Don Pendleton - California Hit

Turrin chuckled and said, "They're fighting industrial pollution now."

"Then there must be a buck in it somewhere," Bolan replied.

"There's the secret. There are plenty of bucks in it."

"Nothing's sacred, is it."

"Just omerta. Uh, you know about Thomas Vericci?"

"Tom the Broker."

"Yeah. He's an invisible director of Baysavers... and not always so invisible. The feds are poking into it, but they can't prove anything yet. Meanwhile several formerly profitable bay-area industries have been forced into receivership, and at least two of them have wound up in Vericci's other pocket."

"Which side of the street does this intel come from?"

"The police side. We hear very little, really, from the west coast arms. We meaning the mob. They run their own cozy little shops out there, with as little contact with the national council as they can get away with."

"Yeah, so I've heard. Okay. It sounds pretty vague, but maybe I'll look at Baysavers."

"Do it easy. The words I get, Vericci got a bunch of kids conned into the act. Naider's Raiders types. They think they're saving the bay for the fishes. I guess they don't know about the sharks they're running with."

"I get the picture," Bolan said, "Speaking of pictures, what do you know about porno movies?"

The man in Pittsfield chuckled merrily. "Not as much as I'd like to know. Which end are you talking about?"

"What ends are there?"

"Well... you've got distributors and you've got exhibitors. Some of the boys have been active in both areas, from time to time."

"Who makes the movies?"

"Nowadays, just about everybody. They're legit in most places."

"This could be important, Leo. Do you know of any of the boys in this area who might be making these movies?"

"No, not offhand. I could look into it, but it would take awhile."

"I guess I don't have awhile."

"Okay. Anything else on your mind?"

"What can you tell me about the ChiComs?"

Turrin whistled softly. "Nothing."

"Nothing at all??"

"That's right. I keep hearing Red China rumors, but it all sounds pretty wild. I wouldn't even repeat such crap, not even to you."

"Okay. How about Mr. King?"

"Hell, you do jump around. What about Mr. King?"

"Who is he, really?"

"I wish I knew. So do ten thousand feds. Speaking of them, you're on their shit list, buddy. Especially after Haiti. The men up high are actually frothing at the mouth, I hear."

"Sorry if I embarrassed them," Bolan said drily. "But a hit is a hit."

"Well, they did have some bad moments. Haiti is an OAS member, you know. And with all the rumors floating around that you're actually being sponsored by everybody from the FBI to the CIA... well, it got pretty messy."

Bolan laughed out loud.

"Don't laugh," Turrin said. "Even some of the congressmen are starting to wonder if you're sponsored. The feds are going to have to burn you, buddy, just to prove the rumors wrong."

"About Mr. King," Bolan prompted, changing the subject.

"Hell I told you, I don't know. I guess there aren't more than two or three men in the whole country who know his true identity. The name has been falling out of tapped telephones for years, and everybody generally agrees that he pulls the strings all over the western states... but hell that's it, Sarge. There just simply isn't any make on the guy. And he's not Mafia, he's bigger than that."

"I hear that Don DeMarco is his pipeline into the mob. I hear that's what made DeMarco, and that's what's keeping him made."

There was a long pause, then Turrin replied, "You've got better ears than mine, then. I never heard anything like that."

"Okay. Thanks a bunch, Leo."

"You, uh, don't want to know about anybody else?"

"You know I do." Bolan's voice went softly serious. "How are they?"

The reference was to Bolan's sole surviving relative — the kid brother, Johnny. And to Valentina Querente, Bolan's warmest love, the schoolteacher who'd taken over the care and feeding of young John.

"They're fine," Turrin reported. "The kid keeps a scrapbook on you. He's going to be wanting to join you some day, Sarge... if you should live so long. I mean... he wants a piece of your war. If you're still around by then."

"Don't worry," Bolan said tightly. "I won't be. Their security still okay?"

"Yeah. First class. Uh, Val keeps agitating for a meet. She's, uh..."

"Tell Val I'm dead, Leo. Tell her to find herself a nice, clean history teacher or something and settle down to the good life."

"I've told her a hundred times, Sarge."

"Well keep telling her. She's an old maid already. Tell her I said that."

"Okay, but it won't do any good. She's a Rock of Gibraltar, you know that."

It's just a matter of time anyway," Bolan muttered.

"Yeah. She knows that. And she's prepared for it. But she does want to see you, Sarge. One last time, she says. One hour, she wants one hour."

"I don't have one," Bolan said miserably.

"I know, I know."

"Leo. Thanks. You're a..."

"Yeah, yeah, shut up."

"So long."

"So long, dead man. Call me any time you can."

"I win."

Bolan hung up and lit another cigarette. He stared at the telephone for a moment, then he sighed and went looking for the China doll.

The coffee was boiling over on the stove. He took it off.

She wasn't in the bedroom.

The bathroom was empty.

Mary Ching was not there.

The China doll had taken a powder.

So, she'd taken off.

So, what the hell, it was her right. She owed Mack Bolan nothing, he owed her nothing, and the quiet disappearance did not necessarily classify her as one of the enemy.

Of course, though, it could.

A whole host of threatening possibilities were standing there at the edge of Bolan's mind... Mary Ching could very well turn into the greatest threat San Francisco had to offer him.

The only thing that he was certain of was that she had left of her own will. She had not been dragged out of there. She had simply released the safety chain, opened the door, and walked away. All the signs attested to that.

But... had she left there as friend or enemy?

Either way, there was no good reason why he should continue his residency of that Russian Hill apartment. It had served all his purposes, and now it had quite suddenly become more of an ominous liability than an asset.

And, as suddenly, Bolan was very tired. It was a weariness not of the flesh, but of the inner man — and the inner man had just about had it.

It was that special brand of weariness often known by a man who is called upon to stand too tall, for too long a time, and too utterly alone.

If there had just been someone else — anyone else — to whom he could say, "Okay, that's it I've had it for now. You take over for awhile."

There was no one like that.

There was no hole deep enough to hide him for more than a brief moment, no sanctuary to embrace him in safety from the largest manhunt in history — there was no God damned place to go, except out to fight.

And Bolan was sick of the sight and smell of blood.

He was wearied with worrying about all the incidental non-combatants who straggled across his battlefield.

And he was fed up with looking at every other human being as a potential jackal who might rip the flesh off of him.

He was tired of mistrust and suspicion — humbled by the reminder that he was just a man, after all — and thoroughly shaken by the idea that he had an entire city to conquer... and not just any city but this particular city.

So... what the hell. It was just another jungle, after all, San Francisco was.

The same rules applied in every jungle.

Kill that enemy son of a bitch, kill him now before he has a chance to do it to you.