If Lupo said 'cool the action for a few days' — then they had to cool the action. It might interfere with something 'delicate' Lupo was trying to work. Meanwhile, money was being lost. Lost money never got recovered, Carlo had learned well that grim fact of life. It was like a piece of ass — every piece missed was a piece gone forever — there was no way of catching up.

  And if Lupo said 'send me over a gun crew' — then they had to send him over a gun crew. Something `delicate' had gone sour and turned into something brutal. But who paid the gunners, and who had to take care of their protection — who had to answer to the cops if a hit went sour? Not Lupo, hell no.

  That guy had the whole District right under his thumb.

  Yeah. Carlo hated the guy.

  Probably, though, Big Gus hated him worse. More was at stake for Gus.

  At this particular moment, however, it was a toss-up over which of them had a right to hate Lupo the most.

  Via some twenty-five miles of telephone wire, Spinella was telling Riappi, 'That's what I said, Gus. All three of them. Horse and Tommy and Chick — parked out in front of the house here. Dead as hell. It was that damn Wolf Crew, I know it was. They didn't even have the common decency to dump the bodies somewhere else, they left them right out here in front of my house. And they didn't even ring the bell or call or anything else. We didn't even find them first. The damn law got to them first, Gus. Now what the hell, is that adding insult to injury or isn't it? What the hell do I tell the law now?'

  `Your boys carry credentials, don't they?' Riappi growled back.

  `Sure, but what ice does that cut? Dead is dead, I gotta have a story for the law.'

  Riappi sighed as he replied, 'You tell them no story, Carlo. Because you know nothing about it. It's as easy as that. Your boys are bonafide security agents in your south-west apartments. They probably made some enemies, that's all. They're victims of a black vendetta. You know the routine.'

  Following a tense silence, Spinella said, 'Well that's not what's really bothering me, Gus. We can't let that guy get away with this kind of shit. We'll lose the respect of our own boys.'

  Riappi sounded regretful and conciliatory as he replied, 'That was your fault, Carlo. I hate to say it but it's true. You started it, the whole thing, and what you did was wrong. You were fucking around with something way over your head, fidele . . . we all would have been in hard trouble if you'd been allowed to go through with it. The way it is now, Lupo and me both are covering the thing. We're covering it for you, Carlo. We're sorry your boys had to pay the price. But that's the way it is sometimes, Carlo. When a guy fucks up as bad as you fucked—'

  `I know, I know,' Spinella agreed worriedly. 'I still say Lupo should've let us in on his big secret. Well okay. If you say so, okay. I'm not bitching about anything I guess except the way they left my boys here without even saying hello about it. I mean, parking 'em dead right in front of my house. I take that as a warning, Gus, a very clear warning to me. I think I should have gotten above that kind of thing. You know.'

  `Sure, I know,' Riappi agreed. 'Look, just cool it. Lupo's time will come, don't worry. He's running high, wide and handsome right now but he's building a lot of enemies while he's doing it. We'll all remember Lupo's sins, don't worry.'

  `He didn't have to kill those boys, Gus.

  `Maybe he didn't and maybe he did. You should know your own boys better than I do. What do you think?'

  Spinella snorted as he replied, 'Maybe he did. I still don't think any broad in the world is worth three of my boys.'

  `This broad is, believe it and forget it,' Riappi said quietly.

  `I'll believe it but I won't forget it.

  `Forget it, Carlo. For now.'

  `Okay. It's forgotten.'

  `Tell the cops what I told you. And don't worry. I already got, the fix in.'

  `Oh, swell, I'm glad to hear that.'

  `No big wake for your boys, Carlo. Quiet, very quiet. And see you don't go yammering around about how they died. You know.'

  `Oh sure, hell, I know.'

  Riappi clicked off and Spinella slowly cradled the telephone, glaring at it as though it were something foul and slimy.

  Which one, he was wondering, did he hate the most now? Lupo or Slimy Gus?

  He slid off the bed and struggled into a robe, belting it tightly around silken pyjamas, then he strode out to the 'crew room' — a lounge area for his retinue of personal bodyguards.

  Only Rocky Lucindo, the soldier who had brought the disturbing news to his bedside, was present — and he was standing tensely at the window and staring down on to the scene of confusion just below that window.

  A couple of meat wagons were out there, several marked police cars, as well, and probably one or two unmarked official vehicles. Photographers were milling about and popping flashbulbs, some of the lenses being directed at the house itself. The street was blocked off to traffic, the cops trying to disperse a growing crowd of spectators. People in bathrobes . . . broads with their hair up in curlers . . . it was still pretty early in the day.

  Lucindo was the chief houseman. He was an old soldier who went way back with Carlo Spinella. He was a close personal friend, perhaps the only man in the world whom Carlo trusted implicitly.

  The triggerman muttered, 'It's a circus out there. Why does everybody always want to see it?'

  `Makes 'em feel good it's not them,' Spinella replied caustically. He moved away from the window as another flashbulb pushed back the early-morning gloom. 'What time is it?'

  `About five,' the bodyguard reported. 'What did Big Gus have to say?'

  `Same old crap. Cool it for now. Play dead.' The cap-regime snorted. 'I'd like to cool you-know-who for now and forever.'

  `Just say the word,' Lucindo replied soberly.

  'Naw. We play it straight, just like Gus says. He's the boss. Where's Fred?'

  Lucindo jerked his head towards the window. 'Out there, with Ripper. Being concerned citizens. Ripper was the first one out there. He says those other soldiers are a mess, a hell of a mess. Gave it to them in the head, all of them.'

  Spinella shuddered and went to the bar. He poured a cup of coffee and carried it to the television, turned the set on, selected a channel, and eased on to an ottoman as he sipped the coffee and stared at the blank screen.

  A moment later he growled, 'Hell, is it that early?'

  `I said five,' the bodyguard reminded him. 'Try that

  independent station, that channel uh....'

  The hallway door opened and another man shoved head and shoulders through. 'Plainclothes guy wants in,' he reported. 'Says it's just a routine—'

  `Tell him,' Lucindo snapped, 'nobody saw nothing.'

  `Yeah but he wants to talk to Mr. Spinella.'

  `Tell him Mr. Spinella is too upset to see anybody right now. He'll give them a call when he's feeling better. What the hell, those cops got no feelings for the dead?'

  The hardman replied with nothing but a tight smile and immediately withdrew.

  The chief bodyguard went over to hover above his boss. 'What do we tell them, Carlo? We'll have to face it sooner or later.'

  `The niggers did it,' Spinella replied quietly.

  `Okay. I guess that's as good as anything.'

  `Sure. Lousy bastards never want to pay their rent. So they jumped our collectors. Probably robbed them. Then left the bodies at my front door just for kicks.'

  `One story is as good as another,' Lucindo agreed.

  The outer door opened again and the hardman reappeared, this time his face pulled into angry lines.

  `This guy has a John Doe warrant,' he announced loudly.

  Another man walked in behind him – a slightly built Negro of indeterminate age, sharply dressed, smiling soberly.

  `Sorry to disturb you at this hour, Mr. Spinella,' he said in a soft voice.

  `So go disturb John Doe,' Spinella growled, hardly looking up.

  The smile remained. 'We knew you'd be anxious to cooperate. That's a pretty brutal thing that happened to your boys.'

  `Employees,' Spinella corrected him. 'And you bet your ass I'll cooperate. If you don't have those people rounded up and behind bars by nightfall, I'll round 'em up myself.'

  `What people?' the cop asked.

  `You know who I'm talking about, Walker. Those people of yours, those colored’s. They've been headed towards something like this for a year now.'

  The black detective knew it was a silly game; his smile said so as he replied, 'Maybe you're right. A lot of the younger men living in Rat Town are ex-GI's. Most of them infantry veterans of Vietnam. One of the latest equal job opportunities for those people of mine, those colored’s, fighting the nation's wars.'

  `So what?' Spinella asked in a muffled voice.

  `So I guess some of them don't understand why they have to pay half their income to live in a squalor surpassing that of the Vietnamese. So ... maybe you're right, Mr. Spinella.' The cop had produced a handkerchief from an inside pocket, and he was carefully unwrapping it. 'I guess the ex-GI angle also explains this lone piece of physical evidence left behind by the killer. You ever see one of these things before? Careful now, don't touch.'

  He was holding the handkerchief directly under the Mafioso's nose. Spinella took one quick look at the metallic object revealed there. His eyes skittered away

  and his breath seemed to be clinging to his throat as he huskily asked, 'Where'd you get that?'

  `We found it on what was left of Tommy the Sandman’s head,' the black man explained.

  Lucindo was craning over to get a look at the object, but the detective was already re-wrapping it and returning it to his pocket.

  `Just wanted to ask,' the cop was saying, `if the thing could have belonged to one of the victims. Ever see it before?'

  Spinella's eyelids had dropped to about half-mast and he did not seem to be looking at anything in the physical world. 'I see a hundred of those things,' he replied mechanically. 'You can buy 'em in any army store, nickel apiece. Now get outta here, Walker. Let me mourn my dead.'

  `Sure.' The cop spun about and returned to the doorway. He hesitated there for a moment, then turned around for a parting shot. 'I guess you're right, you can find these things anywhere. We found another one this morning, a few hours ago. Almost on the Capitol steps.'

  `Yeah?' The Mafia boss was not even attempting to conceal his interest.

  `That's right. In the same place where we found four more murder victims. Male Caucasians. One of them was one of your people, Mr. Spinella, one of those Italians.'

  `Who was it?' Spinella asked in a choking voice.

  The cop shrugged. 'Identification won't be positive until fingerprint verification comes in. But we believe he was Frank Matti.'

  Spinella's reaction was a mere flickering of the eyes.

  Detective-Lieutenant Walker smiled again and went out, carefully closing the door behind him.

  Lucindo strode half-way to the door in an almost explosive release of pent-up energy, then he whirled about and cried, 'Matti and three of his boys! What the hell, Carlo?'

  Spinella did not reply. He was staring at his fingers and softly tapping them against his thigh.

  The two hardmen exchanged troubled glances and the one who had escorted the detective into the room blurted, 'What'd he have in that handkerchief?'

  `Hell I didn't get a look,' Lucindo replied. He took a hesitant step toward his boss. 'What was it, Carlo? What'd he show you?'

  `One of them decorations,' Spinella muttered. 'Those shooting prizes. You know.'

  The chief bodyguard's voice was suddenly as deadened as the boss's as he said, 'You mean marksman's medal.'

  `Yeah, I think that's what it was,' Spinella growled.

  `Oh God,' Ripper quietly exclaimed.

  Lucindo was frozen in his tracks, the body arched, a procession of emotions marching across the disturbed face.

  Spinella was reaching for the telephone. 'A death

  mark,' he mumbled. 'Left right at my front door.'

  `Who're you calling?' Lucindo wanted to know. `Big Gus, who the hell you think. I'm not facing this alone. Bet your ass, Rocky, not this one.'

  `What's that goddam guy doin' in this town?' the bodyguard wondered aloud.

  `I'll give you twenty guesses,' Spinella replied sarcastically. He changed his mind about the phone and shoved it back. 'You call,' he instructed Lucindo. 'Tell 'em what we know, and tell them to tell Gus I'm coming out.' He heaved himself erect and headed for his bedroom. 'I'm gonna shave and get dressed. We'll take the Lincoln. Get it ready.'

  Lucindo was already on the telephone and Ripper Aliotto was headed out the other door when Spinella passed into the bedroom.

  He kicked the door shut and was peeling off the robe when he became aware of a flicker of motion behind him, and before he could react the unmistakable pressure of a pistol's barrel was roughly applied to the back of his head.

  A voice as cold as ice, yet hardly more than a whisper, advised him, 'Easy, Carlo, and you might live awhile.'

  And that, Carlo wryly reflected, was the best offer he'd had all night.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE UNDERSTANDING

  The guy stood a full head taller than Spinella but he was probably no heavier. The two-hundred-odd pounds which were distributed along that stretched-out frame were all hard ones. You knew that by the way the guy stood poised there in an agile balancing of the muscular systems, by the cat-like movements and the spring- tension control which seemed to accompany his command of the enemy environment.

  `I want no shitting around,' the Executioner softly told the Mafia underboss, and the cold authority in that voice matched the rest of the man.

  Carlo Spinella had no inclination whatever for shitting around.

  He fought his tumbling emotions to a paralysed standstill as he woodenly assured the intruder, 'I got no hard feelings for you, Bolan.'

  Death was staring at him, Death, with a capital D and all edged with ice as it held command over those penetrating blue eyes. Spinella could not repress a trickling shiver.

  He tried again. 'We got nothing to argue about, Mack.'

  `I'm not your judge,' Mr. Death quietly announced. `I didn't come to argue.'

  The guy shoved him on to the bed and a marksman's medal hit the soft surface at about the same moment, inches from Spinella's panicky eyes.

  His very breath was hurting as it fought clear of constricted air passages. There was a roaring in his ears and he hurt all over, from head to toe, everywhere — even his hair hurt.

  So this was what it was like, then. This was what it felt like to meet the end of everything a guy had planned for and worked for and sweated for throughout a harsh lifetime. This was the end of the trick — and there was pain, yes, real physical pain, in that realization.

  In that one frozen moment all the dreams and agonies of a mis-spent lifetime floated free and spiraled into that peaking awareness of death, the memories of violence received and given, the regrets long buried and glossed over by successive layers of tantalizing ambitions, fleeting frames of broads laid and broads missed, of love offered and spurned and sometimes trampled — and agonies of the soul, too, very real agonies which now knew no possibility of atonement. A life in hock had come due, the note was being presented for payment in full and Carlo Spinella knew that he had come up bankrupt.

  The guy was angling a black Beretta right into Carlo's face. It was ominously tipped with a long silencer, making it look twice as long as any gun had a right to be, and — yes, Carlo knew. He knew.

  `You won't make it out of here, guy,' he whispered. `No way, no chance. My boys are all over the joint. Cops running up and down the street outside. This's dumb, real dumb.'

  The big guy replied, 'The mob pronounced me dead several lifetimes ago.' He shrugged those muscled shoulders and added, 'What does a dead man have to lose?'

  Spinella's mouth was like packed with cotton and he felt that he was strangling on his own words as he said, 'Okay, how do I beat it? Look, I'm not ready for this. There's just no sense to it, it's dumb to die this way. I don't even know you, we never even saw each other before. Why should we be doing this? Huh? What's the sense? Hey, God, Bolan, let's at least talk it over.'

  Surprisingly, unbelievably, the guy gave that frozen face about a one-millimeter tilt and he told the doomed man, 'Okay. But no arguments, Carlo.'

  Hope was reborn.

  A new mortgage, maybe, was being issued in the spiritual court of last resort. But it was a tenuous reprieve, obviously contingent entirely upon absolute honesty with no cuteness and no reservations.

 

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