"In spades," Anders replied. "We think that Nashville is shaping into the national headquarters for the entire operation. We know for sure that the first trial run into national distribution will be launched from here. The smack factory in Memphis is the prime facility. There are others, bigger and better, so there has to be a good reason for selecting Memphis as processing point for the first big batch to come over. Part of the reason is Clemenza himself, of course. He's been operating through the Delta Importers front for over a year-but it's always been small potatoes up 'til now."
"You're saying that this new empire has not actually come into existence," Bolan observed.
Toby picked it up. "We think not yet. Apparently Clemenza is still trying to sell the idea to the collective families. That's vital, see. Either they all come in or the whole idea falls apart. Competition would kill it. The shipment we knocked over last night was to have served as the proof run,"
"We weren't trying to kill it," Anders explained. "Just divert it a bit. If the thing looks good to the Families, they'll pick it up with or without Clemenza. We want them to pick it up."
Sure they did. The SOGs had a lot more in mind than the simple harassment of drug traffickers. They wanted what Mack Bolan wanted. They wanted an end to organized crime in America.
"So why did you knock over Clemenza?" Bolan wondered aloud.
"Because we had a replacement standing in the wings," Anders quietly replied.
Bolan sighed. " Lyons, eh."
"Right. But we're calling him Carl Leonetti, these days. He met Clemenza in Singapore last month while the guy was firming up the supply lines."
"Is there a real Carl Leonetti?"
"Used to be. He died of yellow fever ten years ago in Indonesia, at the age of fifteen. He was the only son of Roberto Leonetti who died in the Brooklyn wars a few years ago. The kid was on a hasty world cruise with his mother. They both got the fever, and died. Actually they were on the lam from Leonetti's troubles in New York. Somebody in the State Department neglected to pass the word to Roberto. He probably died thinking the lady took the kid and skipped out on him. Everybody in the Mob, back then, knew that he was scouring the world for them-very quietly, of course. Leonetti had a lot of enemies."
Bolan said, "Yeah." The story was coming back to him, now. "So Carl Lyons becomes the long-missing Carl Leonetti. Go on."
Toby said, "Clemenza liked his credentials and signed him on as his agent and courier in the Far East. It was Carl who brought in the major part of the stuff we seized last night."
Anders added, "By way of South America."
Toby continued, "But he also brought quite a bit more than he delivered. That's the story, anyway. We were setting him up, see, as an alternate to Dandy Jack."
"Good plan," Bolan mused. "What went wrong?"
Anders spread his hands in a gesture of puzzlement and replied with misery in the voice. "We just don't know. Smiley's traveling with him, too, as his wife and assistant. We dredged up a foolproof identity for her, too. She's a White Russian, a granddaughter of some refugees from the revolution. There's lots of them there. She died, too, awhile back-natural causes-but the records don't show it."
Toby said, "They arrived in Nashville right on schedule and left the message on our floater. Carl said that he was already set up with a meeting, to be held that evening, with some "future associates" of Clemenza. And that's the last we've heard."
"You have no idea who he was meeting?"
Anders shook his head. "Neither did he, apparently. We do know that Clemenza's main man in Nashville is a guy going by the name of Oxley-Ray Oxley-real name Raymond Accimentio. He's the figurehead of an outfit called Roxy Artists Management, Inc. We've had the guy under day and night surveillance for the better part of a week. Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
Bolan asked, "How many people are working this with you?"
The two exchanged troubled glances. "There's a bunch," Toby said quietly.
"Call them all in," Bolan suggested. "Clear the field. I don't want to be playing the friend or-foe routine."
Toby said to Anders, "I told you he'd just waltz in and take it all over."
Anders grinned feebly at Bolan and said, "We've been working this for a long time, buddy. We'd hate to see it all blow up now."
Bolan sighed. "It's already blown up, hasn't it? You've got Clemenza on ice and his powders off the market. Without Lyons, you've got no show. Tell all your people to get lost for twenty-four hours. If I'm not back with Carl and Smiley by then, well-then you'll know they won't be getting back. Meanwhile you need to be looking at your options, don't you? One more question. Where does David Ecclefield fit into your operation? Last I saw the guy he was running strike forces in Atlanta."
"He's not doing that any more," was all Toby said.
Bolan was giving the frosty gaze to Tommy Anders. The little comic fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment, then said, "What the hell, Toby-we don't keen secrets from this guy." The gaze shifted to a square fit with Bolan's.
"David has joined the game. He's domestic operations chief. It's a support outfit. Okay?"
Bolan smiled without humor as he replied, "Okay. Give him my respects. And tell him to keep his support out of my way for the next twenty-four hours."
"You're blitzing," Toby Ranger said with a sigh.
"Is there any other way?" Bolan quietly inquired.
For reply she leaned into him and snaked both arms around his neck, melting against him with a soulful kiss.
Anders, on the sidelines, chuckled softly as he commented, "There, damn ya. Now go out there and conquer Music City."
And Mack Bolan knew that he would have to do precisely that.
CHAPTER 5
"Good morning, Mr. Oxley."
The macho young president of Roxy Artists Management Inc. swept past the pretty receptionist without acknowledging the greeting. Nervous hopefuls clutching guitars and demo records overflowed the large outer office. He gave these a quick, measuring glance as he rounded the corner and entered the corridor to the private offices.
It was business as usual on this most extraordinary, unreal day. All of the glass-fronted audition booths were occupied and the agents' cubicles were humming with a dozen conversations as Oxley ran the gauntlet to his sanctorum. At any other time it would have been music to his ears; today he was thankful for the soundproofed private suite.
The hubbub disappeared behind the closed door as he moved briskly inside and greeted his secretary.
"It's off and running early, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir. And there's-"
"I don't want to be disturbed, Doris. No calls, no visitors, no exceptions."
The woman's eyes revealed an inner worry. "I'm sorry. You already have a visitor. He's waiting inside. Simply would not take no for an answer. The men weren't in yet so I decided I'd better just-I think he's from… from you know."
Yes, dammit, Oxley knew, or thought he did. And it was not a total surprise. He hid the displeasure from his secretary while telling her, "Soon as Arthur and Jimbo get in, tell them to hang close." He arched an eyebrow at her. "I'm liable to need them."
But that was just for show. The men were the best leg breakers in town, sure. But this was no time for mere leg breakers-not if Oxley's hunch was on target.
It was.
The visitor was a total stranger-big guy, neatly dressed in denims, purple lenses shading the eyes. The atmosphere in the room was almost electric. Oxley suppressed an inner tremor as he pushed on inside and carefully closed the door.
The guy was standing by the window in semi-profile with the morning light behind him. The face was therefore not too clear but Oxley knew instinctively that he did not know this man. The type, yeah… okay. Oxley knew immediately what the guy was. But he had not anticipated the greeting he got.
"Are you Raymond Accimentio?" inquired the cold voice from the window.