Don Pendleton - War Against the Mafia

"Oh? You want to turn yourself in? That's about the best favor I can offer-the lockup."

Bolan was chuckling. "Not hardly. I'd like for you to move my brother into the police ward at the hospital."

"Oh, I did that early this morning."

"Very thoughtful of you," Bolan said, his voice revealing his surprise.

"Yeah, I think of a lot of things," the cop told him. "Like-you've really managed to isolate yourself from the world, haven't you."

"Maybe."

"Maybe, hell. You've torn it good, Sergeant. Everybody wants you now, even the military. CID men just left here."

"You sure lost no time calling them in." Bolan was plainly miffed.

"Uh- uh, not me. Somebody with political influence blew the whistle, no doubt. They're running scared, Bolan."

"You don't sound too mad at me."

"I'm not. I'm tickled to death. Unofficially, of course. Also unofficially there's a lot of people down here rooting for you. Don't expect any official sympathy, though. As far as the law's concerned, Bolan, you're just as rotten as the best of them-and let me assure you... uh, just a minute..."

Bolan could hear the vague rumble of background voices, then the Lieutenant was back on the line. "You been out in the Portal area lately?" he asked, the voice somewhat brisker.

"Could be."

"Near the home of a Walter Seymour?"

"Maybe."

"Uh- huh. Well..." More background noises, then: "You can add two counts of first-degree murder to that warrant. You'd better come on in now, Bolan. This thing has gone far enough."

"Not nearly."

"Huh?"

"Not nearly far enough. It's unconditional warfare, Weatherbee. You may as well understand that. And listen. Don't send any plainclothes cops in my direction. I'll shoot anything that moves against me, unless I can clearly identify the law."

"You wouldn't shoot a cop, eh?"

"I'd rather not. Well-I have a crowded schedule, better bug off. I've enjoyed the chat."

"Bolan- that informant I was telling you about..."

"Yeah?"

"He's on my other line right now. Like to hear some more interesting information?"

Bolan chuckled. "I love gossip."

Weatherbee cleared his throat heavily. "You may not love this tidbit. That contract has been expanded. Not ten minutes ago. It is now open season on one Mack-the-Knife Bolan, with every hood in the East joining the game. You are now worth a hundred gee's, dead in the street, buddy. How do you like them apples?"

"So, they are running scared."

"You dumb bastard, can't you see what you've done? You're attracting every gunsel in ten states into our town."

"That's exactly what I want," Bolan clipped back. "Now you cops are going to have to move off the sidelines, aren't you."

"Bolan, you're a lunatic! You-"

"I'm a catalyst, Lieutenant! I've smoked a ratpack out from under their cover of respectability-and now you're going to have to do something about them, aren't you!"

The detective's angry voice rattled the telephone receiver. "We're going to do something about you too, Bolan."

"So we understand each other," The Executioner replied levelly.

"Yeah, we understand each other. But Bolan..."

"I'm still here."

"Don't shoot a cop."

"I'd rather not."

"You'd better not! Like I said, you've got some unofficial sympathy down here right now, but..."

"We understand each other," Bolan clipped. He hung up, grinning, and returned to the car. A glance at his watch informed him that the time was 4:40. He would just about have time to make it over to the Triangle office. His smile broadened and he started the engine and eased into the rush-hour traffic. He thought of Weatherbee and chuckled, feeling a bit sorry for the serious-minded cop. It was good to understand people, Bolan decided. Understandings were highly important in warfare. They were, indeed, all-important. And now, Bolan needed to cement an understanding with the Mafia-a financial understanding. He angled into a turn-lane and headed directly for the loan company.

Bolan stepped through the door at five minutes before five o'clock, closed it firmly and locked it, and pulled down the shade. The girl at the reception desk showed him a startled attention, and Bolan showed her the little plastic-embossed card supplied by Turrin. "You're closed for the day," he snapped. His eyes flicked toward the closed door beyond the plastic and wood interview cages. "Who's in there?" he asked harshly.

"J- just Mr. T-thomas," the girl stammered.

Another girl popped up behind a wire enclosure. Bolan turned his attention immediately upon her. "Are you the cashier?" he asked her.

"Yes, sir," she replied breathlessly.

"Got your day's accounts in order?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir, just now."

Bolan was moving around behind the cage. "Bundle everything up and take it into Thomas' office, the money too, everything." He pulled the receptionist to her feet and gently pushed her toward the back office. "Get in there and tell Thomas to get his books ready for a spot audit. Everything on the top of the desk, please." He was rattling the wire gate to the cashier's cage. "Let me in there, I'll give you a hand," he barked.

The receptionist turned back to him with a pained expression. "I-I forgot your name," she said.

"Just tell him I'm from Plasky's office," he snapped. "Move-move! I don't have all night!"

The girl nodded and half-ran across the outer office, rapped lightly on the closed door, and swept inside. Bolan picked up a wooden tray and began stacking currency the cashier was removing from her cash drawer.

The two of them noisily invaded the private office a moment later. Thomas, the office manager, scowled at Bolan and said, "I don't think-"

"Good, don't think," Bolan snapped him off. "You haven't been here long enough to start thinking." He jerked a thumb toward a massive steel door. "Get the vault open," he commanded.

The young man's face was showing an inner conflict. "I'd like to see your, uh, identification," he said.

Bolan once again swept the plastic card into sight, held it briefly in front of the man's eyes, then returned it to his pocket. He smiled suddenly, a warm reach of friendship. "Look, don't be so nervous," he said softly. "Plasky thinks these spot audits will keep you on your toes. You have nothing to worry about, I'm sure. Open the vault so we can get this over with."

Thomas hesitatingly began working the combination of the door lock, then turned the big wheel and swung the door open. "What is your cash on hand?" Bolan asked tersely.

The cashier thrust a scrap of paper tape into the manager's hand. He glanced at it. "Forty-two thousand, six hundred eighty-nine and forty," he mumbled.

"Oh Goddamn, not that figure," Bolan replied with obvious exasperation. "The holding fund, Thomas, damn-it, not your nickels and dimes."

The younger man blinked, stepped into the vault, slid back a section of steel wall, and produced a large leather case. "Why didn't you say so in the first place," he complained petulantly.

"Open it," Bolan commanded.

Thomas fished a key from somewhere inside the vault, inserted it into the case lock, then blinked past Bolan to the young women who were standing awkwardly in the center of the office floor. Bolan understood the look.

"You ladies wait in the outer office," he said. The two girls exchanged glances and went out. Thomas carried the case over to his desk, opened it, and glared at Bolan.

"I hope to God you don't want to count it," he said miserably.

"What's the tally?"

"Two hundred and fifty thousand."

"Certified?"

The manager nodded and produced a sheet of paper from the top of the stacked currency. Bolan pretended to study the list of figures, said, "Uh-huh," and moved back toward the vault