Don Pendleton: California Hit

It looked like a routine stake-out — or maybe simply an outside watch for what was supposed to be an easy inside hit.

Bolan stepped into the open and called over, "Hey!"

The guy jerked upright and almost turned himself around trying to slap some leather. The Belle sent a single silent sizzler across the pointblank range, and the Mafioso continued turning into a corkscrew to the sidewalk.

Bolan was there before the corpse could untangle itself. He hefted the dead weight onto a shoulder and carried it along the street to the alleyway, several doors down.

A convenient trash barrel behind a gift shop made the perfect repository. The Executioner left his mess there, then returned quickly to Mary Ching's.

She had disregarded his instructions, and had wrapped the bloodied corpse in a heavy" blanket and dragged it inside the apartment.

Bolan found her kneeling over the dead hood, going through his pockets.

She looked up with a frown and, in a faint voice, told Bolan, "I think I know this man. He — it's hard to say for sure, with his head all — like that — but I believe I've seen him at the club. He works for Franco Laurentis."

Bolan muttered, "Crazy Franco."

"That's the one. They called this man Ralph the Pretender. He was one of those cold, silent ones that stand around, see all, and say nothing."

Bolan pulled the girl to her feet and led her to the couch. She was sort of shook up. He guided her down, lit a cigarette, glared at her silently for a moment, then he told her, "Okay, it's time for a talk. What is Crazy Franco's interest in Mary Ching?"

She said, "I... I believe the interest is in Mr. Wo Fan. Obviously he was followed here."

"Then why didn't the tail stick with him? Why hang around here?"

"I don't know why."

"Maybe Ralph the Pretender came with Wo Fan, not behind him. Maybe he hung around outside until the boss left and sent him on up."

"That's ridiculous!"

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"It just is. Besides, I..."

"You what?"

"Nothing," she said sullenly. "You can leave now."

"Not yet. What were you doing at the China Gardens tonight?"

"I work there."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She dropped her eyes. "Well... actually I work for Mr. Wo Fan. We've had the China Gardens under surveillance. For some time."

"Why?"

"They — well you know what they do there."

"Sure. But why should Wo Fan care?"

"He cares about many things."

"Such as."

The dark eyes blazed defiantly. "Such as the dangerous way our government has started leaning toward an accommodation of mainland China."

"Try again," Bolan told her. "That's no reason to be watching Joe Fasco's operation. Is it?"

"There's more reason than you might think," she declared angrily. "The American underworld has been dealing with Red China for some time. Things have been bad enough around here, even with the official embargo on mainland cargoes. What do you think it's going to be like when the legitimate trade routes are opened?"

"I don't know," Bolan admitted. "Educate me."

"There isn't time for a cram course on political science and social economics." Her eyes flashed to the bundle on the floor. "What are we going to do about this dead man?"

Bolan said, "I'll worry about that. What is Wo Fan's immediate problem?"

"All the problems are immediate," she replied coldly. "At the moment, he is trying to assure the survival of the legitimate Chinese business community."

"And things are looking grim?"

The girl was beginning to thaw again. The hint of smile returned to her voice as she told him, "That's about the softest way of putting it."

It was time to twang her again.

He asked, "What were you doing at the China Gardens an hour after the doors closed this morning?"

"I was gathering intelligence."

"Uh huh. Of what nature?"

She glared at him for a moment, then she shrugged and said, "What's the difference? It's all in the fire now."

He said, "Give, dammit!"

"I was tracking a shipment."

"A shipment of what?"

"Counterfeit art treasures. Ming period, supposedly. They are arriving sometime this week."

Bolan did not necessarily believe her, but he went along. "By what route?"

She smiled wryly. "That's what I was about to discover when you blew the place up, Mr. Bolan. Why all the sudden interest? I was getting the idea that..."

"I'm trying to protect your lovely hide, lady. A hired assassin was standing just outside your door a couple of minutes ago. So listen to me now and think carefully before you answer. Can you think of any reason why Franco Laurentis would send a hit man to your door?"

"I... I guess not."

"When I first spotted you this morning, you were in a hell of a hurry. Almost as though someone was chasing you. Was there?"

She shook her head. "No. I'm sure I hadn't been seen. I was... just..."

"So you've convinced yourself that these two goons were tailing Wo Fan?"

"Yes I... what two goons?"

"There was another one waiting across the street," he explained.

"Did you?.."

He nodded. "Clean."

The girl sighed tremulously and showed him a pair of eyes that had taken in one bloody sight too many. She bit her lip and said, "Well I don't know what to think. I'm just about ready to say to hell with the whole thing."

He squeezed her shoulder and told her, "I guess it's too late for that." He pulled her off of the couch and gently nudged her toward the door. "Come on."

"Come on where?"

"We'll think about that on the way. Right now I just want you out of here and a hell of a long ways clear."

"Does that mean that you're going to go on protecting my hide?"

He growled, "For the moment, yeah."

There was also the matter of Ralph the Pretender. Bolan wrapped the remains tightly in the blanket and draped the package over his shoulder.

"Let's go," he said gruffly.

The girl led the way, and they went through the darkened hallway and down the stairs in silence.

The time was nearly five o'clock.

And the night was almost gone.

They were less than twenty paces clear of the street door when a vehicle swung around the corner down-range.

Bolan pressed the girl into the dark entranceway of a store, and they waited for the vehicle to pass. It did not. It came to a halt directly outside Mary Ching's building, and the lights went out.

Bolan cautioned the girl with a finger across her lips, his eyes remaining riveted to the car.

The door opened and a big man slid out to the street. He wore a blue uniform and a badge, and he seemed to know precisely where he was going.

As the big cop disappeared inside the building, Bolan asked the girl, "Did you see him?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Know him?"

"It looked like Barney Gibson."

"And who is Barney Gibson?"

"He's the head cop at Harbor Precinct. At the moment, anyway."

"Friend of yours?"

"Not exactly."

They moved on, quickly, detouring via the alleyway so that Bolan could deposit Ralph the Mess, and then they headed straight for Russian Hill.

It was developing into a hell of a hit.

Any visitor to the city who has ever taken the fabulous cable car ride from Powell and Market to Fisherman's Wharf has had an experience not difficult to remember... and that final drop from Russian Hill, down Hyde Street to the Bay, is a spectacular finale befitting the adventure.

From atop the hill most of the north bay is laid out in a panoramic sweep from the Golden Gate to the Embarcadero, with views of Fort Mason, Aquatic Park, Alcatraz Island, and — on a clear day — across to the rugged backdrop of Marin County.

For a luckless traveler afoot in the mist-laden darkness of the early morning, however, Russian Hill presents merely another muscle-straining obstacle in a city of obstacles — and Mack Bolan was finding himself no exception to the rule.