Don Pendleton - California Hit

Let Vanity Vince and Tom the Broker have their pipedreams — it was all they would have. With or without old man DeMarco, Franco Laurentis was by God going to have San Francisco.

A death, a simple death, that's all it took. A seventy-two year old man was not going to go on living forever. Death was cheap, of course. It was the cheapest thing going. Franco could buy any life in that town for less than it cost him to live at the top of the joint for a week.

A hit on a Capo, of course, could be a messy business. There would be the eastern coalition of commissioners to explain things to, and they sometimes got their asses high in the air over a hit on a Capo. Even an old, already dying, Capo like Roman DeMarco. Even though Roman had never been too popular in life, his death would bring on a lot of tears and sympathy from the eastern mob.

Franco didn't need any of that.

It was easier to do the thing in style, to just let the old man die his own way, and meanwhile Franco could go on quietly pulling the loose ends together so it would be an easy slide from the wake to the throne.

Sometimes, of course, style took a lot of patience. The old man acted like he wanted to go on living forever. Some guys just never knew when to throw in the towel. So Franco had been very patiently unravelling the goddam towel and throwing it in for him, a thread at a time, and of course he was throwing those threads right into his own pocket.

Franco was not even in the official line of succession. Torn Vericci was first man out, by right of business power and seniority if nothing else. Vince Ciprio was running a close second. Franco wasn't even in the running. If Tom moved up to fill the old man's dead shoes, he'd move some one of his lieutenants right up to fill his vacated shoes. Ciprio would stand still. Franco would stand still. And, worst of all, he'd have to work under the thumb of Tom the Broker. Bullshit, buddy!

Vince, of course, would like to be at the head of the line. But Vince just didn't have the style to be a Capo. Tom, now — Tom the Broker was a hell of a classy guy. Deep down in his bowels, Crazy Franco was a little afraid of Tom Vericci. But not so damned afraid that he wouldn't contract the guy, if it got to that.

Franco Laurentis had the torpedo concession in this town.

Nobody, by God, had better not ever forget that.

Especially Vanity Vince and Tom the Broker.

He could take them both out with a nod of his head, if it got to that. That would make a war, of course. And the eastern coalition got nervous over open wars. It hurt the whole outfit, really. Franco understood that. That's why he continued to work with style.

It would be so much better to just have this understanding, before things ever got to open war.

And Franco was about to weld that understanding into the minds of all who wanted to operate in this town.

Mack the Bastard had come to town... and hell, it had come like a gift from the angels or something.

Some very stylish use could be made of Mack the Bastard. The guy liked to go for the Capos — that was why the organization was so nervous all over the country. They wouldn't be that nervous if the guy was just knocking over a few soldiers here and there. Soldiers were cheap, and soldiers didn't have a hell of a lot to say about how nervous the organization got. It got nervous as hell, though, when the big boys were in trouble. Franco could appreciate that point of view. He was a big boy himself, now. And he was going to get bigger.

Bolan was going to knock over Don DeMarco. That was a pre-ordained fact of life, and Franco knew it. He knew it because he didn't intend to do a damned little thing to stop the guy. For God's sake, why should he?

The time for doing something would come later. Later, after the old man was totally out of the picture. And in the meantime Franco would be in undisputed charge of the town. He was already... practically... in every way that counted. He had the whole town, right in his hands. The dumb bastards Ciprio and Vericci had just handed it over to him. Take it, take it. So he took it, damn right.

Those guys were in for one hell of a shock if they thought he was just going to hand it all back after Bolan was out of the way.

After all, the guy that took out Mack the Bastard deserved some recognition, didn't he? Franco would be the hero of the outfit, all over the world. And Franco's stock would be that much higher when things finally came to the showdown with Ciprio and Vericci. No one would yell too much or too loud at the guy who finally got Bolan — not even the coalition back east. Especially if that guy was already Franco Laurentis.

Thus had been the reasoning of the stylish torpedo from the top of the joint — until approximately eight thirty on that morning of the California Hit. It was at about that time when Don DeMarco himself telephoned Franco to rake him over the coals in a most humiliating and unstylish way.

"You son of a bitch you!" the old man screamed at him. "I give you a special job and what do you do with it? You take it to bed and sleep with it? In that rich cunt-castle of yours up in the sky? Huh?"

That wasn't no way to be talking to the Lord Enforcer of San Francisco, even if the speaker was the Capo, and the tone of voice — more than the words themselves — sent a cold tremor through Franco's belly.

"Wh-what's the matter?" he stammered. "Wh-what're you talking about?"

"I'm-a talk about-a this-a Bolan-a bastard," the old man screamed, lapsing into a heavy accent in his rage. "He come in here and knocked my place over! He hit Tony's kid and twenty or thirty other boys! He shot up my place and missed hitting me by an eyelash! Whatta you think I'm-a talk about, you dumb Dago torpedo, what the hell you think I talk about? Why you not onna street, why you not out there chasin' this boy's a-head all over town, huh?"

Franco Laurentis was not no dumb Dago torpedo. But it hardly seemed the appropriate time to be arguing the point.

Faintly, he said, "God, that's awful, Don DeMarco. He got away clean? He didn't even leave any blood?"

"He left a God damn-a medal, that's-a whatl You get your ass onna streets, Franco! Get down outta that ivory cunt tower and start doin' something right for a change!"

"I got everything moving, sir," Laurentis tried to assure the boss. "I guarantee you, we're gonna have that boy before the sun sets again."

"You sure about that, huh?"

"Yes sir, I am sure, I am positive sure about that."

"You better be. I'm-a tell-a you why you better be. I named you in my will, Franco."

"I don't, uh, I guess I don't get you," Laurentis told Capo.

"You gonna die with me, Franco!"

"What — I don't — you mean... ?"

"You know what I mean! I got your name on five pieces of paper. Five pieces, Franco. If I die by Bolan, you die by the paper! You better keep that in mind!"

The old bastard! He'd contracted Franco Laurentis!

He said, "I don't think that's... I mean, I think I got a right to discuss this with you."

"You got no rights! I give you a job! You do the job! You damn sure better do the job, Franco!"

And that was it. The nutty old bastard hung up on him.

And a whole new style of thinking and acting had suddenly entered Franco's life. If he had just known which five were holding those pieces of paper. Hell, it could be anybody. They could be from back East, they could be from anywhere in the damn world! But he didn't know, and there wasn't time enough left to track them down. They would be tracking Franco down the minute the old man bit Bolan's dust. God! An estate contract!

Ten minutes after the conclusion of that telephone conversation, Franco Laurentis, the torpedo's torpedo, was conducting a full scale council of war at the top of the joint. He had all his boys in there, and there wouldn't be any shitting around with style now.