Roxy Artists was typical of the breed. Despite Oxley's protestations to the contrary, he actually was an owner. He owned 23 percent of Roxy. But that was his sole interest in the larger network which included recording companies, booking agencies, theaters, clubs, hotels and casinos through the Western Hemisphere.
Moreover, Bolan was sure that patient probing would also uncover an invisible network of allied companies in, such areas as real estate development and management, laundries, vending machines, janitorial services, and various other services and suppliers-such as the Juliana Academy and its rotten little approach to liberal life styling.
It was a disturbingly familiar game. Only the players, at the visible level, supplied the difference. But it was a difference which spelled insurance for the other levels and great difficulty for those hoping to penetrate beyond the visible, even though Bolan was practically certain that the same old familiar faces would be found hovering in the invisible background and pulling the strings.
And he was beginning to appreciate the full scope of the Justice Department's interest in all this. No matter how legitimate a Mafia operation might appear on the surface, the Mafia mentality simply did not allow room for any business approach which was not inherently rapacious and destructive to its environment.
Roxy Artists would serve as a case in point. Since the same invisible interests controlled both the agency and the various showplaces-including even recording companies and distributors, perhaps even radio stations-any promising young talent falling into Roxy's clutches was a tailor made mark for the game of rape and loot. The kid would be fully exploited from every possible angle while sharing very little of the profits, squeezed dry, then flung back into the dust to make room for another. Some of the unfortunate ones would no doubt be turned out for prostitution (whether male or female), doping, organized thievery, con games, or whatever. As always, wherever encountered and at whatever level, a Mafia presence was a societal cancer.
In this particular instance, the tip of the iceberg represented by Oxley and his Roxy Artists was a monstrous growth which threatened to undermine the entire social structure built up around the entertainment industry.
And, no, Bolan was not feeling particularly concerned over the legal rights of the plunderers.
Until Nashville, he had been only minimally aware of the existence of the hood called Nick Copa-also known variously as Cupaletto, Copaletta, Cupaletti, and Copoletto. He was a cousin to the late Anthony "Tony Danger" Cupaletto, a Californian. Copa was now about forty-two years of age and had no criminal record, although it was known that his early years had been spent as a feared enforcer for the DiGeorge Family of southern California. The federal government's crime watch had carried no mention of Copa, or whoever, until very recently and even that mention was followed by a question mark.
On the other hand, Gordon "Crazy Gordy" Mazzarelli was quite well known to federal watchers. Though the thirty-five-year-old professional gunman had never been convicted of a felony, the arrest record was quite extensive and covered a period of thirteen years-most of it involving viciously violent crimes. He was regarded in the underworld as a sadistic and conscienceless enforcer for the Mafia masters, and he was generally given a wide berth by all who knew his reputation.
Mazzarelli had been a resident of Tennessee for only a few months, apparently arriving on the scene at about the same time that Copa first became visible in the area. There was no record of prior association between the two. Copa was a Californian whereas Mazzarelli was a native of East Chicago and had apparently confined his operations to the Midwest until very recently.
So the patchwork effect was evident at this level of the outfit, as well. And this was indeed a bother to the methodical mind of Mack Bolan. Something new seemed to be arising from the patchwork, and it was something quite larger and far more elaborate than a mere distribution network for narcotics.
Perhaps Bolan himself was indirectly responsible for this new look in Mafia organization. The whole national pattern had fallen out of focus with his shatteringly successful command strike against the national headquarters in New York, several campaigns back. So maybe the Nashville Look was an inevitable consequence of the leadership vacuum at the national level.
The Executioner intended to get a closer look.
He would give the soft approach one more go. Not because of any personal regard for the constitutional rights of the players-they had relinquished those rights when they entered the game-but because of his great personal respect for the other side. The SOGs had a considerable investment in this exercise in terms of time, energy, and perhaps life itself. Bolan had no wish to trample on that investment.
So-he would try the soft game once more. But he was not losing sight of the fact that this was a war and that they were the enemy. And if soft walking produced nothing more satisfying than the bones of Carl Lyons then it was going to quickly become a damned hard war, indeed.
Assuming, of course, that Bolan could survive one more soft walk.
There were no rights to guarantee such an outcome-except, maybe, the rights vested by jungle law-and., of course, Mack Bolan understood that law very well.
CHAPTER 9
The little bubble front helicopter lifted off with a rush and began climbing over the city on a southeasterly course. "It's just a few minutes away," Grimaldi warned his passenger.
Bolan nodded his head in silent response and continued his preparations. Already the river was far behind them, the downtown area quickly giving way to the gently rolling suburban terrain. This was bluegrass country, sort of poised between the high mountains to the east and the Mississippi River delta lands to the west. Geographers referred to the middle Tennessee country as the Highland Rim. Residents simply called it God's Country-and Bolan had to agree with them. But a particular patch of it was soon to become hellgrounds, and there was no way to avoid that determination.
He completed the cosmetic job on his hair. It was jet black once again and quite a bit more conservatively styled. The Beretta Belle was in a snap away shoulder rig, nestling inconspicuously beneath expensive threads.
"How does it look?" he asked his friend, the Mafia pilot.
"Looks like you invented them, guy," the pilot muttered.
Grimaldi did not like this operation. He had tried his best to talk Bolan out of it.
"Then I guess I'm ready when you are, Jack."
Grimaldi turned a searching look on his friend as he replied to that. "You'd better be damned ready. Like I said, it wasn't much of a recoil. But trouble screamed up at me from every corner of that joint. I counted six vehicles in the main parking area. There's room for another four in garages. The helicopter pad is about fifty yards from the rear of the main house. From the air it looks like it's had plenty of use. And those damn barns… listen, I didn't see a head of stock anywhere. No horses, no cows, nothing. But things are happening inside those outbuildings. Lots of activity. Guys all over the place, very busy. And I could smell it from a thousand feet up. It's a hotspot, buddy. So you watch your ass in there."
"Thanks, I'll do that," Bolan replied dryly.
Yeah. He would do that. He would have preferred a first hand look before settling into that joint. But time was in the saddle, riding every consideration of the day. So he'd been forced to settle for a quick flyover by Grimaldi while the Juliana Academy thing was going down. And the pilot had liked not a damn thing he'd seen there. How much more dislike would a trained scout have found at Nick Copa's highland hideaway?