Don Pendleton: Chicago Wipe-Out

The side door opened and Rudy Palmer stood there stiffly framed in the rectangle of light. "The convoy is downstairs, Pete," he announced quietly. "Let's go home."

"Go on down," Lavallo said. "I gotta take a piss, then I'll be right with you. Did anybody tell Mrs. Aurielli about Louis?"

"We're trying to locate her," Palmer replied woodenly. "She's usually in Nassau this time of year."

"If you don't find her there, try that hotel at St. Thomas. She likes it there, too. Go on, Rudy. I'll be right down."

Palmer backed out and closed the door. Lavallo smiled wryly to himself and picked up the telephone. A moment later he got his connection and told it, "Hello, John? This is Pete Lavallo. You know, L & A Trucking. Say, uh, one of my subcontractors has crapped out on me. You know what I was saying last week about something big for your campaign fund."

A clipped voice rattled back a brisk response.

Lavallo grinned and said, "Yeah, well that was a drop in the bucket, I don't even count that. I meant something big . That, uh, kid of yours — John Junior, is it? Listen, I know where he can pick up long-term leases on fifty heavy haulers at a fraction of the regular cost."

A delighted response rattled the receiver.

The Lavallo grin widened. He said, "Sure, it's the cheapest way I know to get into the trucking business. Listen, you send John Junior around in the morning, eh? We'll see what we can come up with."

Another rattle, then: "Oh, hell, don't mention it, John. What are friends for if they can't look out for each other, eh?"

Lavallo hung up and studied his fingertips with a smug smile. One man's ruin always meant another man's gain. And what the hell could the punk from Rockford possibly mean to Pete Lavallo?

He got into his overcoat and again checked the load in the .45 and dropped it into a coat pocket, took a quick look about the office, and went out. He thought again of Aurielli and knew that he would not accept the fact of Lou's death until he saw him lying there in his coffin, all done up for planting. Meanwhile hie had to go on. Business details had to be kept tidy. He touched the grip of the .45 — and yeah, hie had to go on.

Quickly he descended the stairway. The small office building was quiet and deserted. It mildly irked Lavallo the way the hired help all got up and ran out at the stroke of five. It would seem like they would take more interest in the business. After all, it was their bread and butter, wasn't it? Maybe he'd shake up this goddam crew, get them on their toes, and either shape 'em up or ship 'em out. That idea appealed to him, and he continued on toward the lobby in a rising good humor.

The news about Louis had really shaken him. He was glad to be pulling out of that dark mood. His ulcers got edgy when he got edgy, and he sure didn't want a flaxeup of them goddam things.

Rudy Palmer was seated on the bottom step — waiting for the boss — tying his shoe or something. The good humor deepened. Rudy might not be overly bright, especially in business matters, but he could be a comfort to a guy. Imagine him saying that this Bolan was horsed up! Lavallo experienced an unbidden tremor. If only it were true. It was, of course, not true. Mack the Bastard Bolan was the most scarey damn thing to come up in all of Lavallo's experiences. You couldn't explain away a guy like that as a junkie , for God's sake. And now the bastard was in Chicago. And there sat Rudy, one of the best gunners in the business, hovering at the bottom of the steps and waiting patiently for the boss, plus a whole crew of gun soldiers waiting outside to escort the boss safely home. So why the hell should Pete Lavallo be worried at all?

He brushed past Palmer with a gruff, "Let's go, let's go," and got halfway to the door before realizing that Rudy was not following him. He turned back and said, "Hey! You sleeping on the job?"

Then Lavallo noted the dark discoloration on the carpet immediately in front of Rudy Palmer, and he realized that Rudy was sitting in one hell of an awkward position. He hurried back to the stairway and grabbed Palmer's shoulder and shook it. The whole torso wobbled and the head flopped limply back to reveal a gaping slit across the throat, wide-open eyes stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, then Rudy Palmer's remains toppled over.

Lavallo recoiled and danced clear of the failing body. His hand was fumbling for his coat pocket and the comforting grip of the .45 and he was making a run for the door before he was even aware of his actions.

It was then that the tall man in the black suit stepped from the shadows near the door, a long silencer-tipped black blaster targeted on Pete the Hauler's head, tight lips pulled back in a killer snarl to reveal gleaming teeth. Again Lavallo recoiled and came to an abrupt halt, but his hand continued to dig for the .45.

Two quick spurts of flame arced away from the black blaster — accompanied by quiet phutting sounds — and something hot and furious tore through the fabric of Lavallo's overcoat. His hand came out of there quickly, a double furrow plowed across the top of it.

Two words, about as clipped and final as the phuts from the silencer, were spat at him. "Freeze, Lavallo."

Pete the Hauler froze, but his stomach did not. The ulcers were already yelling bloody murder when Lavallo coughed nervously and asked, "Bolan? Is that Mack Bolan?"

"Did you get my message from Lakeside, Lavallo?"

"I got it. Sure I got it. And here's one for you. There's a whole gun crew waiting just outside that door. They can see you clear as anything, Bolan. They're looking at you right now."

"You're dreaming, Lavallo," the icy voice informed him.

Pete the Hauler shivered and stole a glance through the plate-glass of the lobby. There was no sign of any cars waiting out there. He said, "Look, Bolan, I got nothing..."

"That's right, you've got nothing. Rudy sent your gunners home. It's just you and me, Lavallo. Now you take off the overcoat and let it fall to the floor. Then you kick it away."

Lavallo followed the instructions. Those bastard eyes were tearing him up. Inwardly he was raging and his stomach was throwing fits. Outwardly he was smooth, almost genial. He told his persecutor, "If you were going to kill me, you'd have done it already. So what's going on, Bolan?"

"I've got a girl," the man in black said tightly. "I mean to keep her alive. And well . You remember that. She's your personal responsibility. Whatever happens to her happens also to you, Lavallo. Remember that. She gets cut a little, I cut you a little. She gets burned a little, I burn you a little. She gets left alone, you get left alone. Call that a deal, with no escape clause. You're tied to her, Lavallo, in life and in death. Remember it."

The king of the highways nervously wet his lips and said, "You're talking about the dollie was with Lou. Louis Aurielli."

"That's the one. She just stumbled into this thing, Pietro. It was a dumb mistake. See that it stays that way. Now turn around and go back up the stairs."

"I don't get it!" Lavallo cried, the rage finally surfacing and shaking him. "You'd trade me for one little chippie?"

"It's bargain basement day," Bolan told him. "Usually the price would be one of her for a hundred of your kind. Now get on up the stairs before I decide to deal with bigger fish."

Lavallo turned and got. He pounded up the stairs and paused at the landing to inspect the bullet grazes on his hand and to attempt to quell the tumbling of his guts, then he staggered on toward the office.

Maybe Rudy had been right after all, he was thinking. God, didn't that big dumb bastard know he couldn't pull that kind of stuff in this town? Did he think this was New York or Miami or somewheres? Did he think he could just walk in and take over Chicago ?