"Why? That's not our action."
"At a time like this, everything is our action."
"May as well get a free drink anyway, eh?" the bodyguard said.
Mikt frowned at that and declared, "Hell, I don't want our boys sopping that stuff up." He stood up, stretched, and rubbed his belly. "I never heard of this Vinton. Did you?"
"Not by that name, no. Let's go talk to him."
"Okay. But you'll find he's just another green felt jerk."
"Maybe. Maybe not," Pat said. He flipped his cigar over the railing, showed his brother a smile, and said, "Let's go see."
Chapter Fifteen
All bets in
Bolan told the controller, "Don't give me that noise! You pull it outta the goddam vault and you count it!"
"Mr. Vinton," the flustered man protested, "we have certified..."
"You shove your certifieds up your own ass, not mine!" Bolan roared. "A new deal gets a new deck, don't it?"
"The house stakes, sir, are..."
Bolan grabbed the guy by the throat and shook him until his eyes were rolling Then he threw him back against the wall. "You're making me wonder, controller," he said, in a voice quivering with pretended rage. "Just what th' hell're you trying to cover up?"
"We'll count it, sir," the terrified man agreed.
"I wanta see it with my own eyes, all 375-thou' of it. I wanta see it sitting there on the counting tables, and, it better be there in ten minutes when I get down there! You hear me?"
The guy heard him.
Bolan growled, "Now get outta here!"
The mob controller threw a last desperate look at the sleeping figure of Joe Stanno and hurried out. Bolan followed him to the door and called, "Max!"
The tagman jerked around with a grin. "Yes boss?"
"What time you got?"
"Uh… eight thirty, boss."
"Right. At eight forty you remind me what time it is."
"Sure boss."
"I'm waking the sleeping beauty up now. You see he gets down the stairs okay."
The smile broadened. "Sure boss."
Bolan closed the door, went over to the mirror and checked his appearance, put the hat on and rolled the brim down — then he went to the couch, grabbed one of Joe Stanno's big feet and he dragged the monster man onto the floor.
The FBI district chief leaned into the car and told Brognola, "I've been looking all over for you. Where've you been?"
"Prospecting," the Justice official replied tiredly. "Get in, Bill."
"No, I'm taking a force to the Gold Duster. Something funny is going on down there."
"All over this town," Brognola said, sighing, "something funny is going on."
"Check up," Miller said, grinning. "The night is young. I thought you might want to check out the Duster with us."
"What is it?"
"Well, you've heard the talk, it's all over the Strip."
"Apostinni? Sure, I've heard. So what's new in funnyland?"
"One of my insiders at the Duster reports that the new boss has hit the scene. He'sj closed the casino until midnight and he's setting up drinks all around."
"That's funny." Brognola commented.
"The funniest part is yet to tx told. The guy's name is supposec to be Vinton. None of the mob watchers in these parts ever heard of the guy. My man says he looks more like an eastern torpedo than a syndicate jerk — you know, the silk suit cadre."
Brognola nodded. "The town's full of them."
"Well…"
"It fits." Brognola said, sighing. "The hit on Vito was obviously a thing of the moment. So the brothers have obligingly put in a substitute until the next jerk shows up."
"Well, there's one more thing," Miller said. "I know it sounds pretty far out but… well, my man says…"
"Yeah?"
"Hal, you're the Bolan expert. Would the guy try a stunt like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like masquerading as a guy called Vinton."
Brognoia stared silently at the other man for a long moment, then he replied "He sure would."
"To what possible damned end?"
Brognola shrugged. "Let's go ask him."
"I mean, closing th< joint and setting up drinks half the night… that sounds pretty flamboyant, even for Bolan."
"He's a shrewd warrior," Brognola said. "Everything he does is to the numbers. How much of a force are you taking?"
"I've gathered up ten men."
"You'd better gather up a lot more. What were you going to tell me? Something about your man at the Duster."
"He says it's hard to get a good look at the guy. Vinton. He keeps moving, waves his arms around a lot, always seems to find a shadow for his face. Wearing lenses and bandages also. But he's the right size, the right build, and roughly the right age."
"Uh, I'll get right down there," Brognola said. "You find my sidekick and tell him to get those marshals down there, all of them, and tell them to warm up their sharpshooter fingers. Get the locals to put a cordon around the place, very quietly, I mean like two men per square foot. Set up roadblocks. Send those horseback volunteers down there, too, semi-circle them on the desert side."
"It's going to make us look awful damn silly if..."
"Don't worry about that, we'd look even sillier with Bolan treating the town right beneath our noses. Anyway, my hackles are rising and I believe they're getting the Bolan scent."
"The guy has pulled these wild stunts before, hasn't he?"
"You bet your badge he has. Remind me to tell you about Palm Springs some day."
"Be careful, Hal."
"Yeah." Brognola threw the car into gear and screeched out of the parking lot with rubber burning.
Yeah. What a pity. What a hell of a rotten waste of a truly superior human being. Be careful. Those were not the right words, were they. Hell no. Be hard. Be hard,
Hal, do your duty, and go gun down a very superior human being.
He would, of course. Because he had to. He and[ Bolan were two of a kind.
They simply did what they had to do.
Joseph Earl Stanno had not fallen off a bed since he was six years old. Of course, it had been a hell of a bad day all the way around. One thing after another — the hit on the hill, the heist, eating shit from the Taliferis' plates, trying to run bastard Bolan to ground, the embarrassment at the Duster when the bastard rousted Vito — right under Joe's nose, then that Godawful hit at McCarran, the ordeal with Vito screaming and pleading for his hie all during that long, hot desert ride… yeah, and it had been a rotten day all the way along, and without any sleep even. For thirty-six hours no damn sleep. No wonder he fell off the damn bed, he was probably having nightmares in his sleep as bad as they bad been all day with his eyes wide open.
All this passed through his mind as he was struggling to get his swollen eyes opened, and he was thinking that, hell, he might never see again. Then he saw the pair of legs walking away from him, and he remembered where he was, and something swam up from his subconscious to make him realize that he hadn't fallen off — some bastard had drug him off.
Stanno rolled to his side and explored his face with probing fingers. The nose burned and it was throbbing some. He pulled his fingers away wet and warm and he knew that he was bleeding a little from his nose. What bastard had drug him off onto his nose?
He groaned and sat up, swaying drunkenly and wondering if he really was awake, after all. The guy perched there on the edge of the desk didn't look like anybody he knew personal, except for the expensive silk threads that a hundred guys he knew wore all the time.