Don Pendleton: Continental Contract

Brown raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You takin' the whole bank, Tony?"

"Damn right," Lavagni growled. "You send a boy over tomorrow with a voucher, I'll give him the pay-off purse."

"Suddenly Wils Brown ain't to be trusted?" the big man asked in a thickening voice.

"Hey, don't start that — you know me better than to start that, Wils. It's this Bolan. He's been spotted around town, I told you that. I ain't taking no chances on him busting up my banks."

"I thought you were skinnin' that cat, man."

"Yeah, well, certain people are taking care of that detail right now. So don't..." Lavagni was interrupted by another ringing of the phone.

Brown reached for it and Lavagni went on toward the door, then he heard the black man saying, "Yeah he's here, just a minute."

Lavagni turned back with a questioning look. Brown was extending the instrument toward him. "It's your chief rodman. He sounds like his eyes might be rolling."

Lavagni strode back to the desk and snatched the telephone. "Yeah?" he said quietly. His face fell immediately as the receiver rattled with some breathless report, then he deposited the paper bag on the desk and reached for a handkerchief. "No, hell no, keep away from those cops!" he barked, dabbing at his forehead with the handkerchief. "After they leave, you go through there with a sieve. You make damn sure he's not hiding in a john or something. Then you get a rundown on every plane that left out of there during that time, and you get copies of the passenger lists... shit I don't care how you get 'em, just get 'em!" He deposited the phone with a crash and growled, "That bastard!"

"Bolan got away again," Brown decided in flat tones.

"That bastard!" Lavagni repeated.

"I can get 'im."

"Huh?"

"I can get Bolan for you."

"Shit!" Lavagni sneered. "You and what cock-a-doodle army? We got the whole goddam country swarmin' for that guy, and you say..."

"I can kill him with a kiss."

"Hey, I ain't in no mood for... what the hell you mean? You mean the Judas kiss?"

"Something like that," Brown replied quietly. "I did duty with the guy. I know him. I waded rice paddies with him and jungle-skunked 'im for about three months once. Yeah, I could..."

"Then why didn't you say so before?" Lavagni asked coldly, watching the black man through half-slitted eyes.

Brown shrugged. "I'm not no Mar — I'm not one of you, man, I just work here. And I didn't figure I'd get no popularity medals for knowing Bolan."

"Well that's a hell of a goddam attitude!" Lavagni shouted. "Now how'm I supposed to know what the hell you been up to, huh Wils? How'm I supposed to know what you'n that bastard Bolan've been cooking up, huh?"

The two black men near the door were moving nervously toward the disturbance. Brown shot them a quick glance and said, "It's okay." To Lavagni, he said, "Just use your head, that's all. This ain't no confession, you know. I'm telling you I can get Bolan for you."

"Why?" the Italian asked suspiciously. "You're already my best right hand, right here. I admit, you been smart staying out of this other mess. So now why you stoppin' being smart, Wils? Huh?"

Brown shuffled uncomfortably and hunched his shoulders forward in a thoughtful stance. "Well, I been thinking. I'm not no part of nothing, you see. I'm just me, Wils Brown, and I'm whatever I can make for myself. Right? How much can Wils Brown make for himself, Tony, if he gets Mack Bolan for you?"

Brown had come up with the one convincing argument which Quick Tony Lavagni could understand, and with which he could identify. He was quietly studying the idea and scrutinizing his central controller, obviously seeing him in an entirely different light than ever before. "There's a hundred thou contract on Bolan," he explained slowly. "Arnie Farmer has added another hundred thou if he can get his hands on th' bastard while he's still alive."

Brown smiled solemnly. "Well now, see? Wils Brown would kiss Jesus himself to be a part of that purse, Tony."

"I got an interest in anything going in my territory, Wils," Lavagni carefully pointed out.

"Okay, I'd give you a split," Brown agreeably replied.

"And Arnie himself, he's got an interest too."

"He pays out with one hand and takes back with the other?"

"That's business, Wils." Lavagni was deep in thought.

"Like Uncle Sam."

"Yeah, same idea, like taxes you know. Okay, I guess we better go clear this with th' farmer. Get your coat, Wils."

Brown grinned. "You gonna take me to the big man, eh?"

"Yeah," Lavagni replied, frowning. "But listen, you gotta be respectful. You can't talk to him like you talk to me. You call him Mister Castiglione, for God's sake none of this Arnie Farmer yuck, you hear?"

"I'll call 'im Mister God if that's what he wants, Tony."

"Allright." Lavagni suddenly smiled brightly. "Th' Judas kiss, huh? God damn, Wils, just wait 'til Arnie Farmer hears about this!"

Arnie "The Farmer" Castiglione reigned over the entire Eastern Seaboard underground from south of New Jersey to Savannah, his empire embracing docks and fields, feeder cattle and packing houses, politics and labor, gambling and prostitution, and virtually all human endeavors which lent themselves to unscrupulous exploitation and manipulation. All this was ruled from the baronial estate known as Castle Farms in a lush Virginia valley not far from Washington.

Castiglione had suffered a painful thigh wound in the battles of the Miami convention — actually, he had been shot in the buttock while scrambling up a wall to safety — and his mood had been something less than jovial during the following weeks. The wound was not healing properly. Soreness remained. He was required to sit on pillows and to inhibit his usual restless activeness. Every twinge of physical discomfort the Farmer experienced was accompanied by the pained growl, "That fuckin' Bolan!" — or, "Kill 'im, I'll kill 'im!"

Arnie had grown up in the concrete jungle of New York and had never realized there was a land out there beyond the pavements until he was nearly 12 years old. Now he prided himself as owner of vast unspoiled acreages, a country gentleman and horse breeder. He rode in parades and horse shows, and his Appaloosa stock was considered among the finest in Virginia. He had found acceptance and respect in the genteel society of rural Virginia, and had served on various public commissions and was active in several philanthropic foundations. This was the image most highly prized by this self-educated product of East Harlem, and it was an image that had cracked and all but dissolved in the aftermath of Miami. Castiglione was one of the unfortunates who had been "busted" by the Dade County Force, fingerprinted and jailed and released on bail and still awaiting a court appearance on a variety of charges. Worst of an, his theretofore secret connections with the Mafia were being written about in newspapers and magazines around the country, and a Virginia crime commission had announced their interest in the Castiglione empire.

Yes, Arne the Farmer had deep and lasting reasons for hating the guts of Mack the Bastard Bolan, any one of which could produce heat enough to roast the Executioner's carcass over an open flame. Arnie would gladly instrument the body to get a recording of every shrieking nerve down to the final death pulse, to keep and treasure forever and to entertain himself in moments of boredom. This very idea seemed right at the surface of Arnie's mind as he told Tony Lavagni, "I don't want this boy to die easy and alone somewhere, Tony. A quick kill is not my idea of justice, not where this boy is concerned. I want him dying slow and knowing it, and feeling it, and twitching around for a long time. You know what I mean, Tony?"