Don Pendleton: Baltimore Trackdown

Little was left of the gambling room. One wall had been blown into the hallway. The roof sagged. The furnishings were a jumble of twisted metal and scorched upholstery. The remains of the poker table were visible as matchstick-size splinters all over the room.

Nino marveled that Bolan had bluffed his way into the inner sanctum of the back room. He was good.

Jo Jo arrived, looked at the wreckage, swore for five minutes, told Nino to get it fixed, then left. Carlo Nazarione arrived as the police were leaving; he stayed in his car and asked Nino for a complete report.

“Looks like those two rooms upstairs will be closed for a month. A team of carpenters is coming in tomorrow morning at eight. I suppose the city engineers will want to see if the building is structurally damaged. That could mean big problems.”

“Goddammit! How did the bastard get in there? Who we got on the doors? Talk to them. If they took cash to let him in, you fry their butts good. Make it so they never work for us or the other families again.”

He shook his head. “Damn Bolan. First time he’s hit us. Why is he concentrating on us, Nino?”

“I don’t know, Carlo. Maybe you’re getting famous or running such an efficient operation here that he heard of you.”

“Yeah, yeah, that must be it. Flattery — I guess that’s it.” He frowned. “Hell, you have the place fixed up fast. We need the income. Pick a new floor man carefully — no more dummies — and move somebody up as a hardman inside.”

“You can count on me, Carlo.”

Nino stepped back. Nazarione powered up the window of his crew wagon and the Caddy lumbered down the street.

As Nino turned toward the club half a block away, someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“Nino!”

Tattaglia jumped. He would know that voice anywhere. He turned and saw Mack Bolan standing in the darkened doorway of a closed jewelry store.

“We got your calling card.”

“That’s just the start. The old man riled?”

“Yep, and this is my end of the business. I’ve got to get back in there and twist tails, but I need to talk to you.”

They moved away from the commotion of people and police cars around the nightclub.

“I’ve been cooperating with Leo Turrin, but this is different. What the hell am I supposed to do if I’m in a joint and you come in spraying lead?”

“Duck!” the Executioner said. “That’s why we talk, so I know where you are and how to get in touch with you. If I’m going to blast some spot, I get you out first.”

“Good, I can buy that.” Nino pounded a fist into his palm. “Damn! I don’t know how I ever got into this. Here I am now with the cops looking for me on one end, and I got to be careful what I say and do so my own people don’t find out I’m a traitor to them. You know what they would do to me?”

“I don’t think you had much choice, Nino. Cooperate or face the electric chair.”

“Damn, I know it. The Feds nailed me good, and Leo turned me around. Now just how much hell you going to raise in my town?”

“Depends on what’s here. Right now I’m just trying to get Nazarione’s attention. The word on the wire is that something big is going down in Baltimore. I want to know what it is.”

Nino frowned. “Damn, I don’t know what the gossips are talking about. Biggest thing I know of right now is that I’m paying two thousand a week to a crooked cop. I’d like to get rid of that bastard. He’s Capt. Harley Davis, a real rogue flatfoot who’s getting rich. He’s the head of the burglary detail, which also handles gambling.”

“And you’re in charge of all Carlo’s gambling operations?”

“Right. I work through Jo Jo Albergetti. He’s a kind of vice president of sales and revenues. Leo figured I could work in from this end and get the fewest people hurt and still be in the middle of things.”

“Why don’t you just burn this Captain Davis?”

“A damn good reason. He says he has enough hard evidence on Carlo, me and half of his lieutenants to put us all away for life. If he shows up dead — for any reason — all his evidence is turned over to the cops within twenty-four hours. The Baltimore police, the D.A. and the mayor would mow us down.”

“Has he got the goods?”

“Probably. At least enough to bluff the rest. So we pay him off.”

“I’ll get around to him. Now pay up to Uncle Sam. Find out what’s making the criminal underworld so excited. Something big is happening or is about to happen in Baltimore. I want some information tomorrow. Ask Carlo. Tell him you heard about it on the grapevine and want the straight goods.”

“I might be able to — Carlo likes me. Anything else?”

“Give me the addresses of four more of Carlo’s gambling clubs.”

“You gonna hit them?”

“Wait and see.”

“Man, I’ll be busy tomorrow.”

Nino produced a small notebook from his jacket pocket and wrote down four sets of names and addresses. He tore the page from the book and gave it to the Executioner.

“Give me a phone number where I can reach you or leave messages. Two of them would be better. No matter what name I leave, I’m your cousin from San Francisco.”

The informer gave Bolan two numbers: his home and his office in a downtown catering firm that Carlo owned and Nino supposedly ran.

“I better return to the scene of the crime. The cops must be done by now. We got to be back in operation by 6:00 p.m. today.”

They did not say goodbye. Tattaglia turned back and Bolan simply walked on.

The Executioner continued another block to his rented car, and drove to one of the gambling clubs on the list. He put a full magazine in the handle of the Beretta 93-R and left the round in the chamber. From a soft zippered bag on the seat he took an army smoke bomb and slipped it into his pocket.

The Club Jasmine was half bar, half dance floor. A small combo was rocking. Bolan didn’t try to find the gambling rooms. He worked toward the back, drink in hand. He sat at a vacant table and pulled the small smoke bomb from his pocket. Under the table he removed the safety pin and rolled the device. As he stood he heard the pop, then shouting as the smoke poured out.

It would sting the eyes and the lungs but do no damage. He calmly left by the front door with the first wave of shouting, frightened people and was half a block away when the fire alarms sounded.

That night two more clubs were hit by the harmless yet irritating smoke bombs; Bolan arrived at the fourth near closing time. The clientele was sparse. Before he could send the smoke grenade rolling, a waitress appeared at his table. The pretty young thing looked at Bolan, turned pale and shivered. She seemed scared.

“Can I get you something?” she asked, trying to smile.

Bolan shook his head. “No thanks. I’m about ready to go.”

“You just came in.” Without waiting for a reaction she sat down across from him at the table.

“Hey, I’ve got a small problem.”

“Somebody giving you a bad time?”

“How?..” She nodded. “Yes. A real jerk. I told him he can’t take me home, and I don’t want to go anywhere else. I even threatened to report him to the management. He just laughed and said he was the management.”

“When do you close?”

“Fifteen minutes. Then it takes about ten minutes to clean up.” She sighed. “I know this must sound phony, but I’m not trying to pick you up. You have a kind, understanding face, that’s all.”

She looked at him. Bolan remained silent.

“If you could wait for me just outside and tell this jerk to buzz off, I would appreciate it.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Elizabeth Hanover. Beth. And I feel much better already! I must start moving, before I get fired.” She hurried away.