Don Pendleton - Tennessee Smash

"I don't-how can I? What-?"

"You're tied to me, Raymond. In life or in death. There's only one logic for you now, guy. How do you want to play it?"

"I want to play it far away from Crazy Gordy. Let's just keep him out of this."

"I guess that's your decision."

"Yeah. I see what you mean. Okay, look. I don't know what they did with Leonetti. I know that he caused quite a stir. I passed him on and that's all I know. Never a word came back. But I know where his woman is.

I’ll make a deal. You give me that tape. I'll tell you where the woman is. Maybe she knows something."

Bolan had a better deal in mind.

"Let's go find the lady, first. Then we'll talk a deal. If there's anything left to deal for."

"And what if there isn't?"

"Then we'll seal that deal in hell, guy."

"I'll help all I can," Oxley whispered, sighing in final defeat. It was the raw fear of death speaking, in its own pure logic.

And Mack Bolan knew that it spoke the truth.

It spoke, also, of the stretch toward life. And that was a logic of another kind.

It was a wooded estate enclosed by a stone wall. A cluster of red tile roofs poked through the treetops deep within. A modest, dull bronze signboard on the gatepost identified the place as the Juliana Academy and a hastily painted shingle forbade unauthorized entry. The gate was mechanized and operated by remote control from somewhere within. No other security protections were in evidence.

The portion of the grounds visible from the gate was in neglect. Grass and weeds had en-crouched upon the drive from both sides. Fallen debris from trees littered the entire area. The wall itself was crumbling, here and there.

According to Oxley, the place had once been a school for girls. Now it was the center of activities for a far flung prostitution ring. Oxley still referred to it as "the school" and had said that he often "referred" young female artists here as a friendly place to improve performing skills while waiting for a break.

Bolan knew all too well the only kind of break a girl could expect from a setup like this.

He aligned his vehicle into the entry slot and pushed a button on the call box. He had to send the signal twice again before a crisp female voice responded.

"State your name and business, please."

Bolan growled back at the box, "Lambretta. Errand for Mr. Copa. Come on, shake it. I ain't got all day."

The gate opened without further ado. He eased the car inside and made a slow approach along the drive, alertly taking the lie of the place. There were three buildings all in a cluster about two hundred yards inside the grounds. The architecture was Mediterranean and it had obviously once been beautiful. The central building was a three-story structure with outside staircases and crumbling patios. The flanking structures were large but single stories, rambling-also showing signs of decay and neglect.

A guy was waiting for him outside the main building. He had the Music Row look but Bolan knew better. He stopped the car and got out, scowling not at the greeter but at the shabby buildings.

"Great old joint," he said coldly. "Why the hell don't you fix it up?"

"Why the hell should I fix it up, hoss?" the guy drawled.

"What'd you call me?" Bolan growled.

The man grinned and held both hands out at shoulder level. "No offense. It's just my way of being friendly.

"What should I call you?"

"You should call me Mr. Lambretta."

The cowboy laughed lightly and replied, "So that's what I'll call you. What can I do for you, sir?"

Bolan lit a cigarette while still looking the place over, taking his time about it. This operation had to go softly, very softly. Presently he said, "Not a damn thing, cowboy. Where's Dolly?"

The grin was beginning to look a bit strained as the guy replied, "She's inside. What's up?"

"Nothing's up," Bolan told him. He took the guy by the arm and moved him along toward the house.

"We heard about Dandy Jack," said the cowboy, still trying to cozy up. "That's a hell of a thing, isn't it?"

Bolan said, "Yeah. S'why I'm here. Relax. You're trying too hard."

"I'm not-uh-okay." The guy was getting nervous as hell; that much was obvious. "You said an errand for Mr. Copa. What uh…?"

"I told you to relax. I came for Leonetti's woman and that's all I came for."

Relief was flooding that drawling voice as the guy responded to the news. "Oh, right, I knew-I told Dolly that would be the next move, the only logical next move. I mean, shit, you gotta go with what you have." He was fitting a key to the lock as he spoke. The door swung open and the guy ushered Bolan inside with a flourish. "We all feel sorry for ol' Dandy but…"

Bolan growled, "Yeah," and went in.

Nothing in there was crumbling. A large entry foyer, lavish and ornate with marble statuary and red velvets led the way to a magnificently arched doorway and a huge room which may have originally been meant for formal balls. Now it seemed to be serving the function of sensuous reception, very artfully decorated and furnished with extravagance. A pair of broad curving staircases rose to a large balcony and more extravagance.

A pretty woman of about thirty came forward to greet the visitor. The joint would have been incomplete without her. The luxuriously buxom body was appealingly showcased in transparent lounging pajamas and nothing else. The hair was red-though probably not naturally so-soft and bouncy and framing an entirely comely face. But it was the face of a woman who had been everywhere, seen everything, and found, the whole experience something less than lovely.

Bolan felt an inner tug of sympathy for that face.

The cowboy performed the introduction. "Dolly, this is Mr. Lambretta. He came to pick up your Russian."

"Why?" she said, looking directly at Bolan and not acknowledging the introduction.

"I didn't ask," Bolan replied coldly, returning the direct stare.

"Maybe I should," the woman said.

"That's for you to say. But do it quick. He doesn't like to wait."

"I know," she said quietly. Those hard eyes flashed with an acknowledgment of some inner truth.

"Okay. Can't say I'm sorry to see her go. Nothing but a pain in the butt for me. Doesn't speak a damn word of English. Keeps the other girls torn up all the time. I've had to start sedating her. You'll have to carry her out. And you tell Mr. Copa I'd rather he didn't send her back here when he's finished with her."

"He can't do that, Dolly," said the cowboy in a hushed and scandalized voice. He shot Bolan an apologizing look as he said to him, "I'll give you a hand."

They went up the stairs in silence, the woman following slowly.

Smiley was in a garret room at the top of the house. Another girl shared the small room with her, a waif of perhaps sixteen with luminous eyes and a very frightened face. Smiley was conscious, but barely so. She wore only a flimsy, soiled shorty nightgown. There was no apparent recognition of the man bending over her and she made no protest as he gingerly examined her.

"Sedated, hell," Bolan growled. "You've got her bombed out of her mind. It'll take hours to bring her around."

The waif in the other bed raised to both elbows and said, in a quavery voice, "She's really okay. She started eating again last night. And I took her to the bathroom a little while ago. She's-"

"Shut up, Donna!" said the headwoman, harshly.

The girl rapidly batted those great eyes then closed them, lay back down, and turned her back on it all.

Bolan growled, "Get her clothes. Get some for Donna, too. She's coming with us."

"Now wait a minute," Dolly said.

"Do it, damnit!"

"Donna is still in the training program. It's too soon to-"