Don Pendleton - The Violent Streets

And he blew it.

Not that Smalley now suspected Copa of running out on him entirely, oh, no. The little ferret didn't have the guts for that sort of double cross.

He was just irresponsible as hell, that was all, and more than alittle uptight these days when it came down to getting his own hands dirty.

Smalley was considering ways to severely chastise Benny Copa if he couldn't raise him in the next half-hour, when the phone rang at his elbow. A little smile played across the assistant commissioner's face.

That would be Copa on the line, asking for instructions. The thin smile continued to play across Roger Smalley's lips at the thought of Benny Copa sweating it out, wondering what the hell was going on.

Smalley picked up the receiver on the third ring, taking his own sweet time about answering.

"Yes?"

"Hello? Commissioner Smalley?"

And it wasn't Benny Copa, dammit. Smalley couldn't place the female voice at the other end of the line.

"Speaking."

"This is Officer Traynor, sir. I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, but I... we have a problem that we need to discuss right away."

Smalley felt his throat muscles tightening, and he had to clear his throat before he could answer. He took a deep breath, telling himself that the woman sounded nervous and tired, and that he could undoubtedly control the situation if he only kept his cool.

And he knew what was coming, oh, yeah, only too well.

"Yes, Fran, what is it?"

Give them the old first name bit, and put them at ease. Make them think you remember them all and value them as individuals.

"Well... I... that is, I'm not really sure where to start."

Her confusion was obvious, and Smalley intended to turn it to his advantage from the start.

"The beginning?" he suggested amiably.

"Yes, sir," she said, sounding grateful, gathering her breath. And then she launched into a capsule recitation of the Blancanales rape case, her sudden transfer from the rape unit to public relations, her theory of the crimes and apparent proof of deliberate interference... and the sudden appearance of a big fed named La Mancha, out of Washington.

When Smalley had heard enough, he interrupted her.

"We don't want to discuss any more of this on the telephone. I'd like to meet with you in person, immediately."

She sounded immensely relieved as she answered, as if he had lifted the weight of the world from her shoulders.

"Yes, sir, whenever you say."

Smalley consulted the wail clock, thinking swiftly.

"We shouldn't be seen together at headquarters," he told her. "Assuming your suspicions are correct, we must take every precaution."

"Yes, sir."

He had her now. He could feel it through the wires.

"Very good," he said, stroking.

Smalley gave her a location and scheduled the meeting for thirty minutes later. They would discuss the details of Fran's suspicions at that time.

He put all the sympathy he could dredge up into his voice, gratified as her words fed back even greater relief and gratitude. Finally they ended the conversation with the lady thanking him profusely for listening, and he confirming that he would meet with her.

So far, so good.

Smalley had handled it well, and that knowledge almost dispelled the nagging tightness in his gut. Almost but not quite.

Fran Traynor's call had been, among other things, a damned annoying interruption of his morning's plans. She had prevented him from placing his scheduled call to the Man, and now it would simply have to wait until he made some space, acquired more breathing room.

He tried Freddy's Pool Hall again, and slammed the phone down angrily on the seventh ring. Damn Benny Copa to hell, anyway.

Fishing a leather-bound address book out of a drawer in the end table beside him, Smalley rifled through the pages until he found a number accompanied only by cryptic initials. The old crocodile grin was pasted back on his face as he began dialing swiftly.

There were more ways than one to skin the proverbial cat, and more ways than one to get a dirty job done in St. Paul. Even on short notice.

Mack Bolan and Pol Blancanales sat together in the Executioner's rented sedan. The Politician had just finished wiring Bolan for sound, and a preliminary check of the tape deck on the seat between them proved that the miniature transceiver in Bolan's suit lapel was working perfectly. Pol seemed proud of his artistry.

"How's Toni holding up?" Bolan asked his old friend.

Pol forced a smile he didn't feel.

"I think she was glad to get rid of me for a while," he answered. "She's a trooper, Sarge, but she feels like she has to keep up some kind of a front... even around me."

Bolan nodded understanding. Toni could be like that, sure.

"She'll be fine, Pol," he said, recognizing the hollow ring of his words.

How the hell could he know the lady would be fine?

How the hell could anyone know that for sure?

Blancanales didn't seem disturbed. In fact, he seemed to appreciate the reassurance, and he tried to change the subject.

"How close are you?" he asked.

Bolan frowned, reading the hunger in his friend's eyes and hoping Pol could contain it there.

"Ask me again in an hour," he replied. "Right now it looks good, but it could go either way."

Blancanales shook his head grimly.

"It's hard to buy that about the assistant commissioner. The homicide guy, okay... but the damned commissioner?"

Bolan shrugged.

"Too many loose ends, Pol. I still need more before I can tie them together. My next stop may give me the pieces I need."

"I swear to God, Mack... if I thought the police were letting this happen... I..."

Pol broke off, his tone and expression anguished.

And there was anguish enough to go around, sure. For Toni, for himself, and for the ideal of justice he saw crumbling in front of his eyes.

"Not the police, Pol," Bolan reminded him gently. "One or two men, a handful at most. Men, buddy. You don't blame the orchard for a couple of bad apples."

"That's easy to say," Blancanales replied bitterly.

"It's the truth, and you know it. We've both met the Charlie Rickerts before. They don't take anything away from the best."

And yeah, the mention of Rickert's name brought grim memories flooding in upon both men as they sat there, bound together by a grievous common cause.

Charlie Rickert had been a bent cop, working on the Los Angeles force and taking payoffs from the mob in the early days of Mack Bolan's home-front war against the Mafia. And he had almost ended the Executioner's campaign single-handedly in the City of Angels — almost, sure, until another, honest cop named Carl Lyons had soured Rickert's play and let Bolan go with his life.

And both cops — the good and the bad — had left LAPD in the wake of the Executioner's strike in Southern California. Rickert had gone out in disgrace, banished to the netherworld of mob fringe activities, while Lyons had moved into the federal Sensitive Operations Group, assisting Bolan on several later campaigns.

Today, Charlie Rickert was dead, and Carl Lyons was a valued member of Able Team, one hard arm of Bolan's Phoenix operation in the war against international terrorism.

The good and the bad, yeah.

That was what the whole damned game was all about.

Pol Blancanales was nodding reluctantly. "I hear what you're saying, Sarge. But it's bitter."

And Bolan could accept that, too.

His own life had been bitter at times, and often. But it could be sweet, too, and he didn't want his long-time comrade-in-arms to forget that paramount rule of nature.

You go through the bitter to reach the sweet. Every time.

For a fleeting moment, the face of April Rose was locked onto Bolan's mental viewing screen, gradually transformed into the hunted, haunted countenance of Toni Blancanales.