He had replied to that in a playful tone.
"Could we save a few squirts just for us?"
Her rebuttal, in typical Rangerese: "Don't be flip with me, hero. By the time you're done with yourself, there'll be nothing left to squirt. You spend it with a fire hose nozzle, not with a hypodermic. When you're through gushing, we'll have to bury you with a syringe."
"Are we talking about love or war?" he'd asked her.
"Both," she told him. "You approach both like there's no tomorrow."
True. There was no tomorrow for Mack Bolan. He knew that. And it was why he did not like the quiet game, the waiting game. He had to do what he could while he could. And there was always just today.
But Toby could save her anxieties about this day. He was not here to kill their game. And he was not so fixated in his own brand of warfare that he could not play the quiet game for awhile. He was here to find Carl Lyons… dead or alive. He hoped to find him alive and well. And he would do all in his power to honor the SOG game. But when it came to the final cut- Lyons or the game-Bolan knew that he would come down on the side of Lyons. Because, really, Mack Bolan was not all that sold on the SOG game. He respected those people and he loved them one and all, but he did not believe that their answer to the Mafia was the best answer. He had seen too many such games played to futility-with all that grand investment of time and dollars and excellent manpower going down the drain while the crime masters of America went on strutting their stuff and thumbing their noses at the American justice system.
And, yeah, Bolan's answer was best. To those directly exposed to it, it was final. There were no legal maneuverings, no payoffs under the table, no judicial breast beating for those who spat on the Bill of Rights. These guys knew the name of Mack Bolan's court. They knew also that they came in there naked and went out clothed in the final law of being. They went out dead-sentenced by their own deeds and executed by their own destinies.
I am not their Judge.
I am their Judgment.
I am the Executioner.
Bottle that, Toby. Then put it in an atomizer and spray it in the air that all Americans breathe, and then maybe all the SOGs everywhere could go home and play the quiet games of human love, and happiness, and fulfillment.
It would not happen, of course. One half of one percent of the American community would go on cannibalizing the rest of the body. And the gentle flocks would go on grazing, hardly taking note of the fact that their fellows were disappearing one by one, while harried shepherds patrolled the flanks with nets instead of clubs.
Bolan was no shepherd. He was a sheep, in wolf's clothing. And he carried the largest damned club he could find.
But okay, Toby-okay. He would keep the club sheathed for as long as possible, this time around. And he would play the SOG game-to a point. But that point was placed several paces to the life side of Carl Lyons' grave. This was no game of saviors and crosses. It was the game of life and death. For Mack Bolan, it was the only game in town.
"Would you mind telling me what is happening?" Grimaldi hissed through the intercom.
"In ten words or less?" Bolan asked lightly.
"In whatever it takes. This is as far as I go until-I need to know, if I'm going to-"
"You're right. Okay. As quick as possible, here's the lay. I believe that Mazzarelli's ambitions have exceeded his common sense. It looks like he's trying to pull off some cute game right under his boss's nose. I had only a small whiff of that before I went in there. But I followed the odor and I believe that I stumbled right into the thing. I still don't know what it is, for damn sure. But it seems a dead cinch that Leonetti figures in it somewhere. He-"
"Hold it. Leonetti?"
There were some things that Jack Grimaldi did not need to know, for various reasons. "Yeah, he's the key," Bolan explained, determined to skirt the truth a bit. "Does the name ring a bell for you?"
"Not really," said the pilot.
"Goes back quite a few years. Roberto Leonetti was a New York underboss whose ambitions exceeded his reach. A bit like Gordy, I'd guess. And he came to grief-had to go into hiding. His wife and kid were hustled away by one of his loyal soldiers who was caught and snuffed a few days later. The wife and kid were never seen again. Leonetti lived the rest of his days in hiding but he kept sending people out searching for the wife and kid until the day he died."
"They got to him, though?"
"They got to him, right. But not through the wife and kid. Like I said, they've never been seen since."
"So how does Leonetti figure-?"
"The kid came back."
"Oh. Uh-huh. So the kid has been seen…"
"It seems that Dandy Jack Clemenza ran into him in Singapore while playing the heroin market. As the story goes, young Leonetti was heavily into the Golden Triangle loop. Guess it was in the blood-like father, like son. Clemenza took the kid on as his man in Asia."
"This kid is now grown up."
"Right."
"Great plot for a movie."
"It's no movie, Jack. A guy calling himself Carl Leonetti showed up here in Nashville last week. It seems that he's decided to go into competition against his own sponsor and-"
"That would be Clemenza."
"Right. It looks like Leonetti brought in a shipment that Clemenza knew nothing about. He was looking for a connection. He connected with Crazy Gordy."
"An unfortunate coincidence?"
"Depends on the point of view. It's a strongly layered outfit, Jack. Clemenza ran his own thing. Copa runs his own thing. Somewhere, several layers up, I'd guess, somebody runs both of them."
Grimaldi sighed. "And Mazzarelli just runs for Copa. Okay. Standard procedure."
"Sure. Standard split, too. The investment money comes down from the top and runs along the roots. As it's sucked back up, every wiseguy along the way skims off his share and sends the rest along."
"I understand that, yeah."
"Okay, understand this. The Syndicate got only half of what it paid for. That half fell the hard way last night in Memphis with Clemenza. The other half came into Nashville last week with Carl Leonetti."
"Oh ho," said the Mafia pilot in a falsely cheery voice. "I read that scene in big bold print."
"Read it this way, though. Leonetti hits Nashville with a shipment worth millions. He's trying to reach Copa. Instead, he reaches Mazzarelli. He's never seen again."
"Not even by Copa."
"Right. Especially not by Copa. So… I let it out. Now Copa is wondering about the name of the game."
Grimaldi chuckled. "So would I. But I still don't know what the hell-"
"I want Leonetti, Jack. I want him alive and well. The guy is wired."
"Oh. Oh. Yeah. Okay. That's why the feds." "That's why, yeah."
"I couldn't figure it. It's not like you, Sarge." "Maybe not, but that's the way it is. For now."
"So why are we going back?"
"You ever hear of Molly Franklin?"
"The Molly Franklin? Sure."
"She is Mrs. Copa."
"Awww-really? I never heard-"
"Neither did I. But he's introducing her that way. I take it that it hasn't been for long. She wants out, Jack. I'm going to take her out."
"Aw-well now-you mean we're…?"
"Yeah. Mazzarelli is out chasing a Black Ace. Copa is out chasing Mazzarelli. I figure there couldn't be more than a handful of guys left at that joint. That's why I want you to slip me in there. There's a small stand of timber on the back forty. Did you notice it?"
Grimaldi sighed. "Yeah. I noticed it."
"If you pick your angle carefully, I believe you can come in behind that timber without attracting attention. A low profile approach. You know."
Grimaldi knew, sure. And he did not like it. "This just isn't like you, Sarge. If there's just a few guys there, why don't you just blast her out. I’ve seen you-"
"Not this time, Jack."
"That's where your odds are. Those trees are several hundred yards behind the house. It's open country from that point on. There's not even a bush between there and the house."