Don Pendleton - Baltimore Trackdown

The phone rang just as Davis pulled off his tie. Francie sprawled across the bed, grabbed the phone and rolled onto her back.

“Saks Fifth Avenue, lingerie and notions department.” She listened. “You really need to talk to him. He’s gonna be pissed right out of his pants.” She paused. “Hell, it’s your problem now.” She tossed the hand set to Davis, who stood beside the bed unzipping his pants. He caught it and put it to his ear.

“Yeah?”

On the other end of the line a uniformed cop named Tony Ricca talked so fast Davis yelled.

“Hold it already! Damn, I can’t make out a word you’re saying. Take it easy and give it to me slow.”

“Okay. Johnny King, the other guy in blue with me yesterday on that warehouse killing, is wetting his drawers. He’s so strung out I can’t get him even to report back to the station. He’s weird. Keeps playing with a crucifix and mumbling. He says you didn’t say nothing about nobody getting killed yesterday. He didn’t sleep last night, and he’s off his rocker. Keeps confessing that he helped set up the lieutenant. Keeps yelling our names. I don’t know what to do with him.”

“You in your marked patrol car?” Davis asked.

“Yeah, where I been sitting for the past hour. Dispatch is ready to ream my ass.”

Davis zipped up his pants and looped the tie back around his neck.

“Tell me where you are, and don’t move. I’m on my way. I can reason with King one damn way or another. Where are you?”

Captain Davis wrote the cross streets down in his little book, and put a wide knot in his tie. He bent and kissed Francie’s lips as she lay on the bed.

“No playtime?” she asked.

“Postponed, Francie. Later.”

“Anytime,” she said and rolled over. “Business, I guess.”

“You bet, Francie. Takes one hell of a lot to get me out of your bedroom this way.”

She waved, and Capt. Harley Davis walked out of the apartment.

Twelve minutes later he approached the corner where Officers King and Ricca sat in the prowl car. He parked behind them beside a fireplug. He waited. Both officers got out of their car and came toward his.

“Get in back,” Davis said.

They both crawled in and Davis turned, his face angry, his voice controlled with effort.

“What the hell is going on here?”

King looked up, his eyes wary, his voice unsure.

“Captain, I’m no angel. I turned the other way a couple of tunes when I shouldn’t have. I’ve seen prisoners get roughed up for no cause, I’ve seen evidence jimmied around because I knew damn well the assholes charged were guilty. But I’ve never been part of any murder.”

Davis’s face mellowed. “Aw, shit! Is that what you think? I figured you had something important. Didn’t Ricca tell you? We were walking along the aisle of the warehouse when we discovered a sneak thief. First thing I hear is this handgun blasting away. I get out my piece and return fire. The bastard wasn’t more than three feet from us when he blew away Paulson, missed me and darted behind some boxes and ran out the back window. Hell, I thought Ricca explained it all to you. We had a damn two-eleven going down!”

King rubbed his face with one big hand. Then he looked at Ricca. “No kidding?”

“Hey, I been trying to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen to nobody, just pissing and moaning about Lieutenant Paulson.”

“That’s the way it happened, Ricca?” King asked, grabbing the other officer’s arm.

“Damn right. I thought you heard when the captain explained it to Chief Jansen.”

“Hell!”

“Yeah, you been screaming up the wrong damn pole for nothing. You better apologize to the captain for dragging him out here like this.”

“Captain, what can I say?” King mumbled. “It just looked like a setup, and then when Lieutenant Paulson got shot...”

“King, no problem. Don’t worry about it. We have to keep on top of things. And I’d appreciate if you forgot whatever you were thinking, all right?”

“Yeah, Captain, sure. I just wiped it out of my computer banks.”

Captain Davis reached into his pocket and peeled three twenties from a gold money clip.

“King, this is for all your worry. Go out to dinner and dancing with the wife somewhere. Forget all about this.”

The men nodded and stepped out of the car. Captain Davis looked at Ricca.

“Ricca, you have anything on that gambling operation you spotted on Thirty-fifth?”

“A little.” He looked at King. “Johnny, get the rig warmed up. I’ll be right there.”

King got into the patrol car.

Ricca leaned in the captain’s car window.

“Kill him, Ricca. Do it tonight. He’s ready to break. He could take both of us down. Use a bad car wreck, hit-and-run and into the bay somewhere. Make it look good.”

“I get a bonus?” Ricca asked.

“Two thousand. Now get it done!” Captain Davis scowled at the uniformed patrolman as he returned to the squad car. It would not be long before Ricca himself would have to be taught a lesson, Captain Davis decided.

It was early evening when Bolan finished making the phone calls. He could not find Jo Jo Albergetti at his office or any of his usual hangouts. Bolan took a chance and drove past the Albergetti home in a classy residential district. Lights were on in the downstairs windows.

He parked three houses down, got out and walked back to the house where he punched the doorbell. He heard the six-note chime inside and waited.

The woman who opened the door held a glass in one hand. She looked at him, took a sip from the glass, then opened the door wider. She was obviously drunk, and Bolan could tell that she had trouble focusing. She wore a filmy negligee that hid very little of her body.

“Hi, I’m Angela. You looking for a good time?” She pulled open the garment, and thrust a thigh forward. Bolan concentrated on her face, hoping he would be able to get some answers.

“Is Jo Jo here?”

“Not so you could notice. But you’re here and I’m lonely. Why don’t you come in and we’ll have some laughs, get friendly.” She shrugged out of the negligee, then drained the glass in one long swallow.

“You know where your husband is?”

“What does it matter?”

She smiled. She was shapely, blond and hungry for him.

Bolan stepped back.

“Do you know where Jo Jo went?”

“Yeah, some damn pool tournament at the Billiard Palace. Now come inside and let’s play house.”

The Executioner returned to his car, glad Angela was Jo Jo’s problem, not his.

The Billiard Palace was a high-class pool hall with a sunken area for tournaments. A sign inside the door indicated that tonight a small tournament of eight ball would be played. It was an open tournament costing fifty dollars to enter, single elimination on a draw from a hat, a straight ladder tourney, winner take all — so said the sign.

Eighteen men and two women had signed up, so there was one thousand dollars in the pot. All the sharks in town would be there.

Bolan slid into a chair behind a small crowd and watched a shooter drop the four ball on the break, get a good spread and run the table. The opponent didn’t get a shot. Bolan walked closer to the tournament board. Jo Jo had played and won. He would be around somewhere. Bolan had not met him but knew he was short, balding, of a ruddy complexion and always wore a red plaid cap on his head.

Jo Jo held court at the end of the bar. Three men around him were listening to his story of the game.

“Nothing to it!” he said too loudly. “Just skill and talent and you win every time.”

The Executioner edged into the group.

“Like to buy the winner a drink,” he said.