Don Pendleton - Save the Children

"Pardon me, Senator, do you mind if I ask you a few questions? It'll only take a couple of minutes."

Dutton hardly glanced at him, taking him for just another reporter looking for an interview.

"I'm sorry, but interviews are arranged through my office. Call there in the morning and talk to my press aide, okay? I'm sure he'll be able to set something up."

"I'm not so sure this can wait, Senator. It's about David Parelli."

Dutton's head swiveled to take a closer look at the big man addressing him.

"Who are you?"

"Just a few minutes of your time, Senator."

Dutton swallowed, looked around and plastered a practiced smile on his face.

"Why not?" he said heartily. He turned to the others in the group. "I'm sure you'll excuse me, folks. No politician can turn down the chance to get a little free publicity with the press, now can we?"

The others chuckled, unaware that anything unusual was going on.

Bolan fell in step beside Dutton as they headed toward one of the ballroom's rear exits.

Dutton kept smiling as he walked, but Bolan noticed that sweat had begun to bead across the senator's forehead.

"This better be good," he rasped to Bolan. "I don't know why I'm taking the time. I don't know anything about Parelli..."

They were approaching a cluster of people around the exit.

"Shut up," Bolan growled so only Dutton could hear, "and keep smiling. You don't want to lose any votes, do you, Senator?"

Dutton shot a furious glance at him, then they shouldered their way through the group.

They were alone in a short passageway that led from the ballroom to the hotel kitchen. Swinging doors at the far end of the hall closed off the kitchen, but the tinkle of cutlery and dishes being handled floated out past the doors.

Dutton turned to Bolan, irritation plainly written on his face now.

"Now see here, I want to know the meaning of this. I..."

Bolan did not break the reporter cover just yet.

"There was a shooting at the New Age Center tonight, Senator. It's a..."

Dutton paled.

"I know, it's a health club."

"Owned by David Parelli?"

"If you say so." Dutton bristled. "I don't see what that has to do with..."

"You're a cool one, aren't you, Senator? Someone told you they moved your Porsche for you before the cops got there, didn't they? Well, they did, Senator. Except that I was there first."

Dutton's eyes narrowed. "You're not a reporter. Who are you?"

"Who do you think I am?"

Dutton still didn't tumble.

"Some punk on the make, I'd say. Okay, I am a member of that club. Have been since before Parelli bought it. It's near my office when I'm in town. That is the extent of any connection between myself and Mr. Parelli. That club of his is a legitimate business, above reproach. There's nothing in that for you, whoever you are."

Bolan grabbed Dutton's right wrist with his left hand, forced open the senator's fingers, then took something from his pocket and slapped it into the politician's palm.

Dutton looked down at the object, a piece of metal with ridges. The senator recognized it immediately.

A marksman's medal.

The senator lost his sunlamp tan altogether. Suddenly he wasn't so sure of himself.

"Oh, sweet..."

Bolan wasn't sure where Lana Garner fit into this mosaic of violence and lies, but he was not about to make more trouble for the lady by spilling her identity to the senator.

And one look at Dutton's suddenly very nervous eyes told Bolan that the man knew what this was all about, that he was being interrogated by the Executioner.

"I know you're in Parelli's pocket, Dutton. Did you meet him tonight at the health club? That's why your car was there and you weren't. You went somewhere with him and I showed up before you could get back, so he just dropped you off here, right?"

"I didn't mean for it to happen!" The words choked out of Dutton's throat. "I never meant for any of it to happen!"

"Tell me," Bolan said.

"It was a couple of years ago." Dutton breathed heavily, fear and shame intermixed on his face. "Some friends of mine, they have a daughter... I offered to take her to Washington, show her the sights. I was an old family friend, her parents trusted me. My wife was out of town, so I took the girl to my apartment there. I... I... For God's sake, I never meant to touch her, but I did, I did, I couldn't help myself..."

"How old was she?"

"She was... fifteen." Dutton hesitated, then went on hurriedly. "It never happened again and that's the truth! It was... just one of those things. I didn't... rape her or anything."

"Yes, you did," said Bolan icily.

"It was only that one time," Dutton blurted. "And the girl... she wasn't hurt. She's fine today, just fine. You wouldn't kill me for something like that, would you, Bolan?"

"Did her parents find out?"

Dutton shook his head.

"No, not that I know of. But Parelli found out, damn his soul. I don't know how, but he discovered what happened that night in Washington."

"Guys like Parelli, guys shopping around for power, make it their business to know things like that," said Bolan. "You ought to remember that, Senator."

"The weird thing is," said Dutton, looking honestly baffled now, "in the time since, Parelli hasn't asked me to do anything. I was sure he'd want money..."

"He wants the power he can control through you and others like you," Bolan told the politician.

Dutton licked his lips.

"A few times... when some legislation came up, I would get a call. It was just a matter of looking the other way, that's all."

Bolan started to back away from him.

"You've betrayed the people's trust, Senator."

Dutton read something in Bolan's eyes that scared another near scream out of him.

"Wait!" Dutton pressed his back against the wall. "I'll resign! I'll quit politics forever... D-don't kill me, Bolan. There are things I can tell you. You wouldn't kill me just because I was weak one time! I have a wife, a family..."

Bolan paused, not exactly sure what he should do with this walking slimebag.

"What can you tell me?"

"Parelli. That's who you're after, isn't it? He's why you're in Chicago! I know things you don't know!"

"Tell me what you've got," rasped Bolan, constantly aware of the atmosphere around them, "and make it fast."

The kitchen noises from one direction and the ballroom sounds from the other continued unabated. No one had ventured into the narrow passageway connecting the two areas during the thirty or so seconds of this exchange between Bolan and Dutton. But Bolan knew that luck could not last forever.

"I've... only heard rumors," Dutton said haltingly, "but they could be rumors you haven't heard."

"You're stalling, Senator."

"All right, all right. It's... his mother. Parelli's mother."

That caught Bolan's interest, but he did not let Dutton know that.

"What about Denise Parelli?" he growled.

"Well, uh, it's unsubstantiated, but I've heard some people in the know suggest that... well, that David Parelli is a figurehead, that he only appears to run things, but somebody else is really pulling the strings. You know how those gangsters would feel about taking orders from a woman. The Mafia is sexist, to put it mildly."

Bolan frowned thoughtfully, wondering if he had finally found what he was searching for since he arrived in Chicago.

"Are you suggesting that the real head of the family is Denise Parelli?"

"That's what I've heard," Dutton answered with a nod. "It's just a rumor, but I've heard that Denise took over the reins when old Vito was fighting off the Big C. Everyone thought The Butcher was still running things, and after he died Denise didn't let go. Her son gets all the respect, but she tells him what, when and how much. But like I said..."