6 - A Matter of Viewpoint
"The first thing you gotta remember," Turrin told Bolan, "is that I'm the C.O. You can think of yourself as the First Sergeant if you want to-but just remember that I'm the C.O. Then the second thing you gotta remember is that we never use the word 'Mafia'! Understand? It's The Organization.' You work for the organization and the organization works for you. That's the way it works. But you're not a member. You could never be a member. Your blood ain't right, see. Even Seymour ain't no member."
"There's a difference?" Bolan wanted to know.
They were in Turrin's automobile, a fancy canary-yellow convertible, and Turrin was giving his new protege a lift home from Seymour's suburban home. "Sure there's a difference." He punched in the cigarette lighter and fished in his pocket for something to light, finally accepting a Pall Mall from Bolan. "Look, the organization goes back for centuries. Got started in Sicily, the home of my ancestors. It was sort of like Robin Hood, only this ain't no fairy tale, it's for real. I'll bet you didn't know-the Mafia is a real pure idea-real democracy, you know, democracy for the little people. For the ones that was getting shit on. It was even better than Robin Hood because it was a mass movement."
"No, I didn't know that," Bolan admitted.
"I'll bet you didn't know that 'Mafia' translates back to mean 'Matthew.' Matthew means 'brave, bold.' It had to be a secret society because it was going up against the establishment, see, the establishment of those olden times. There was tyranny, see, and all the money was divided up between the rich bastards, the noblemen, the aristocracy. All the laws were rigged to keep the poor people poor and the rich people rich. See? That's how all laws got started. Everywhere, not just in Italy and Sicily. Laws were written to protect the rich bastards, see. So these bold, brave guys got together in a resistance movement. They set up the Mafia, and it's been nip and tuck ever since." "Hippies," Bolan grunted. "What?"
"Early Italian hippies," Bolan said, grinning. "What were they demonstrating for-a pizza in every pot?"
Turrin's face clouded. "I don't think I like your sense of humor. I'm being serious. The Mafia is a very democratic idea."
"Okay, I'll be serious," Bolan replied. "But-uh-what's the moral of the thing, Leo? I mean, maybe a hundred years ago, in Italy or Sicily or wherever it was-okay, I can see the picture. But not over here. Not now. I mean, there is a democracy in this country. A legal democracy."
Turrin laughed lustily. "Shit!" he guffawed. "Don't let yourself get brainwashed. Things haven't changed that much. The rich still get richer while the poor get poorer. There's still a place here for the bold and the brave."
"Don't get me wrong," Bolan said. "I'm not arguing against the organization-hell, I'm part of it now. I just like to see things like they really are."
"Then see them like they really are. Don't get to feeling like a lousy criminal. You're the guy said you didn't have a dime to your name. Over there getting your ass shot off to protect the rich bastard's riches. See it like it is, Sarge. Didn't Seymour say he was starting you at two-fifty a week? Hell-does that sound like the poor getting poorer?"
The sergeant grinned. "Just call me Bolan the Bold, Captain."
Turrin turned him a warm gaze. "By Jesus, you'n me are gonna get along all right, Sarge-yes sir, all right."
"What is your operation, Leo?" Bolan wanted to know.
"Girls." He grinned delightedly.
Bolan felt suddenly light-headed. "Girls?" he echoed.
"Girls. All kinds'f girls. Hostess girls, party girls, call girls, house girls, street girls. Name your price range and I got just the girl for you."
"And they're all bold and brave too, eh?" Bolan asked, his tongue feeling strange and thick in his mouth.
"Betcher ass they are. You work for the organization, the organization works for you. We're spreading the riches around, see."
Bolan relaxed into the soft upholstery and closed his eyes. "Well, I guess that's one way of looking at it," he said quietly. He was thinking of another Bolan, and wondering just how brave she'd been, in there among the bold.
7 - The Girl Watchers
Bolan was being worked into the routine that Turrin called "girl-watching." He had been outfitted in expensive civilian clothes and provided with a snub-nosed.32 calibre pistol, a license to carry same, and a shoulder-holster with a snap-out feature to carry it in. The clothing and the hardware had come from Bolan's future earnings; the gun license had appeared through some magical means wholly unknown to Bolan.
"It's legal, it's legal," Turrin assured him. "It ain't broadcasted, but it's legal, and if the question is ever raised about you carrying a gun, they'll find your license all duly recorded and all that jazz. So don't worry about it. We take care of those little details. Nobody gets nothing on the organization."
Turrin was operating behind a front called "Escorts Unlimited." The offices were swank and convincing and the "social" rooms of the "clubhouse" beyond reproach. He had a genuine computer match-making service, complete with certified programmer and staff.
"We make a little off the front," he confided to Bolan, "but just about enough to break even on the rent and salaries. We even carry a mortgage on that razzle-dazzle computer." He laughed. "Financed through Triangle Industrial Finance Company, that great little friend to free enterprisers."
Bolan discovered that his official job tide was "security officer." He was on the legal payroll of Escorts Unlimited, and from his weekly $250 would routinely be deducted the social security and income taxes. "You can even have U.S. Savings Bonds taken out if you want," Turrin explained, "-but listen, don't worry about those legal deductions. We make all that up. You get an expense account, nontaxable, so don't worry. You come out all right. But we're legal, see. Strictly legal."
The undercover operation even had an air of legality about it. The various facets of organized prostitution in the city and surrounding suburbs were programmed into the computer and coded to insure against inadvertent loss of security and deliberate snooping. The program code for the call-girl operation, for example, was listed under "Dates Available by Prior Arrangement Only"- and the program "key" for specific informational or assignment "sorts" and "print-outs" was activated only by a secret code letter. The same file, sorted electronically and activated by the standard program code, would produce only a print-out on the legitimate dating service. Another operation was listed under "Dates by Spontaneous Selection," and a similar one as "Organized Social Activities"-covering, respectively, street girls and house girls.
"We use the machine, sure we use it," Turrin told Bolan. "Why not? The damn thing is foolproof, and you got no idea yet the size of this operation. I got hundreds of girls working the undercover end of things, and why should I try to keep all this stuff in my head, or in a secret set of books someplace. Listen, I got a 'destruct' I can punch into that computer and in one second there's not one incriminating record in the file-not one that anybody can get to, anyway. It wipes out everything but the legit operation. Hell, why shouldn't I use it? That's progress, Sarge-hell, that's sheer progress. My programmer calls it APPS, for Automated Prostitution Program System, and he's proud as hell of the thing. Hell, he's a scientist, that guy, a real scientist. The sweet part is that none of these people in the office, nobody but me and my programmer, know anything about the real business. The damn machine has even got them outsmarted. Not one of 'em could really testify to anything. It all looks on the up and up to them. So a guy calls in, see, and says he's John Smith of Ace Industries, and he's hosting a sales meeting. He wants us to send him a dozen hostesses to give the place some glitter. One of the office girls takes the order. If this guy is on the level then that's all there is to it. The girl runs the order through the program and she gets a list of names and phone numbers. She goes down the list, making the calls, until she fills the order. And everybody's happy. The sales meeting gets some pretty models to pretty things up and Escorts Unlimited has a happy customer. But- but- if this John Smith is in the know and he wants some bedsprings tigers for his little get-together, then he's got a code in his order that automatically triggers the computer to a different list. And he don't even know what the code is, it's just something my field man has rigged into his account number. Get the picture? The damn thing is foolproof. We change the program codes every day- every damn day- so we run things right up tight and we know who we're dealing with all the time.