Don Pendleton - Tennessee Smash

"Must be the video cassette stuff," she replied.

"What's it for?"

"Oh that's the big, coming thing-cassette players for television. It will probably make Nick a billionaire. He wants to record TV shows and movies and sell them abroad-on the black market, of course."

Of course.

She went on: "But the thing I hated most "Yeah?" Bolan prompted her.

"He's blackmailing people. And he's using me in that."

"Which people?"

"You know, official people. Politicians, mostly."

"How is he using you?"

"Oh I'm the bait-the celebrity, you know. I throw these big parties, see. And who in Nashville would turn down an invitation to a Molly Franklin party? And we have this live-in whore corps, you see."

Bolan growled, "I see, yeah."

"And these special bedrooms for special guests."

"Uh huh."

"Nick calls them the Candid Camera rooms." "I get the picture," Bolan told her.

She sighed and said, "The victims never do. They pay and pay but they never get the pictures. They don't pay with money, of course. And these are moving pictures, and I do mean moving."

Things usually sound trite only because they are so true to form, so much a normal pattern. This one was trite as hell, the oldest trick in the bag-and that was because it worked so well. Obviously it had worked very well for Nick Copa in Tennessee. His entrenchment there had come with miraculous swiftness.

The lady was making that very point. "I guess Nick is about the most powerful man in these parts, right now."

"We'll see," Bolan told her.

"And he's built it all in less than six months." "He could lose it a lot quicker."

"Does that worry you?"

Bolan-Omega shook his head. "Not a bit. Once a trench is dug, anyone can man it."

She got his meaning. "Okay. Doesn't worry me, either. I don't know why I've been telling you all this. You probably know all about it, anyway. Well listen… you never have to worry about me. I'll never talk to anybody about this. I know better than that. But I do want you to get that man off my back."

He asked, her, "What'd you have in mind?"

She shivered. "Whatever it takes. You can have the farm. I don't care if I never see it again. Make him an offer… I don't know. I don't care. Just keep him away."

Bolan said, "Okay. You have a deal. Can you believe that?"

She replied, "I guess I have to believe it, don't I. Okay. You want the man from Singapore. Right?"

So right.

And Bolan just had to believe that she could deliver. It was, after all, an offer which could not be refused.

Toby Ranger answered the knock and stood at the doorway staring coldly at him for a moment before greeting him. "Well, look who's here. If it isn't Captain Cataclysm."

She turned her back on him and walked away. Bolan pushed on inside, sans invitation, and closed the door.

Tom Anders sat behind a bottle of beer, near the window. Toby went into the bathroom, without looking back.

The atmosphere in there was decidedly chilly.

Bolan said, "I tried the radio and couldn't connect. This is the last place I expected to find you."

Anders growled, "You want a beer?"

Bolan waved the offer away. "Tell me about it."

Anders sighed and lit a cigarette. Following a long silence, he replied, "There was a shootout."

"Where?"

"Inside the walls at the Juliana Academy."

Bolan took a cigarette also, and dropped into a chair near the door. "So. Gordy didn't streak for Carl, after all."

Anders said, "Not unless he expected to find him at the Academy."

"What did he find there?"

"A padlock and a legal notice on the door. He was very upset. Then Copa came roaring in as the Mazzarelli army was withdrawing."

Bolan sighed. "I was afraid of that."

"Yeah. Guess you stoked the fires a bit too warmly. But who can figure those guys? He came in shooting, Sarge."

"Who won?"

"Nobody won. Nobody lost. Talk about your gangs that can't shoot straight… those guys must have fired a zillion rounds. But they didn't leave much blood behind. Copa got his hair parted. Guess it was just a scratch. He was alive and raving last I saw him "

Bolan grunted and asked, "How about Gordy?"

"Yeah, how 'bout Gordy. We don't know. We lost 'im in the bustout."

"He split."

"Yeah, he split. Him and about half his army shot their way out. The other half slipped over the back wall and faded away. I guess. Broad daylight, too. I don't know how the hell…"

"You lost Mazzarelli."

"We lost 'im, yeah."

"How's Smiley?"

"Smiley will be okay," Anders replied feebly. "But she's no help in this. They kept her stupid for a week. She's lucid now but she knows nothing."

"The other people are still under wraps?" "Oh sure. But they're giving nothing, either."

Bolan put out his cigarette and went to the window. He took a taste from Anders' bottle, made a face, said, "It's flat."

"That's not all that's flat," Anders replied, without emotion.

Bolan turned to look out the window. The voice was very soft as he inquired, "Why didn't you tell me that Nick was married to Molly Franklin?"

"It didn't seem pertinent,"

"That's not for you to decide, Tom. When I ask for a briefing, I don't want you deciding what's pertinent and what is not. I expect a total package."

"Sorry. I guess none of us are perfect."

Bolan ignored the reflexive dig. "What else did you think was not pertinent?"

"What do you mean?"

He turned the icy blues straight onto his longtime friend. "You know what I mean," he said quietly.

Anders sighed heavily and broke the penetrating eye contact. "Yeah. I guess I do."

At that point, Toby came out of the bathroom with a clatter. She struck a pose with hips outthrust and angrily said to Anders, "You tell him not a damn thing! You tell him nothing!"

Bolan growled, "Sit on it, Toby."

She said, "Go to hell! You blew it and you know you blew it. So don't come in here with your accusing eyes and bleeding hands and-and…"

Very quietly he told her, "I've located Carl." That stunned her. Those great eyes flared as she gasped, "What?! Where?!"

Anders jumped to his feet, upsetting the beer. "Is he okay?"

Bolan turned a hard look his way. "You want a full briefing? Or do you want it SOG style?"

The little guy cried, "Jesus God, I-don't play with it, dammit! Is he okay or isn't he?"

Bolan very deliberately lit another cigarette.

Toby slumped to the floor and put her head on upraised knees. In a muffled voice, she said, "Okay, Captain Cute. We surrender. For God's sake…"

"He's alive. And reasonably well. For the moment, anyway."

Anders gave not a sound. He turned quickly away and busied himself with the spilled beer.

Toby lay back on the floor and hiked her skirt up to the waist-then lay there spread-eagled with eyes closed, the lovely face composed and giving no hint of the rampaging emotions within. But the closed eyes were leaking fluid.

Bolan stood over her and took a long pull at the cigarette. He nudged a bare thigh with the side of his foot and growled, "Cut it out, Toby. What's this for?"

Her voice came small and contrite. "The symbolism should be obvious. You're right and I'm wrong. So ravish me. Both of you. Go ahead."

"You're lucky it's the wrong time and place, babe," he told her.

"Sarge, sit down." Anders said. "Let's square this up."

Toby opened her eyes and blinked back the moisture as she seconded the motion. "Please."

They were apologizing. He was accepting. "Okay. You first."

"Okay, so you're right," Anders said. "The dope traffic is a fringe issue. Nick Copa has been the mission goal all along. Anything beyond that is just pure haze, at the moment."