Don Pendleton: Chicago Wipe-Out

"What you see is what you don't get," she told him in a matter-of-fact tone, paraphrasing a famous black comedian. "That's the house rule at the Lair . It's an exercise in male frustration, I guess."

"What are the house rules for Mafia molls?" he quietly inquired.

The blue eyes flared but the reply was just as quiet. "Believe it or not, this was my first time at that place. I knew what Mr. Aurielli was, of course. But you have to understand... in this town, that's almost a mark of distinction. There was nothing personal between us. I'd just met him this afternoon."

Bolan was watching for roadsigns, trying to orient himself. Almost absently, he commented, "Okay."

"It was an assignment," she explained. "It's in our contract. We get outside assignments. Not uh... not what you might be thinking."

"Uh huh."

"It's a public relations thing. The Foxy Ladies often make appearances at private parties. It's good for us, or so we're told. We get more exposure that way." Her eyes flashed down to the costume. "If that's possible."

Bolan said, "Okay."

"Do you want to hear this or don't you?"

"I'm listening," he assured her. He was also trying to find his place on a map of the city.

"Mr. Aurielli is — was — a keyholder. Do you think I'd go on a date dressed like this? In the middle of the afternoon? I was out there to serve a special meeting. Mr. Aurielli called it a board meeting. But I didn't see any other board members present, and I was already beginning to smell a rat when the shooting started. This man, the bartender I guess, had just taken my coat and was headed off somewhere to put it away. When the first shot sounded, he ran toward the back of the house. I went to the window, and by that time the shots were coming one after another and I saw Mr. Aurielli and two other men lying in the drive. I guess I panicked. I ran outside... and then I saw the men upstairs shooting at the place next door. Then the car caught fire and blew up. I heard someone yell something about Bolan — and that's when I started running. I don't know why I ran to you. I guess I just suddenly realized where I needed to be."

Bolan glanced at her and caught a wry smile pulling at her lips. "My suspicious and romantic mind, I guess," she continued. "I had suddenly understood that I was practically alone with that... that terrible man — and in some sort of a hideout. So I had already begun to panic. And I guess I thought Prince Charming had come to rescue me from my awful fate. I don't know what I thought. I just lost my head. And I ran for the arms of Prince Charming."

"And found him to be no prince," Bolan commented dryly.

"You carried me away in your white charger, didn't you," she quietly observed.

"Call it a white coffin," he suggested. "That's what it could turn into."

"I guess I knew what I was doing," the girl murmured. "We — the girls at the club — we were talking about you just the other night. They had that special from New York on Channel 4, and we were talking about your — uh — battles there. Someone said you'd never come to Chicago. The people around here are kind of crazy — or have you noticed that? They seem to be proud to be the crime center of the universe. Anyway, I suppose all this was in my mind — and the shooting started — and I heard that man on the roof shout your name. I guess I knew where I was running. Still I guess I didn't know for sure until I saw you walking toward the car in that black suit. Then it all came together. The Executioner had come to Chicago."

Bolan said, "And right in the nick of tune, eh?"

"I guess that's how I thought of it," she admitted. "Very egotistic, huh. Just the same, you did save my life back there, you know."

"Not quite," he told her.

"What?"

"Look, I believe your story," he said. "I could just as easily disbelieve it, but I have to lean your way. And you have to lean with me. Now you think carefully and answer the same way. How many people knew you were going to that joint with Aurielli?"

She blinked her eyes rapidly and replied, "Lots of people. It was an assignment. I told you. I was sent..."

"Okay. Now what do you suppose is going to happen when the mob begins looking into the thing? They're going to discover there's a chick missing from the woodpile. They're going to wonder what happened to the chick and they're going to wonder if there was any connection between her and Bolan. These guys don't miss any bets. They're as good as any cops anywhere when it comes to polling evidence together. They know their business, and they conduct it with a notable absence of tenderness. Sooner or later they're going to start wondering about a certain Foxy Lady. And if they develop any suspicion whatever that maybe this lady helped set up that little slaughter out there this afternoon, then that lady will be not very long for this world. Are you leaning with me?"

She was. Bolan had to believe that the reaction was genuine. Her eyes fluttered, the veneer of sophistication cracked a bit further, and she exclaimed, "Oh wow! That's what you meant by 'out of the frying pan and into the fire.' "

Bolan assured her, "That's exactly what I meant."

"So what do I do now?" she asked in a small voice. "Go back?"

He shook his head. "It's too late for that. The cops are already swarming the joint. No, you have to go on. But we have to build you a story. You panicked and ran, a guy picked you up and took you into town. You..." The look in her eyes stopped him. He asked, "What's wrong?"

"It's no good," she replied miserably. "They saw me. Two men. I saw them watching me from the kitchen window as I was running. They had to know where I was headed."

Bolan said, "Well damn it."

"I guess you could take me to a police station," she suggested in a frightened voice. "I could ask for protection."

He shook his head. "That wouldn't buy you a thing. Not if these people decide to get to you."

"Then take me home," she said, suddenly flaring with defiance. "I live in Elmhurst. I'll call the club and tell them what happened, and I'll just go on as though nothing had happened. If the mobsters come to me, I'll just tell them exactly how it was. And they can like it or lump it."

Bolan was obviously neither liking nor lumping it. His face was etched with trouble lines, and again he said, "Well damn it."

Perhaps he was remembering the gruesome remains of what had been an equally beautiful and innocent girl, left behind in a New York morgue; or maybe he was thinking of an exotic French actress who had offered him Eden on the Riviera and who had found in return nothing but an echo of Bolan's hell — or a valiant little Cuban exile who had given her blood for his in Miami and died in agony with a blowtorch at her breasts. And perhaps he was viewing the entire procession of beloved dead.

He turned tortured eyes to the latest most likely candidate and told her, "like it or not, Foxy, you're a part of my jungle now."

It was all Bolan needed to make his job doubly impossible... another defenseless ally to worry over. He jerked the wheel viciously into the exit to an east-west arterial and left Lake Shore Drive behind. He had found his orientation.

This new development called for a change in the battle order.

And Bolan knew precisely what had to be done next.

"For God's sake, Pete, where you been? I been looking all over for you!"

The king of the highways, Pietro D. (Pete the Hauler) Lavallo regarded his "Executive Vice-President" with a superior smugness and a condescending smile. "While you been running around looking for me," he replied, "I been out nailing down a deal." He went on to his desk and dropped, tiredly, into a massive chair. "So what's your problem, Rudy? What're you so lathered-up about, huh?"