Don Pendleton - War Against the Mafia

"I get it," Bolan assured him.

"We treat our girls good. No strong-arm stuff as long as they keep in line. And we don't try to own 'em. They want to get out, they get out-but once out, they stay out, and they all know that. They're working for theirselves, see, and they all know that too. The organization does all their contact work-'cept for the field girls-and they get our full protection. And they keep the heavy share of the take. Like I told you, we're a democracy for the bold and the brave."

"Yeah, I remember," said Bolan the Bold.

"All right, come on," Turrin said, suddenly sniffing. "I'm going to show you one of our house operations."

"I was wondering when we'd get around to the girl-watching," Bolan replied.

"You don't know what girl-watching is yet," the vice-lord of Pittsfield said chummily. "Come on, I'm taking you to my home away from home. I keep it stocked with the best stuff in Pittsfield, and I dare you to keep your eyes on and your hands off. And you gotta do just that You gotta do just that."

It was a large house in the suburbs-nothing overly elaborate from the outside view, and certainly nothing to cause it to stand out from the other irregularly placed estates on the tree-lined street. An iron gate stood open, allowing ready access to the macadam drive. A gardener worked quietly in a flower bed near the front of the acreage of neat lawn. Numerous trees and shrubs dotted the landscape, all but hiding the house from street observation. A six-foot iron fence completed the isolation, there being no gate other than the automobile gate at the drive. Bolan looked again at the "gardener," deciding he was too young, too alert, and too near the open gate to be anything other than a disguised guard. Turrin brought the front wheels of the convertible to a temporary rest upon a slight lateral ridge in the driveway macadam, counting to five under his breath, then grinned at Bolan and gunned on along the curving drive toward the house. "We're up tight," he muttered. "There's a pressure switch buried in that hump. Always give it a five-second count, or you'll panic everybody in there." He nodded his head toward the white-painted structure looming in front of them. "We call the place 'Pinechester.' And it's legally chartered as a private club."

"Looks nice, but deserted," Bolan commented.

"Little early," Turrin grunted. "Don't get much daylight business. Most of the girls sleep until late afternoon, less they wanta get in some sunbathing or swimming or something." He noted Bolan's raised eyebrows, and added, "Yeah, there's a pool around back, nice one. This is one of our higher class houses. It's my pet, really. The girls here all treat me nice. They wanta stay here. Sheer luxury, huh."

Bolan had to agree. They passed a double tennis court and a golf-putting green. "How many girls?" he wanted to know.

"There's twenty-two bedrooms," Turrin replied proudly. "Sometimes we have more girls than that, sort of rotate days off and get the most out of the property. Real businesslike, you know." He glanced at his companion. "We sell memberships to this place. Like I said, it's a club. Run like a club. But the membership fee just gets the member in the door. Or he can use the pool and the other outdoors stuff at no extra charge. Then every so often we throw a party-by printed invitation only- and that costs the guy a bundle. We always got a waiting list for our parties." He pulled the car into a five-stall garage, killed the motor, and turned to Bolan with a huge grin. "We got half the aldermen in Gwinett on our party list. And the other half trying to get on," he added, chuckling.

They went in through a side door, and Bolan found himself standing ankle-deep in the carpeting of a wide hallway. "Library in here," Turrin announced, rapping lightly on the wall as they proceeded centerward. "Looks nice, but wasted space. Couple of thousand books in there just turning to dust"

They entered a smartly furnished room with a vaulted ceiling and two enormous crystal chandeliers. Couches and overstuffed chairs were placed here and there, in threesomes and foursomes, with accompanying side-tables, ash trays, and various bric-a-brac. "This's the clubroom," Turrin told him. "We tried to cozy it up some. It's a God-awful big room, and cozying wasn't easy." He tugged at an ornately woven pull cord. Bolan heard soft chimes echoing somewhere in the quieted mansion. A statuesque woman with flaming red hair piled high, empress fashion, strode into the room, a warm greeting on her lips.

"Leo dar- ling!" she cried happily. She ran to him and embraced him, pulling back immediately to look warmly into his eyes. Bolan noted that she was a half-head taller than her employer, then took into account the impossibly high heels of her shoes and mentally calculated her back down to Leo's general height. She wore silk skintight hip-huggers that clung to her every suggestion, from belly button to ankles, and Bolan allowed that there was quite a bit of suggestion there. A silk jacket completed her attire. It had flaring, slitted sleeves, nicely exposing the rich skin tones of her arms as she moved them, and ended several inches above the waistband of the pants. The front of the jacket did not come together -three scarlet ties were provided as closures, but only one, squarely at bustline, was being employed. The gap at the center was a span of inches, and the ties no bulkier than a shoestring. The effect was startling, and found an interested audience in Mack Bolan. The redhead ignored him completely until Turrin made note of his presence.

"I want you to meet my new top-kick, Rheeda," he said. "Mack Bolan, Rheeda Devish."

The redhead looked him over then, and it was done in a single flash of interested eyes-yet Bolan had the uncomfortable feeling of being completely invaded in that brief inspection. She smiled and said, "Hi, Mack. How's the weather up there?"

"Warm," he replied, grinning.

"Oh, it's the environment," she said soberly. "Once you get acclimatized I'll have to get to know you better."

Bolan was unsure of the ground, but there was no mistaking the invitation of that friendly declaration. He wondered, but only briefly, about the degree of quote emotional involvement unquote between the girl and Turrin.

"And I guarantee you'll never be the same again,"

Turrin added quickly, chuckling, and removing the wonder from Bolan's mind.

"I can hardly wait," he replied, staring into warm, violet eyes. He felt a shiver at his spine, and hoped it was not observable from the outside. He had never known that women such as this one were to be found in the oldest profession.

"You'll have to," Turrin said, still chuckling. "Remember what I told you. All eyes, no hands." He moved his head closer. "Look, Sarge, Rheeda and I have business together. You're on station right here. Understand? Right here."

Bolan nodded soberly. "I'm on station, Captain."

Turrin winked and clapped Bolan on the shoulder. "God damn, I'm glad we found you, Sarge," he said warmly. Then he turned back to his redhead and together they left, going out the back archway and up padded stairs, the woman clinging in lock-step and giggling delightedly over something Turrin was saying to her.

Bolan shrugged his shoulders and paced about the big room, gazing at the paintings adorning the walls and wondering idly who had posed for the nude studies hanging everywhere. He decided that if the models were also residents of Pinechester then there was quite a world of prostitution he'd never been exposed to. The clubroom itself was sumptuous. He wondered if the bedrooms were equally lavish in devotion to the details of animal comforts-and decided that they probably were. The place reeked of luxurious flesh-pampering, which meant money with a capital "M," and Bolan wondered how much it did cost the monied American aristocracy for a night's indulgence in the pleasure palace. He could almost appreciate the grim satisfaction of a Sicilian "Matthew" peasant who had risen to the proprietorship of such a magnificent "cunt castle," as Turrin had referred to it, and who could so gladsomely relieve the rich of some of their riches and pass them on to some of the nouveau riche now luxuriating in the twenty-karat comfort of the suburban estate. Bolan pulled himself out of the thoughts, shaking them off, telling himself that Turrin was a hood, purely and simply a hood, a conscienceless goon who seduced little girls into prostitution and squeezed hard-working family men into desperate acts of violence.