"Well goddamnit, there's got to be…"
The visitor got to his feet and said, "There ain't. That's what I come to tell ya. I don't know how far your tail is out on this deal but… well, hoss, you got a lot of people standin' and waitin' for this deal. If you can't deliver, then I hope you got a hole somewheres to run to. Know what I mean?"
"Wait a minute, Jess." That worried face was beginning to reflect a flickering hope. "Maybe we can still pull it out. Tell your sponsor I've got an ace in the hole. Tell him that."
"You better be damn sure before I tell him anything."
"I'm sure, yeah. Pretty sure. Tell him I'm pretty sure."
The lean man went out chuckling at some secret joke.
The other paced the floor for several minutes then went to the bedroom and picked up the telephone.
The face was screwed into lines of painful indecision as he began dialing-then he changed his mind and put the phone back down.
The girl on the bed stirred and looked up at him. "Ooh hoo, it was great, baby," she murmured sleepily.
He gathered her clothing and dropped it in a pile beside the bed as he told her, "You're a real ball, kid. Now beat it. Party's over."
The girl picked up her clothing and staggered toward the bathroom without a word.
One party was over, for sure.
But another was just getting underway. Mack Bolan's quiet Mafia wings were at that moment lightly kissing the earth of Music City USA.
CHAPTER 4
Bolan carried a small bag into the locker room at the private air terminal and began the Nashville transformation while pilot Grimaldi took care of the formalities at the desk. He changed into faded Levi's and Indian moccasins, nailhead shirt and denim jacket. He studied his hair for a moment, then went to work on a new look to fit the masquerade, combing it straight back from the forehead without a part, adding a streak of white through the middle, finally cementing it all in place with a heavy spray job. Purple-tinted oval glasses completed the transformation. A.38 snug Chief's Special with a high-rider waist clip holster fit snugly beneath the jacket.
He returned to the lobby and went to the telephone to leave a message on the SOG contact drop. "It's La Mancha," he told the recorder. "I'll be at the Holiday Inn for breakfast at six."
Then he stood casually at the large front window and lit a cigarette. Grimaldi completed his transactions and walked right past him en-route to the locker room. He halted suddenly, several paces beyond, and turned back with a sheepish grin overriding a questioning gaze.
Bolan chucklingly confirmed the identification and asked, "Are we set?"
The pilot ambled back to the window and stood beside the big man to tell him, "Yeah. Helicopter is usually available on an hour's notice but nothing's guaranteed. So I took a twenty-four-hour lease." He cracked his knuckles and gazed around the deserted flying service lobby. "How do you do it, guy? I saw you, but I didn't see you. It's downright spooky sometimes."
"Sleight of hand is all in the beholder, Jack," Bolan replied lightly. "The eyes take the picture but it's up to the mind to see what's really there."
Grimaldi was shooting him furtive looks. He said, "If you say so, okay. Uh-the wheels are out back. I got you an Impala. Hope that's okay."
"That's fine, yeah."
The pilot handed over the keys and rental papers. "Where can I contact you?"
Bolan said, "Check into the Ramada, downtown, and hang tight. I’ll be in touch."
"That's ten to fifteen minutes from here," the Mafia flyboy groused. "I'll take the chopper in. There's a place down by the river where I can leave it. Then I'll only be a couple minutes away if you should need me quick."
Bolan nodded his agreement "So long as it doesn't compromise you, Jack."
The guy waved a hand in dismissal. "Don't worry about me. Just hold onto your own ass. If you need a lift out, just scream. I'll be there."
Bolan warmly gripped the loyal friend by the shoulder then went out of there. Strange, sometimes, the curious weavings of fate. He'd first crossed paths with Grimaldi at about the same moment as the first encounter with the SOG people. Grimaldi, while not a truly "made" man was nevertheless an employee of the crime syndicate and therefore inherently an enemy to the grave. The soggers, on the other hand, though not truly cops in the usual sense were nevertheless federal agents bent on upholding the law and serving the ends of the country's justice system-therefore just as dangerous to a guy like Bolan. That both sides of the equation were now Bolan allies was, indeed, a curious and remarkable thing.
The local Holiday Inn was grouped with several other downtown motels overlooking the state capitol grounds. Bolan strolled into the dining room at precisely six o'clock. Employees were scurrying about trying to set up for the breakfast trade and it appeared that they were not yet open for business.
Toby Ranger and Tommy Anders, though, sat with cups held casually to their lips at a window table. Nobody else was in evidence. Bolan helped himself to some coffee and carried it to the table.
"What time does it open?" he inquired, by way of greeting.
Anders looked up with a disinterested gaze and replied, "Beats me, guy. I guess it's self-serve, they got a-" He stopped talking suddenly and flashed a glance toward Toby, then laughed softly and said, "Hell, siddown. I didn't spot you right off."
Bolan slid in next to the lady and gave her a peck on the cheek.
"Watch it, Captain Hard," she muttered. "I have a quick switch and this is no time to be tripping it." Lovely eyes flashed over him. "I like your little suit. But which planet did those hairdo and purple shades come from?"
Anders commented, "It's very effective. I'm still not sure who it is."
"The name is Lambretta," Bolan said soberly. "Guys in the know call me Frankie."
"It fits," Toby said. "… a Madison Avenue cowboy."
"That's the idea," he told her, and turned his gaze to the comic. "Where're you working, Tom?"
"I've been doing a gig out at the new Opry. Also looking into a couple of record offers. Toby's headlining, knocking ' em dead. We been here ten days, now. Should've been on our way out by tomorrow. But it's falling to hell, so I really don't know."
A teenage boy approached the table with water and menus. "We have a breakfast buffet," he announced. "Or the waitress will take your order in a few minutes. I recommend the buffet."
The three exchanged glances and unanimously opted for the self-serve department. Conversation was limited to small talk as they wandered to the steam table and made their selections. Bolan took scrambled eggs and bacon and carried Toby's fruit assortment to the table for her. Anders ended up with melon and tomato juice, but ate very little as the meeting got down to business.
"Tell me everything you know or think you know," Bolan demanded of his companions.
It took a bit of telling. The SOG-3 team had drifted to the Orient from Hawaii and began burrowing into the drug traffic from the Golden Triangle. It was about that time, they related, when Dandy Jack Clemenza had begun making his pitch to the collective families of Mafia for a centralized, single-source approach to America's illegal drug markets. Since the families bankrolled most of the big drug buys on an individual basis anyway, Clemenza's brainstorm was to move en masse to take over the entire North American operation-in an organized manner-thus cornering the entire American import market in illegal drugs. That way, they could control market prices at every level, manipulate the equation of supply and demand and fix an iron fist upon every user and dealer in the country. Included in the scheme was a proposed national distribution network which would minimize legal harassment while introducing a stability which had never been present in such operations.