazy even having one around, unless you can use him. With the death of Eddie The Champ, Tony Guida's tame junkie had gone, in a heartbeat, from an asset to a very distinct liability. Tony wouldn't last ten seconds in his new job if the old man, or anyone, discovered he'd been supplying Riarso with morphine.