So that was it, Bolan was thinking. A federal strike force was probably investigating the thing, using obscure local cops in undercover roles. The term "California carousel" which Lyons had mentioned was probably the operational code name for the thing.
He asked Anders, "Did ASA book you here?"
"They did not!" the comic snorted. "I told those guys to get lost. The guild got me a court injunction allowing me to act as a free agent pending outcome of a suit to dissolve my ASA contract."
"So now you're getting muscled," Bolan mused.
"That's the picture," Anders said. "Look, let's be honest. I thought I was too big for them to mess with this way. I found out quick. No one is that big."
"But you're still waving this red flag at them all the while."
"Damn right. I figure that's my only defense now. The more fuss I raise publicly, I figure they'll be that much more reluctant to just haul off and rub me out. I mean, it would be too obvious, wouldn't it?"
Bolan sighed. "Hell, I don't know," he said. "Your best bet, I guess, would be to cooperate with Autry. And speaking of that, those two bodies backstage will be found sooner or later. The police will be pulling you in, for questioning if nothing else. When they do, tell them the truth."
"Hell I wouldn't..."
"Yes you would. Give it to them just exactly the way it happened, and don't worry about fingering me. I'm already on the books as a mass murderer. A couple more won't make any difference. In fact, you'd better be the one to report the deaths, Anders. As soon as you give me what I..."
Bolan stopped talking abruptly and wheeled about in response to a commotion behind him, the Beretta out and swinging into the line-up.
Four of the prettiest intruders he'd ever slapped leather on were frozen there in the open doorway, gaping at the black blaster greeting them from Bolan's fist.
Anders quickly announced, "It's okay, girls. Get in here and shut that door."
A wide-eyed blonde at the rear of the group shoved the others forward and quietly closed the door. All four had that dazzling, twenty-karat look that reminds a guy of his manhood, and Bolan was certainly not immune to that sort of thing. But he disciplined his eyes and put away the Beretta as the girls edged on into the room.
There was a hair color for every taste, but the major differences ended right there. They were dressed alike, in peekaboo hotpants and plunging see-through tops which, altogether, revealed seemingly infinite legs and an extra dimension or two in divines developments elsewhere, and Bolan found himself wondering if they needed some sort of license to walk about in public like that.
He showed them his back and growled to Anders, "Let's get out of here."
The blonde had come forward and he could feel her eyes measuring him at close range. "Better not," she said in a pleasantly modulated voice. "We just came through the lobby and it's like instant panic back there."
"I'm not surprised," Bolan quietly commented, visualizing that flaming foursome leaving a mind-blown wake wherever they passed.
"They girls are okay, Bo... Frankie," Anders said.
"That's the idea," Bolan told him. "They don't need to get involved in this."
"We're already involved." The report came from a warm-eyed brunette who joined the crowd at the bar. Her hip bumped against Bolan's and remained there. She smiled at Anders and said, "I'm glad you took my advice and got a bodyguard, Tommy."
"Some bodyguard," the blonde commented. She pulled the dark glasses away from Bolan's face and smiled solemnly at him. "The panic in the lobby is a fuzzbuzz, cuz. Do you want to hear the rest of it?"
Bolan took back his glasses and dropped them into a pocket. "Okay," he said. "Let's have it."
"Introductions first," the blonde replied, smiling. "Who's the Greek-God-with-gun, Tommy?"
Anders was staring at Bolan with question marks in his eyes.
"She knows," Bolan growled.
The blonde laughed softly and said, "Yes, she knows. The Man from Mad, Mr. My Gun Is Quicker, and you picked a lousy spot for an execution. There's a blood-splattered hallway just outside Tommy's dressing room, two dead goons just down the way, and fuzz buzzing all over the place." She fingered the lapels of Bolan's jacket, adding, "The deputies are looking for a tall man in a pale blue suit who checked in with casino security credentials."
"Is that right?" Bolan growled.
"That's right. Those are pretty, blue bloodstains you're wearing, Mr. Grouch."
Anders chuckled nervously and said, "Lay off, Toby. The guy saved my life." To Bolan, he said, "Mack, meet Toby Ranger, Mother Nature's answer to Women's Lib. And don't try to get ahead of her, it's impossible."
Bolan's face relaxed somewhat and he took the girl's hand. "Truce," he suggested.
"Shortest war since Adam and Eve," she replied, then completed the introductions.
The brunette at Bolan's hip was Georgette Chebleu, French-Canadian, a mischievous-eyed swinger who obviously liked body contact and made no bones about it. The auburn-haired one was a sober-puss with rosepetal skin and eyes that tended to brood; she met Bolan with a frown. She was identified as Smiley Dublin and said nothing to dispute the introduction. The fourth girl was Sally Palmer, a soft brunette with babydoll eyes and that open, ingenuous look of the small-town girl.
All four were tall, sleek, beautiful, and Bolan didn't have to catch their act to know they were good. There was a showbiz aura about them — in their movements, their actions, the way they held themselves — they had the mystique of the showbiz pro who had come and conquered.
"We don't usually run around town dressed this way," Sally Palmer was explaining, as though it were very important that she do so. "We just — this is our first Vegas date," she finished weakly. "We want to… be noticed."
"Never fear," Bolan said. He told Anders, "Give.me some other names and I'll be on my way."
"What names?" the blonde asked, before Anders could open his mouth.
"Buzz off, beautiful," Bolan said, without looking at her. He was glaring at Anders and thinking how easy it would be to act human with these girls — and how nice it would be. "Names, Anders," he snapped.
"Shortest truce since Bonnie and Clyde," Toby declared. 'Don't tell him a damn thing, Tommy."
"Hell God, you two cut it out," the comedian growled. He extracted a folded sheet of note paper from his wallet and passed it over the bar to Bolan. "You'll find it all right here," he told him. "My last will and monologue. Keep it, I got copies everywhere."
Bolan briefly studied the hand-scrawled sheet, grunted, and thrust it into his pocket. "Okay," he said. "Now make that call."
"What call?" the blonde wanted to know.
"He wants me to report the… uh… killings," Anders told her.
"Its a little late for that," she huffed.
"Better still," Bolan said, ignoring the girl, "don't call. Go to the lobby and collar a cop. You're excited, shook-up. I pulled you out of the casino at gunpoint, took you to the parking lot, questioned you, then let you go. Other than eyeballing the killings, that's all you know."
"Yeah, that's all I know," Anders muttered. He finished his drink and moved around the end of the bar.
Toby stopped him there. "Hold it," she said. "That takes care of you, but what about Captain Puff here?" Her eyes raked Bolan in a quick inspection. "Do you also turn invisible?"
"Almost," Bolan replied, showing her a tight grin. "Don't worry, I'm leaving."