"Are you now finished with your eulogy?" Seymour asked coldly.
"Yeah. I'm finished. And I think we oughta suggest to the council that we all blow this town for a while. We all need a vacation anyway. I been promising the wife I'd take her to Acapulco for a swing. Let the contract boys take over, and we can come home after it's all settled."
Plasky laughed nervously. Seymour was glaring at Turrin with cold contempt. At that moment the double doors were swept open and four men entered, forming a sort of honor guard for an older man who walked in between them. The three men already present rose quickly to their feet. The four-man guard force deployed themselves about the room, one remaining in the open doorway. The fifth, a man of about 60 with white hair and a kindly face, shook hands with the other three, his warm eyes and firm grasp reassuring them. He took his place at the head of the table.
"Well, now, what is going on, eh?" he asked mildly, his eyes shifting from Seymour to Plasky to Turrin and back to Seymour again.
"It's this nut, Bolan," Seymour replied in a choked voice. "The hit didn't go off. I guess he got the drop on the two boys from Philadelphia. Anyway, he got them instead."
"Yes, I know about that," the white-haired man said calmly.
"Well, now he's gone berserk," Plasky put in. "He's been making hits all over town. He hit my operation and walked away with the bag-drop-a quarter of a million dollars."
"He burned down my prize palace and terrorized my wife," Turrin said, staring at his fingers.
"He killed two of my boys," Seymour groused. "Raised hell with my house, too."
"Raised hell?"
Seymour nodded. "Put dye in my pool. Destroyed two cabanas. Cut through the power cable and the telephone line. Slashed up all of my beds." He shrugged. "I'd call that raising hell."
"Shot up his oil painting, too," Turrin added with a half-smile. "You know the fancy one over the mantel, the Chairman of the Board type picture."
"Is this one soldier, or is this one army?" the man asked, raising his eyebrows.
"It's one lunatic!" Seymour said savagely. "Listen, Sergio, we got to do something about this nut!"
"So what have you been doing?" the one called Sergio inquired.
The three men exchanged embarrassed glances.
"Besides hiding, I mean." The old man coughed delicately. "Has the organization grown so soft? So soft that one man, one lone man, can send the entire organization scampering into holes?"
"This's no ordinary man," Turrin said defensively. "I had a sergeant once that-"
"Oh for God's sake shut up about your goddamn whore-hopping sergeant!" Seymour cried.
Turrin jumped to his feet and shook his fist at the other. "One more word outta you about my whores and I'm gonna shove one right square up your ass, Mr. Comptroller-you understand? Right up your ass!"
"Sit down and shut up, Leopold!" Sergio snapped. "Why take out all your anger on one another? There is a common enemy-is there not?" He shook a finger at Walt Seymour. "And all this is your ultimate responsibility, Walter," he added. "Can you see this? The first mistake was yours. You let him in, and gave him the opportunity to know us. Can you see this? And now the advantage is his. He can go to the ground now and dare us to sniff him out. This is costing a lot of money, a lot of money."
"I suspected him right from the start," Seymour growled. "Plasky's the one brought him in. I figured he was some sort of plant. I've just been waiting for him to hang himself."
"You dumb shit!" Turrin snarled. "Who the hell do you think he's hanging? Himself?"
"Shut up!" the old man roared, showing his fire. "The dumbnesses have been done and they are finished. Understand? They are finished! One more, just one more, and we will bring The Family together in full council and some dumbnesses will end up in the river! Do you understand? Do you?"
"Yes, Sergio," Turrin replied meekly.
"Well?" The old man's eyes were blazing full glare on the other two.
"Sure- sure, Sergio," Seymour said quickly.
"I understand, Sergio," Plasky assured him.
"Twenty years ago I would not sit at the same table with such rabbits," the old man said scathingly. "All right, listen to me. I have issued the open contract on your Bolan. But you cannot rest behind that. Now you have money, you have brains, you have power, and you are Mafiosi! Now why should Sergio care about this Bolan-eh? Is Bolan after Sergio? No. No. Bolan is after Walter, and Nathan, and Leopold. Eh? Bolan does not even know of Sergio. Right?" He snapped his fingers at one of the background men and made a drinking motion with his other hand. The man swung around to the bar, poured a glass of wine, and moved quickly to the table with it, placing it before the old man. He sipped it. The others remained silent. The man who had brought the wine went back to his station. Sergio sipped again, then placed the glass on the table. "Just the same," the old man continued, "Sergio has put one hundred thousand dollars on the line for your necks. The Family cares, you see. Just see that you are deserving of that care. Eh?"
At that instant the picture-window at the far side of the room seemed to explode and fall apart. The man who had just served Sergio grunted and fell forward onto his face. The glass containing the wine disappeared, but the wine remained to form a pool on the surface of the table. The delayed cra-ack of a high-powered rifle galvanized the paralyzed men at the table, the four of them taking to the floor beneath the table, their faces contorted with the fear of a personal doomsday. The distant explosions were rolling in unceasingly now and the thwack of big-calibre bullets plowing into floors and walls told eloquently the story of cause and effect.
The fusillade ended as abruptly as it had begun. Turrin raised his head and stared into the frightened eyes of the white-haired Sergio. Plasky and Seymour were grunting with emotion. The four other men were strewn about the large room in crumpled heaps.
"He knows you now, Father Sergio," Turrin declared shakily.
The old lips curled back over dully gleaming teeth and a balled fist pounded impotently upon the floor. "Get him!" Sergio hissed. "Get this Bolan! You understand? Get this Bolan!"
7 - The Goof
It was time to be moving on to another billet. The Executioner could not afford to spend too much time in any one spot. He had changed into night-fighter garb of dull black. The.32 calibre pistol had been replaced by a.45 calibre U.S. Army automatic, strapped to his waist. He wore black sneakers and a black beret He looked at himself in a mirror and laughed. The tight-fitting costume gave him a comic-strip appearance. If he should bump into anyone on the street, they'd probably think him dressed for a masquerade ball. The Marlin and the case of Mafia money were already stowed in the car, along with other personal effects. He went through the small apartment one last time to be sure that there was no evidence of his habitation there, then picked up the bag and departed. It was twenty minutes past two o'clock in the morning. He drove directly to Leo Turrin's home, arriving there at a few minutes before three. It was a fashionable district of curving streets and upper middle-class homes. Bolan left his car on a street behind the Turrin place, vaulted a fence, and cut across another piece of property to reach the Turrin rear approach. A dog began barking several yards down. Bolan climbed atop Turrin's garage and lay on the dark side of the sloping roof, studying the house for interior layout. A dim light burned behind a frosted window downstairs, obviously a bathroom. Another faint glow was issuing from a room upstairs. Bolan remembered that there were three Turrin children, and tried to sketch in bedroom details in his mind. The upstairs glow, he decided, was coming from a nursery or at least a child's bedroom. Again he tried to project the interior arrangement of the home into his mind, but the outside architecture was too unusual to provide any reliable clues to the inner structure. The windows appeared to be of the type which crank open, and all in Bolan's vision were closed tightly. Somebody had come out and quieted the barking dog. Bolan thought about that for a moment, then looked around for something to make some noise with. He pried loose a Spanish tile from the peak of the garage roof and hurled it to the patio below. It struck a metal table with a loud clank then slithered across the flagstones with great effect Bolan's eyes were straining in the effort to cover all windows at once. He was rewarded. A drapery moved, in a window of a corner upstairs. Somebody was peering out of the window, but this was more a feeling than a certainty. He pried off another tile and repeated the performance. The drapery swung with sudden motion and a light came on in the same room. Bolan caught a glimpse of Leo Turrin hastily turning away from the window and, before the drape could swing closed, a momentary expose of a dark-haired woman upon a bed, her hand still upon a lamp at bedside. Bolan grinned, imagining Turrin's consternation when his wife roused and switched on that lamp. He lay still, waited, and watched-and again was rewarded. Turrin, in pajamas, was out in the yard, inching along in the shadows of the house. Apparently he had come out the front door and was making a flanking movement around the side of the house. Bolan smiled appreciatively, and watched. Turrin was at the back corner now, standing very still. Undoubtedly he was armed. They played the waiting game for several minutes, then something sailed across the patio and bounced against the side of the garage. Bolan smiled. Same game, same rules, he thought. Then he lost sight of the prey. He lay still and waited, eyes probing the darkness, thankful for his advantage of height. He was aware, also, of another advantage. A woman and three children, flesh and blood of the adversary, were within that house-a pressure point for the interloper. Bolan wondered vaguely why Turrin had not evacuated the civilians, but there was no time to push on for a decision on the question. Turrin had reappeared at the far corner, apparently reversing his field with a probe to the other flank.