The young man's face was showing an inner conflict. "I'd like to see your, uh, identification," he said.
Bolan once again swept the plastic card into sight, held it briefly in front of the man's eyes, then returned it to his pocket. He smiled suddenly, a warm reach of friendship. "Look, don't be so nervous," he said softly. "Plasky thinks these spot audits will keep you on your toes. You have nothing to worry about, I'm sure. Open the vault so we can get this over with."
Thomas hesitatingly began working the combination of the door lock, then turned the big wheel and swung the door open. "What is your cash on hand?" Bolan asked tersely.
The cashier thrust a scrap of paper tape into the manager's hand. He glanced at it. "Forty-two thousand, six hundred eighty-nine and forty," he mumbled.
"Oh Goddamn, not that figure," Bolan replied with obvious exasperation. "The holding fund, Thomas, damn-it, not your nickels and dimes."
The younger man blinked, stepped into the vault, slid back a section of steel wall, and produced a large leather case. "Why didn't you say so in the first place," he complained petulantly.
"Open it," Bolan commanded.
Thomas fished a key from somewhere inside the vault, inserted it into the case lock, then blinked past Bolan to the young women who were standing awkwardly in the center of the office floor. Bolan understood the look.
"You ladies wait in the outer office," he said. The two girls exchanged glances and went out. Thomas carried the case over to his desk, opened it, and glared at Bolan.
"I hope to God you don't want to count it," he said miserably.
"What's the tally?"
"Two hundred and fifty thousand."
"Certified?"
The manager nodded and produced a sheet of paper from the top of the stacked currency. Bolan pretended to study the list of figures, said, "Uh-huh," and moved back toward the vault
"Just exactly what are you looking for?" Thomas wanted to know.
"Come here and I'll show you," Bolan said. He jerked the other man inside the vault and slammed his head against the steel wall. The young man's legs rubberized and he slid to the floor. Bolan stepped past him and began hurling ledgers and records out into the office. He stripped the vault completely, stuffing currency into the open case on the manager's desk and piling everything else on the floor. He slammed and locked the vault door, then touched his lighter to the pile of papers on the floor, picked up the case of money, and went out to join the young ladies.
"I want all your records out here-out here on the floor," he barked. The girls looked at each other, then began opening drawers and arranging papers and file folders atop the counter. "Don't be so dainty about it," Bolan said roughly. "This's an emergency." He swept the records to the floor, then went over to a metal file cabinet and began unloading the drawers. Minutes later a bonfire was raging in the outer office, and the eyes of the young ladies were beginning to reflect the presence of a madman in their midst
Bolan seized the cashier and pressed a marksman's medal into her hand. Tell Plasky The Executioner said it was easy as pie," he said calmly.
"Wh- what?"
"Just tell him that. Oh, and you'd better go get that guy out of the vault before this whole place goes up. Oh, and tell Plasky thanks for the bucks, they'll come in handy." He picked up the case of money and opened the door. The girls were already dashing toward the private office. Bolan chuckled and stepped onto the sidewalk, pulling the door firmly closed. He'd returned to the scene of the crime, and by God he'd committed another one, and by God he wondered how The Family would appreciate this one. He suspected that financial considerations were gut-matters to the Matthews. Bolan suspected also that he certainly knew how to hurt a Mafiosi. He walked around the corner, got into his car, and chuckled all the way home.
6 - The Council
"Listen, something's gotta be done about that sonuvabitch!" Seymour snarled. "He's running wild, hog wild, all over the damn place-burning, and killing, and stealing, and-and..."
"Look who's complaining," Turrin commented bitterly.
"Yes, I'm complaining!" Seymour roared. "He was your goddamn man! Couldn't you spot the son of a bitch for a phoney without having to get word down from upstairs? You creep, you bastard you-Jesus Christ, any dumb dago wop would know the son of a bitch is a phoney! If you weren't laying up with those fucking sluts of yours all the goddamn time you might-"
Turrin leaped to his feet and threw a wild punch at his tormentor. Seymour dodged back out of the way, his face going white, his hand scrabbling about for a weapon and coming up with a Coke bottle.
Nat Plasky stepped between them, his arms waving wildly. "Stop it! Stop it!" he yelled. "Don't you think this is what the bastard wants? He wants us at each other's throats. Now stop it!"
Leo Turrin's lips were quivering with rage, but he hunched his shoulders, clenched his hands together, and dropped back into his chair.
"I'm sorry, Leo," Seymour said humbly. "I didn't mean that crack about the wops."
Turrin merely nodded and stared broodingly at the toe of his shoe.
"The Man is going to be very upset over that quarter-million," Plasky said, after a short silence.
Seymour nodded his head. "We'll get it back."
"Sure we will," Turrin sneered mildly.
"I don't hardly remember even what the guy looks like," Plasky ventured. "I only saw him twice, and then just for a few minutes. How the hell did he know about the organization money being in that vault? Huh? How'd he know?"
"Didn't you know?" Turrin grunted. "He's the fuckin' Phantom. The fuckin' Phantom knows everything."
"I thought that was the Shadow," Plasky mused.
"Will you two for Christ's sake shut up!" Seymour roared.
"Just passin' the time," Plasky replied meekly.
"Well, crack your knuckles or something," Seymour growled. He studied his watch for a moment. "The others will be here in a few minutes."
Turrin heaved up out of his chair and went over to the bar, half-filled a tumbler with bourbon, added an ice cube, then carried it back to his chair, sipping glumly. "The trouble," Turrin said presently, "is that you people don't know this guy. I do. I know him. And I'm shakin'. Believe me, I'm shakin'. This guy is a military machine, believe me. I had a sergeant like him once, just about like him. He scared the shit outta me, too. And so does Bolan. I'm telling you, this guy-"
"Damnit, shut up!" Seymour screamed emotionally.
"No, no I'm not gonna shut up," Turrin went on stubbornly. "You gotta know who you're dealing with. Now look at it, just look at it. The nerve of this bastard. In the space of-what-three or four hours?-he hits us bing! bing! bing!-just like clockwork. He burns down my prize palace, completely wrecks an eight-thousand dollar automobile, scares the living shit right outta me, smashes Jake's leg, completely terrorizes and demolishes the whole damn place-" He paused to sip nervously at his drink, "-then he slips away and turns up a few minutes later at my house-my house, mind you, has a chatty little ratfink conversation with my wife, and God that's a whole 'nother story-" He laughed nervously, "-then, pow! he shows up at Seymour's shack, dyes the swimming pool red, tosses in a couple of bath houses and the carved-up bodies of Paul and Tony, cuts off the phones and lights, slashes up the beds-just to show us what could've happened if somebody had been in them, I guess-and unloads five slugs into Walt's fancy oil painting. Now-that should be enough to hold anybody for a week-but no-he ain't done yet. He cruises down to Triangle, burns all the loan records, locks Thomas in the vault, and walks away with a quarter-million of our buried bucks. I had a sergeant like that once. He took it into his head to screw every whore in Singapore, without paying yet, and he damn near did."