Don Pendleton - California Hit

The cop growled, "Beat it."

"Don't freak out, man. I just want to know where Lombard Street is."

"Get that crate out of here, you're blocking our view."

"Well you could at least..."

"Go ask a service station! Move on, right now!"

Bolan said, "Amen man." He blew a bubble with the gum, casually raised the window, slid back behind the wheel, and sent the van creaking around the comer and away from the blockade.

His recently abandoned "drop" — the old apartment building — was two short blocks dead ahead. Under the circumstances, the apartment now seemed to represent the lesser of two possible evils. Obviously he had not "beat the grid" — and, just as obviously, he would not do so in any sort of running play. That hill was crawling with cops equipped with cute games and full riot gear.

One of the more important strategies of warfare was in knowing when to use your weapons, when to use your feet, and when to use your tail. Bight now seemed an appropriate occasion to use the tail.

Bolan parked the warwagon a half-block from his building, locked it securely, and went the rest of the way on foot. He used the front entrance and the regular stairway, and he arrived at his own door on the third floor without incident.

The smell of fresh coffee struck him as he pushed into the apartment. The Beretta met his hand halfway and led him around the corner into the kitchen.

The China doll, wearing the same clothing and an entirely unsurprised smile, glanced at the Beretta Belle and cheerily announced, "Coffee's ready."

'It was ready hours ago," he reminded her.

"I threw that out. This is new."

Bolan went on past her and shook the place down. It was clean. He returned to the entrance hall and closed the door, then he went into the living room to gaze glumly out the window. The police had finally closed on the DeMarco place, and blue uniforms were moving vigorously all around those distant grounds.

The girl came up behind him and carefully halted several paces to the rear. She asked him, "Were those your fireworks I heard awhile ago?"

He returned the Beretta to the sideleather, dropped tiredly into an overstuffed chair, and told the China doll, "Yeah. Special celebration, no charge to spectators."

In a small voice she informed him, "I came in through the window."

Bolan said, "Great. You can go out the same way."

Instead she went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with two steaming mugs of coffee. "How do you take it?" she asked.

"Strong, black, and not drugged."

She laughed and pushed a mug at him. "You've seen too many movies."

He accepted the coffee. "I haven't seen a movie in four years."

She wrinkled her nose and sat down opposite him, daintily holding the oversized mug with both hands. "You haven't missed much. Skin is in, drama is out, comedy is sick, and sick is relevant."

Bolan chuckled. He put down the coffee to light a cigarette, savored the invigorating smoke briefly, and expelled it in a tired whoosh. Then he asked the girl, "Why'd you come back?"

"Wrong question," she replied solemnly.

"What's the right one?"

"Why did I leave."

"Okay, why did you?"

She tossed her head and said, "Give me one of those damn cigarettes."

He tossed her the pack, then leaned forward to light her. When they had both settled down again, the China doll said, "I'll bet you never would have asked, would you."

He shrugged. "You had a right. It's your neck."

"I didn't leave because of my neck," she told him.

"No?"

"No." She sipped the coffee and worked at the cigarette for another long moment, then: "Your neck."

"Tell me about it."

"Mr. Wo Fan, I fear, is a dirty rat".

"Why didn't you fear that when you introduced us?"

"Because I..."

"What?"

She was busying her speech equipment with a delicate and thoughtful sipping at the coffee cup. Bolan stood up and removed the denim jacket. He put the purple lenses in a pocket of the jacket and came out of his gunleather.

The Auto Mag was locked up in the warwagon. The Beretta Belle he deposited on a table at his right hand, then he slipped off the Levi bluejeans and dropped them to the floor with the jacket. The black-suit smelled faintly of gunpowder and blood.

Bolan rubbed at a large stain on his sleeve and returned to the chair with a sigh.

Mary Ching was giving him the unblinking appraisal. In a quiet voice she told him, "I like you better that way. You look like just what you are."

"And what is that?"

"A death machine."

He curtly nodded his head and told her, "Okay, I accept that."

"And the very image of male virility."

He said, "I'll accept that too."

She smiled, almost timidly. "Right now?"

He replied, "Hell no, not right now."

She giggled.

Gruffly he said, "Watch it. I've already killed a couple million people this morning."

"You can joke about it?" she asked soberly.

Bolan sighed and told her, "It beats crying about it."

"It does bother you, then?"

"Sure it bothers me. Wouldn't it bother you?"

She blinked her eyes. "I don't know. I guess it would depend on who I was killing."

"It doesn't matter who, dead is dead," he said.

"You're a weird hombre, Mr. Executioner," the girl informed him. "I guess that's why I left, and it's why I came back."

"Because I'm weird."

"Right"

"Okay."

"You don't ask many questions, do you."

He said, "Only when they seem important."

She stared at the tip of her cigarette and seemed to be talking to it instead of Bolan. "I left because I don't deserve your protection. And I came back because you do deserve mine."

He threw it back at her. "Thanks, but I guess I don't want it."

She appeared to be a bit confused. "You'd let me just walk out of here, I mean right now?"

"Sure, if you want to."

"Then you trust me?"

"No I do not."

The China doll chewed on her lower lip and crushed out the cigarette in an ashtray in a slow and deliberate mauling of the tobacco. "You're a very frustrating conversationalist," she told him.

Why not? That perplexing little chunk of Oriental beauty had crawled right back into his guts again, and it wasn't a nice feeling.

In a voice very tired but firm he told her, "Hell, Mary, I haven't slept for about thirty hours. I haven't eaten for sixteen. I've made two very hard hits on this town and I've killed a hell of a lot of people. Now I wasn't worrying about any of this until you walked out of here a couple of hours ago. Don't ask me why, it just bugged me suddenly and I had to puke the whole mess up. And I was okay again until I walked in here and smelled your damned coffee. So what do you want of me? What the hell do you want?"

She licked her lip and said, "Wow, you can talk."

He muttered, "Go to hell."

"What are you planning on doing now?"

"Nothing."

"I mean..."

"I'm sewed in. Cops all over the place. So I'm going to get some sleep."

"Oh. Well that's perfectly clear, I guess. The cops are all around, so you're just going to crawl peacefully into bed and catch a few winks."

"That's exactly right."

"You're weird, Mack Bolan. You're really weird. Why don't you pace the floor, like the caged rats do in the movies. Why don't you get drunk or beat me up or something. Why don't you go over and smash out the window, stick your gun outside and scream out your defiance to a world that's laying all over you."

Bolan laughed, and it felt good. He did not feel like puking anything up now. He told the girl, "You're something else."

"I haven't had much sleep either," she solemnly reminded him.

"Be my guest," he said, as solemnly.

"Okay. Have you ever had a Chinese bath?"

He thought it over briefly, then replied, "I guess not."