Bolan shook the question away and focused his mind on the positive aspects. There were one or two of those, sure.
"There it is, soldier," Grimaldi said suddenly. "Three o'clock horizon."
So there it was. A line of buildings nestled atop a wooded ridge, pastures flowing to lower elevations at either side and serving as buffer zones, lots of fencing to augment the natural barriers.
Hellgrounds, yeah.
The pilot sighed “ Last chance to change your mind."
"Go straight in," Bolan instructed. "Set down on the pad. I go out, you go up. Just like that."
"And I come back in an hour," Grimaldi growled.
"Precisely one hour. But you don't land unless you get a beep."
"Suppose your radio is not working?"
"Then neither am I," Bolan replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "No beep, no landing. You return to Nashville. And call off the play."
"What do I tell them?"
"Tell them the side's retired. One hit, no runs, one man left on."
"That's a hell of a way to put it. So then what do I do?"
"Then you go home, Jack. With my blessings."
"Bullshit, I don't like it."
"Neither do I. What's that have to do with anything?"
"They're liable to hit you even if they buy you. Think of that?"
"Thanks, I've been trying not to."
"We can still scrub."
"It's not a scrub. It's a go. So let's go."
They went. Grimaldi flew a beeline in gradual descent and put her down on the little raised area of rear lawn. Not a head was showing anywhere back there.
"Go get 'em, tiger," the pilot said tautly. Bolan gripped the firm hand as he muttered, "Way to go," and stepped to the ground.
The chopper lifted away as soon as he moved into the clear.
The lawn was thick, luxurious, well tended. Tennis court, left-fancy aquatic gardens, right. The sprawling ranch style house was ultramodern with plenty of glass and stone-huge, elegant.
Hellgrounds for sure, though.
Bolan produced a slim gold case from a breast pocket and extracted a long brown cigarillo as he casually studied the layout. He could feel the invisible force of eyes upon him. But no one was showing himself. He lit the cigarillo and wandered across the lawn toward the house.
And he knew exactly how Daniel had felt, in the den of lions.
The big man who stepped from the helicopter had head shed etched into him. It wasn't just the hand tailored threads and flashy good looks but something more subtle, some quiet essence that whispered power instead of yelling it, an aura of self confidence and absolute control.
"Wonder what he wants," Copa murmured as he handed the glasses to his head cock.
"Recognize him?" Mazzarelli asked as he raised the binoculars to his eyes.
"Only the type. You?"
"Never seen 'im," the head cock decided, after a long scrutiny. "Not with that face, anyway. But you're right. That's what he is. What nerve. I hear it's open season on those guys."
"Not officially," Copa said. "Not yet, anyway." He took back the glasses and again trained them on the visitor. "Like to try him?"
Mazzarelli chuckled coldly. "Not without good reason. I got no beef with those guys. Never hurt me none."
"Then maybe you'd better make him feel welcome." Copa lowered the glasses and sighed, the face settling into lines of displeasure. "Wonder what the hell he wants."
"A free meal, maybe," said Mazzarelli. He took a small radio from a waist clip and passed a guarded all-clear to his troops. "Bring him in, boys. And handle with care."
Copa watched the reception then turned away from the window and pressed a button on the desk intercom. An instant response came from the house cock.
"Yeah, boss?"
"You heard the chopper, Lenny. Looks like we got company from New York. One guy. Set up the garden patio. Let's make it, uh, Tia Maria and something light, just some munchies-you know. Uh, let's put a couple of the hottest pretties in the pool. Tell them to look stunning and keep quiet. And tell Mrs. Copa she'll join us in ten minutes. That is exactly ten minutes from right now. Hop to it."
One of Mazzarelli's boys was at the door of the study a moment later. He wordlessly passed through a small leather ID wallet. Mazzarelli took a quick look and tossed it on to his boss. "You were right," he commented sourly. "You ever see one of those before?"
"What is it?" Copa asked, instead of looking at the ID.
"It's a Black Ace. Funny. All these years and it's the first I seen."
"Don't feel bad about that," Copa muttered. He opened the wallet and peered at the elegantly embossed and plasticized playing card encased there. "Ace of Spades, Gordy. It's a death card."
"Wonder what the hell he wants here."
"So do I."
"Maybe you better call."
"Damn right I'm going to call," Copa replied anxiously. He produced a ring of keys and fitted one into a large drawer of the desk, opened the drawer, and lifted out a "funny phone" which he set delicately down on the desk.
Mazzarelli growled, "You want me to go out and-?"
"No, not yet. Let's confirm this hot ass first."
The Boss of Nashville donned reading glasses and consulted a small notebook which he withdrew from the base of the telephone. Then he lifted the phone and punched up a long combination on the relay diffuser. Thirty 'seconds later he had his roundabout connection into New York -via Atlanta, Dallas, Denver and Boston.
The greeting had the metallic resonance which he had come to associate with the scrambler lines. "Head shed."
"Area Three here," he responded. "I need a flaying card confirmation."
"Hold it."
Another instrument clicked into the line almost instantly and a different voice announced, "Field Bureau."
"Yeah. Area Three, here. This is Highroller. I want a make on a black card."
"What's the number, sir?"
"Who am I talking to?"
"This is Auditor, sir."
"Okay. This is in Spades. It's zero two, dash, zero two, dash, one one one."
"That's a Full House, sir. I can't give you that. I'll have to pass you higher."
"Do it, then, dammit, and snap it up. I got the man waiting."
"One moment, please."
Copa covered the transmitter with his fingers and asked his head cock, "What's a Full House?"
"You mean..?" Mazzarelli's gaze flicked toward the door. "Beats me. Sounds like a high hand, though."
"Right." Copa fidgeted and shook the telephone angrily, muttering, "Goddamn bureaucratic bullshit. I never saw such-you better take the man to the garden, Gordy. But watch him. Treat him with respect, but watch him. It may take awhile to check this out."
Mazzarelli nodded his understanding and went quickly out to greet the visitor.
Copa waited and fumed at the silent telephone, staring at the "calling card" until his eyes glazed with the effort. At this particular time, an Ace of Spades was bad enough. A Full House sounded even more ominous-and he wanted none of it whatever it meant.
Mazzarelli was right, though. The commissione's Aces had fallen onto hard times. They had been all but repudiated by the surviving council of bosses, following the unbelievable fiasco in New York which had crumbled the Marinello empire. Now these hot asses were under tight leashes from their head shed and it was being told around that many of them dared not venture away from the New York area. A lot of wiseguys around the world were holding hot bags of hate for the former untouchables. Several of them had been hit in recent weeks, or so the stories went.
Like Mazzarelli, Nick Copa had no particular reason to dislike the Aces. The guys had done a hell of a job during a damn tough period. They'd kept the families from slaughtering one another, and they'd brought a stability to an organization which by its very nature was patently unstable. Copa gave them all due credit for that. And he had no reason to hate them.
He also, however, had no particular reason not to hit them-if any got in his way.