Don Pendleton - The Violent Streets

Taken by surprise, Fawcett blinked rapidly, putting his thoughts in working order.

"Huh? Aw, nothing special. Why?"

"I understand you've got yourself a headcase who doesn't like the ladies."

Just like that, cool as you please. Fawcett stiffened in the driver's seat, hoping at once that it didn't show. He felt his guts going into a slow barrel roll.

"First I've heard of it," he answered after a moment, fighting to keep the tightness and hostility out of his voice.

"Really?"

The goddamned guy next to him was all cool, calm, and collected, sitting there calling Jack Fawcett a liar without really saying so. The lieutenant began to see red and fought the feeling down. He swung the cruiser in to curbside and stood on the brake, forcing an even tone into his voice as he turned toward La Mancha.

"What the hell is this all about?" he demanded. "What does the organized crime unit want with a headcase?"

"Who said I work the org crime unit?"

The damned guy was smiling at him!

Fawcett's insides completed their roll. He felt dizzy.

"Well... I just assumed..."

The federal man's smile broadened, without gaining any warmth.

"You know what they say about assumptions, Jack."

"Well, what do you want?"

"I'm with SOG," La Mancha said simply. "Sensitive Operations Group."

Fawcett was nonplussed.

"I, uh, guess I'm not familiar with that unit," he said.

"It's need-to-know, Jack. You don't."

Fawcett felt as if he had been slapped.

"So, okay," he said, forcing a casual tone he didn't feel, "why are we having this conversation?"

"I was asking you about your problem. The headcase."

"And I'm telling you that there isn't any goddamned headcase. I don't know where you get your information..."

"That's right," the big guy cut him off, still smiling. "You don't."

Jack Fawcett felt like a tire with the air slowly leaking out of it.

"Listen, La Mancha, somebody's been feeding you a line. There's no way I wouldn't know about something like that."

"That's what I thought," La Mancha said, nodding.

Fawcett's hands fidgeted on the steering wheel like nervous spiders.

"Okay," he said. "So you asked, and I told you. That's it, right?"

"We'll see."

"Well, what the hell..."

"About those D.O.A.'s, you may need to rethink the syndicate connection."

Fawcett was on firmer ground now, and he felt some of his old self-confidence returning.

"Says who?"

"Call it intuition," the fed replied. "While you're at it, you might want to pick up the other three."

He was already out of the car and leaning in through the passenger's window, big forearms neatly crossed on the frame.

Fawcett was flustered now, hopelessly confused.

"Other three what?" he asked.

"Bodies, Jack," La Mancha said patently.

And the man called La Mancha proceeded to tell the dumbfounded Jack Fawcett exactly where and how to find a Caddy with three cold ones in the trunk. Fawcett had just enough presence of mind to memorize the details for future use.

"You have to get on the right side of this thing, Lieutenant," La Mancha was saying from the window. "We don't want to see a career man get caught with his pants down."

Jack Fawcett felt numb.

"I don't know what you're talking about, mister."

The federale's smile was back in place.

"Okay. I'll be in touch in case you change your mind."

And Fawcett was still trying to think up a snappy retort to that when he noticed that the big guy was gone. He craned his neck, catching a brief glimpse of the man's retreating back in the rear-view mirror before he disappeared entirely. After another long moment, Fawcett came to himself and put the cruiser in casual, aimless motion.

I understand you've got yourself a headcase.

Jack Fawcett cursed, softly and fluently. It would be the homicide lieutenant's job to find out how much this guy knew and where he was getting his information.

And along the way, he might have to check up and see just who Mr. No-Name La Mancha really was. That Justice Department ID looked okay at first glance, and yet...

Another thought came to Jack Fawcett, banishing all others in an instant.

He would have to get in touch with the commissioner, no doubt about that. And no delaying it, either.

He checked his watch, wincing at what it told him.

The commissioner wouldn't like being roused from a sound sleep this early in the morning. When you reached his station in life, you were accustomed to something like bankers' hours.

Fawcett grinned mirthlessly to himself. If I don't sleep, nobody sleeps, he thought.

But he didn't feel the bravado, not down inside where his guts were still quaking and shifting.

And he wasn't looking forward to his next encounter of the morning. Not one damned bit.

Mack Bolan, alias John Phoenix and lately Frank La Mancha of Washington, came away from his meeting with Jack Fawcett convinced that the homicide lieutenant was hiding a great deal.

But what?

Bolan had clearly touched a raw nerve with his "headcase" remarks. And while it was a long way from proving the veteran cop's involvement in a murder cover-up, Fawcett's reaction to that probe definitely warranted a deeper look.

The big guy touched base with Pol Blancanales via the compact radio transceiver. He raised his old friend on the second try.

"Able One," Pol's tinny voice responded. "I read you, Stony Man, over."

"What's the condition of our patient?" Bolan asked.

"Anything but," came the answer. "She's climbing the walls here."

"Keep the lid on, Able. I'm rattling cages right now."

"Uh, you may be hitting paydirt, Stony Man," his old friend said. "We just heard from the lady law, and she wants a parley with La Mancha, soonest.''

"Name the place," Bolan said.

Blancanales gave him the address of a twenty-four-hour restaurant just off Kellogg Boulevard. He said Fran Traynor had left a number and was waiting to roll when she received Bolan's callback.

The Executioner checked his wristwatch.

"Have her there in fifteen, Able."

"Roger that," Pol acknowledged. "Fifteen it is."

"Any feelings on the lady?"

After a pause, the metallic voice came back.

"Nothing firm. She sounded shaky, though. Right down to the ground."

"Okay. How do you stand with the people at Motor Vehicles?"

"I've got an in," Blancanales said. "Got some numbers for me?"

"Affirmative."

Bolan rattled off the license numbers of the chase car they had wrecked earlier that morning, and the Cadillac crew wagon he had found at Fran's residence.

"I need that soonest," he added.

"I'm on it now. Able out."

Bolan laid the little radio aside and put his rented car into a tight U-turn at the next intersection.

He wondered what had happened since their brief encounter, to shake up Fran Traynor any more than the appearance of three gunmen bent on murder in the small hours of the morning. Finally, unable to divine the answer, he quit trying.

If the lady came through with the information he needed, it might just be Bolan's turn to do some shaking in the Twin Cities. And he was ready to shake somebody at that moment, shake them hard.

Right down to the ground.

Assistant Police Commissioner Roger Smalley was awake earlier than usual, and he was disgruntled by the call from Detective Lieutenant Jack Fawcett.

Fawcett had sounded nervous on the phone, hardly making sense, in fact, so Smalley had reluctantly told him to come on over and relate his problem in person. Now, with his wife sleeping upstairs, Smalley sat in his rather luxurious study, smoking his first cigar of the new day.

Commissioner Smalley was not unfamiliar with wake-up calls, both from his superiors and, less often, from his subordinates. But now, at age fifty-two, one step removed from the pinnacle of power in St. Paul's police establishment, the superiors were fewer in number, and subordinates were well advised to hold their calls until office hours.