"This is Guiseppe Androsepitone proudly saying good night and God bless you. And lookout for the St. Matthews — that's the new mythological name for the Mafia. That is, until Giovanni Battista Montini raises a protest. What? You never heard of Giovanni Battista Montini? Well, would you believe… Pope Paul the Sixth?"
The little guy walked off under a standing ovation, evaded a stage director who was trying to steer him back out for a curtain call, and walked rapidly past Bolan toward the dressing rooms.
Following closely through the confusion, Bolan moved into the hallway several paces behind the comic. Two guys who looked as though they had just stepped out of a Silva Thins' commercial were lounging near the dressing room door, their backs against the wall. Anders spotted them, halted, turned about, saw Bolan descending upon him, then he gave a resigned tigh and moved on along the hall.
Bolan was right on his heels when he reached the door. The two hoods started in behind the comic but Bolan got there first. He bounced the first one off to the opposite wall and met the second one with a graveyard gaze. "Bug off," he quickly commanded.
Anders was standing just inside the dressing room, his eyes traveling rapidly between the three men in the hallway. The muscleman whom Bolan had unceremoniously shoved out of the action was tugging a leather sap out of his pocket and the other guy was just glaring at Bolan.
The comic gave an unconvincing chuckle and asked, "What the hell, are you guys fighting over me now?"
The one with the sap took a menacing step forward and told Bolan, "Butt out, Clyde. You're not needed here."
Bolan let his coat sag open to reveal the Beretta nestled there. "Try me," he suggested.
The second torpedo had been staring curiously into Bolan's face. When he saw the Beretta he gasped, "Shit, it's him!" and made the fatal move, clawing inside his own coat for hardware.
The Beretta broke leather first, whisking out and up and spitting a pencil of flame through the muzzle silencer, a high-impact Parabellum hollow-nose phutting across the arm's length range and splattering through the guy's eye socket with a peculiar sucking sound, the head snapping back and rolling on the shoulders in instantaneous death.
Bolan was holding the dead man erect and showing the other one the muzzle of the Beretta Belle, and the guy was frozen there, his mouth open, horrified eyes riveted to the blood-and-tissue-splattered wall behind his partner.
"Take him," Bolan snapped, and shoved the limp form onto the survivor.
"T-take him where?" the guy croaked.
"Where to, Anders?" Bolan asked calmly.
The comic scampered through the doorway to peer up and down the empty hall. "There's an empty dressing room back there," he yelped. "God, don't put 'im in mine!"
"Show us," Bolan commanded.
Anders led the way, the struggling torpedo with his dead burden following closely, Bolan bringing up the rear. They went into a room at the end of the hall and the hood panted, "What're we doing, f Christ sake what'» going on?"
Bolan ignored the query to ask Anders, "Are these the boys that muscled you?"
"Yeah, that's them," the comic replied in a choked voice.
The Beretta whispered without preamble, another Parabellum found mortal flesh and bone, and both Mafiosi crumbled to the floor.
"Okay, move," Bolan told the comic, pushing him out the door and along the hallway.
Anders was wearing a sick look as they re-entered his dressing room. He went directly to the makeup table and took a pull at a bottle of Jim Beam, then turned to stare dazedly at the tall man in the blue suit. "Christ!" he said, and repeated it.
Bolan pushed the door shut and told his host, "It's a friendly visit, Anders. We need a talk."
"Well wait a damn minute." The comedian sagged into a chair and passed a shaking hand across his eyes. "Please don't ever come mad."
"A man you know as Autry asked me to look in on you. Couldn't do it himself, he's not much better off than the two we just left."
Anders' head snapped up and he regarded his visitor with new interest. "What do you mean? What happened to Autry?"
"Someone made a stretcher case out of him," Bolan, replied. "'Your two friends back there, I'd guess."
"My friends?"
"They're sure not mine," Bolan said.
The shaken man's eyes were searching Bolan's face for a clue to his puzzle. "You're not with the mob then," he quietly declared.
Bolan showed him a sober smile and said, "Not hardly." He removed the sunglasses for a moment, then put them back on.
The comic had come halfway out of his chair and a light was kindling in those horrified eyes. "Oh, hell, don't tell me…"
"Call me Frankie," Bolan suggested. "Let's cut out. I believe we have things to discuss."
Anders was giving his caller a fascinated stare. "You're not a myth, either," he said quietly.
"I might be if we don't get out of here pretty quick."
"Hell, my God, Mr. Bolan, I'm not no… Frankie, I mean. Everybody gets their name fixed, huh. Okay yeah, I got a room here but I know a better place. The Ranger Girls gave me a key to their bungalow when these torpedoes started pushing me around. Hey man, you can ride shotgun in my corral any time, and that's no joke."
Bolan grinned and followed the little guy out of the room. The best stand-up comic in the business was wearing off his shock and the sharp mind was bouncing back for a new stand. They crossed the rear of the stage and cut through the kitchen, heading for the bungalows at the opposite side of the hotel complex, Anders keeping up a quickfire patter of one-liners regarding the mythical reality of violence in contemporary American life.
But Bolan's mind was moving forward to a much more pointed routine from the hottest comic in the land. It was time for a Command Performance, and the audience of one had a life-or-death interest in the newest and un-funniest monologue of the non-ethnologist.
They were going to play a name game.
And the stakes were life… or death.
Chapter Six
Show time
It was a two-bedroom stucco job made to look like an adobe hut, except for the glass front overlooking the pool, with the standard Vegas posh interior and a small combination kitchenette-bar huddled in a corner of the living room. A hideaway bed was extended and ready for occupancy, taking up much of the living area.
Bolan took a quick walk-through, encountering nothing but an incredible litter of feminine clothing and incidentals. Opened and overflowing suitcases congested both bedrooms, and the bath was a hazard area of miniature clotheslines and damp lingerie. Both closets were overflowing with plastic traveling bags stuffed with dresses of every description. Boots, shoes, sandals, sneakers and everything that could be put on a foot were scattered all about the place.
Bolan completed his inspection and found Anders pouring liquids into two glasses at the bar. "Choice," the perennial funnyman announced. "Whiskey and soda, or soda and whiskey. Which will it be?"
"Thanks, neither," Bolan told him. "How many of these girl rangers are there, Anders?"
The comedian chuckled and corrected him. "Ranger Girls," he said, "with a capital R and a Capital G and a yo-ho-ho just to think about 'em. They're really sensational. Four, count 'em, four. Going on the bill tomorrow. They sing, they dance, they tell jokes, and they knock your eyes out."