"We been invaded by the U.S. Army," one girl murmured lazily, eyeing the tall soldier with interest.
"Shut up, stupid," Plasky grunted as he brushed past her. He went to Bolan with hand outstretched, then led the soldier like a long-lost friend to the table where the two other men sat. "Walt Seymour, this is Sergeant Mack Bolan," he intoned formally, presenting Bolan to the older man first. The obvious protocol was not lost on Bolan. He smiled and extended his hand, aware that he had progressed at least one step above Plasky, and also aware that he was receiving a firm but uninvolved grip of social courtesy only. The younger man seized Bolan's hand as soon as it was free and wrung it enthusiastically. It was the sort of handshake Bolan could understand, and he swept the man with a warm gaze.
"I'm Leo Turrin," the warm one said, smiling. "Hear you're just back from "Nam. Welcome home. What outfit you with over there?"
"Ninth Infantry," Bolan replied, hoping he hadn't reacted to the other's name. He'd recognized the comradely tone of another returned veteran, and the face meant nothing in his memory, but Johnny Bolan's words, this guy she called Leo, were dizzying his inner ear.
"I was in the Green Berets," Turrin was saying chattily. "I was a sergeant, too. Specialist-fifth, anyway."
Bolan recognized also the value of the common-interest tie with this obviously "in" member of the circle. He grinned and tried a long shot. "I always heard the most valuable specialists in the Berets were the female-procurers," he said.
The remark scored right on target. Turrin did a double-take toward the suavely poised Seymour, then exploded in a fit of laughter, digging an elbow toward Bolan. "Well, I'll tell you-" he cried, then abruptly quietened upon receipt of a coldly disapproving glare from Seymour. The ex-GI winked at Bolan and dropped back into his chair.
One of the near-nudies appeared at that moment and thrust a frosted glass into Bolan's hand. He thanked her and sat down at Plasky's invitation, directly across from Seymour. "Beautiful girl," Bolan murmured appreciatively.
"Aren't they all," Plasky said boredly. "You like her, she's yours. After we've finished our business." He glanced at the swaying tail section of the girl as she retreated toward the cabanas, as though wondering if he'd missed something.
Bolan noticed that the bodyguards had settled down, apparently on some prearranged station. "Then let's get on with the business," he said, grinning.
Plasky cleared his throat and dropped his eyes toward his own drink. "Seymour and Turrin and I were business associates of Joseph Laurenti. One of the men who were murdered. And of course we knew all five-almost like family, you might say. We are very much interested in-helping the police bring the killer to justice. Have you talked to the police yet, Sergeant Bolan?"
Bolan was expecting the question, especially in view of the fact that he had been picked up that morning almost in the shadow of Plasky's office, and he was prepared for it. "Yes, they pulled me in this morning," he replied. "Right after I left your office."
"You went to them voluntarily," Seymour declared quietly.
Bolan grinned. "Not hardly."
"Why not?" Seymour wanted to know.
"Like I told Mr. Plasky, I didn't want to get tied up in something that would spoil my last few days at home." He broadened the smile. "As it turns out, I'm not going back to "Nam after all. I've been reassigned. I'll be staying right here in Pittsfield for a while."
"Why?" Seymour persisted.
"My kid brother. He's only fourteen. I'm his sole surviving relative."
That was very good of the Army," Plasky put in.
Seymour ignored the goodness of the Army. "So you decided to cooperate fully with the police," he commented. "After you left Mr. Plasky this morning and received word of your good fortune, you immediately contacted the police like any upstanding citizen would wish to do."
Bolan was still grinning. "You don't listen very well, do you. I told you I was pulled in. When I left Plasky this morning, a squad car was pulled up behind my U-Drive. A homicide detective wanted to talk to me."
"Why?" Seymour was beginning to sound hung-up on the word.
"One of those odd coincidences," Bolan replied, sobering. "The same cop who investigated my father's death is working this Triangle thing. He-"
"Your father was murdered also?" Seymour asked quickly.
"Suicide," Bolan said. "Nervous breakdown or something, I don't know. He was despondent and he was sick and he was deeply in debt. This homicide cop remembered that one of the debts was with Triangle. He was just wondering if there could be a connection, if maybe I might be the guy with the quick gun. He called me in to talk about it." Bolan realized he was skating close to a precipice, and hoped he wasn't overdoing the open-face routine. He smiled. "Hell, I don't settle money debts with a gun." He nodded toward Plasky. "You can vouch for that Anyway, I satisfied the cop's curiosity. He thanked me for coming in, and that was that."
"You're leaving something out," Seymour said lazily.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Sam Bolan gunned down his wife and daughter, too."
"Hey, take it easy, Walt," Turrin said softly.
"It's all right," Bolan snapped, his eyes steady on Seymour. "I don't hold it against my pop for doing what he did. Look-I cut out as soon as I was old enough. The less said about the women in my family the better. Okay?"
Seymour and Turrin exchanged glances. They know, Bolan decided.
"Sure, I understand, Sarge," Seymour replied quickly. "Don't mind me, I'm just trying to get your size. Okay?"
"Okay. You got it?"
"I think so. Why don't you tell us your eyewitness version of this killing now, eh?"
Bolan glared at him. "Why should I do you any favors, eh?"
"Well- after all..." Perplexed, Seymour massaged his nose, then chuckled. "You're the one brought the whole thing up," he said. "And you did come all the way out here to my home to talk about it. Didn't you?"
"No."
"No?" Seymour's eyebrows rose and his eyes angled toward Plasky.
Bolan calmly lit a cigarette, blew the smoke straight up, and said, "The cops changed all that."
"I see," Seymour said. But it was obvious that he did not see.
"I did see something. I was down there when the shooting occurred. I saw this guy come running out of the Delsey Building. We nearly collided."
"So?" Plasky asked ominously.
"So I could never go on record with a story like that. It places me at the scene, and with Weatherbee wondering about me I can't afford to be placed at the scene."
"Who is Weatherbee?" Seymour wanted to know.
"A homicide detective."
Seymour sighed and grinned at Plasky. "We don't want you to go on record, Sergeant. We wouldn't place your information in the hands of the police."
"I know that."
"You do?"
Bolan nodded. "But it doesn't change anything. Look, my original idea was to sell you people the information. That's all changed now. The cops told me who you are, see. And that changed everything."
Seymour flashed a glance toward Plasky. "And just who are we?"
"You're the Mafia."
Seymour's smile faded. Plasky coughed. Turrin's fingers began drumming against the table. "We're the what?" Seymour muttered.
"Hell, it's common knowledge," Bolan said. "With the cops, I guess. They told me that Triangle is tied in with the Mafia."
"So what kind of game are you playing, soldier boy?" Plasky hissed.