Don Pendleton - War Against the Mafia

Each breath I take is paid for by crushed and digested once-living things. Violence is the way of the world because competition is the way of life-perpetuation. Without violence there can be no competition, and without competition there can be no life. Something dies for every instant that something else lives.

I just had the thought that I am being morbid- and why not? Life itself is a morbid business. Each life lived is built upon a hill of death; each body is a living monument to death and a moving graveyard. It is the way of life, and even-no, especially -in a civilization. But in a civilization there are appointed executioners, some appointed to serve the greater good, some the greater evil. I am self-appointed, but this fact in no way alters the responsibilities of office.

Valentina, God love her, would die herself before she would crush the skull of a baby steer-but this tender child thoroughly loves her veal steaks. An executioner of baby steers has been appointed in Valentina's behalf, an executioner to crush the skulls of baby steers and thus provide the juicy steaks for tender Val's table.

Valentina, God protect her, is thoroughly repulsed and disgusted by the evil brought to this earth by men like the Mafiosi, yet she would allow every indignity upon herself, even to the final indignity of death, before she would pick up a gun and exterminate the vermin. An executioner of vermin has been appointed in Valentina's behalf-for all the Valentinas everywhere. It is a self-appointment, a necessary one in this civilization of ours, and I cannot stand away from the responsibility of this office.

Life is a competition, and I am a competitor. I have the tools and the skills, and I must accept the responsibilities. I will fight the battle, spill the blood, smear myself with it, and stand at the bar of judgment to be crushed and chewed and ingested by those I serve. It is the way of the world. It is the ultimate disposition. Stand ready, Mafiosi, The Executioner is here.

Sergio Frenchi was a man who loved a good scrap; this much was obvious. The old eyes were sparkling with the excitement of anticipation, and he seemed to infect the others with his enthusiasm. The entire area Family was present, and a roll call would have sounded like a polling of the Greater Chamber of Commerce. Practically every strata of the business and professional communities was represented in the assemblage. There were bankers, lawyers, a medical doctor, accountants, insurance executives, two prominent educators; these rubbing elbows with gambling czars, small-time politicos, and racketeers of every stripe.

It was the first full-council, area-wide, which Leo Turrin had been privileged to attend. He was both amazed and impressed by the number and stature of those present. He moved alongside Nat Plasky and said, "I don't get it. Why bring everybody out at a time like this?"

Sergio himself answered the question, as if on cue, raising his arms to quiet the hubbub. "When The Family is in trouble, The Family belongs together," he intoned. He smiled and let his eyes dance around the large room. "Besides-a lot of you have never had to face up to a real threat before. You're soft- look at you, your manicured fingers and your two-dollar cigars-how do you think you got all this security, eh? You got it because men like me, men who never could relax enough to try those manicures and expensive cigars, were out there fighting and grabbing while you were in your mama's bellies, that's how you got it."

"We're getting an object-lesson," Seymour said, sotto voce.

Again right on cue, Sergio continued: "You boys don't know what it feels like to be shot at and-"

"The hell I don't," Plasky growled.

"- maybe it's true what they're saying about the organization, eh? Maybe we get too soft with all this legit business we got going. Don't forget where it all came from! Don't forget those dirty dollars keeping us up there at the front of the line! Listen!" He spread one arm in a dramatic sweep towards a group seated at his right. "I even hear some of The Family is beginning to sneer at boys like these. Leopold, here, and his girl operation. Any of you gentlemen got any idea how many millions Leo's operation grossed so far this year? Eh? Well it makes any one of the rest of you look like peanuts! You hear? Peanuts!" He stabbed a shaking finger at a well-dressed man down the table to the left. "You, Scali, where do you think the five million came from to back up your insurance reserves, eh? From heaven?" He waggled the finger and fixed the executive with a stern gaze. It came from whorehouses, yeah, yeah! How do you good gentlemen think we manage to keep our girls operating, eh? Through our contacts with the Chamber of Commerce? Eh? Lemme tell you all something- you are soft! And I-"

"I haven't heard him wind up like this in fifteen years," Seymour whispered.

"I just wish he'd wind down," Turrin said uncomfortably, but his eyes were all attention on the powerful and compelling old warrior at the head of the table. "I'll bet he was a hell of a man in his day," he added softly.

"He survived the wars," Seymour grunted. "He'll survive this one, too. Anybody making book on the outcome?"

"Not a chance," Plasky chimed in softly.

"Now there's guns on the wall down here by the door," Sergio was saying. "Most of you may not get a chance to shoot one off, but you better damn sure have one in your hand when you walk out the door. Don't move around any out in the open, keep yourselves down and don't do anything stupid. We got the regular council room rigged so it looks like we're having a meeting up there. Don't nobody show themselves until he starts banging away, and even then don't do any shooting unless you can see something to shoot at. For God's sake, don't shoot each other. Something else, now, when..."

He lectured them for another five minutes, then released them. They straggled out in groups of three and four, a few wise-cracking about the pistols coming down off the wall. Turrin hung back, hoping to get in a few private words with Father Sergio. Plasky and Seymour joined the exiting crowd, Seymour glancing back impatiently at Turrin then going on without him.

Sergio took Turrin by the arm and said, "It's like old times, Leopold. I wish your Uncle Agosto was with us, eh?"

"That'd be great," Turrin agreed, smiling. "I, uh, I been thinking-about that hill across the canyon. We have any men over there?"

The old man was smiling craftily. "No, not on the hill, Leopold. Don't you worry about it. Sergio is ready for the war."

"Well, I was just thinking," Turrin persisted, "-this guy's a soldier, you know. He thinks like a soldier, and I've been thinking..."

Sergio patted his arm affectionately. "Don't worry about the soldier," he said grandly. "Sergio has fought a couple of wars himself."

"I'd like to go over there and scout around," Turrin blurted.

"Oh?" The old eyebrows raised in high peaks. "You'd go out there, alone, to meet this in the dark? Eh?"

"Yeah." Turrin shifted uncomfortably under the strong stare. "Regardless of the firepower we have massed over here, he could still slip away from it. I'd like to go over there and plug his escape route."

"What makes you so certain his attack will come from over there?" The tone of voice was plainly teasing.

"I said, he thinks like a soldier. So do I."

The old man laughed, and said, "You're a good soldier, Leopold, and a good Mafiosi. Sure, sure, you go over there and take this Bolan single-handed. I believe you can."

Turrin was still not certain if the old man was taunting him or not, but he took the words as official sanction. He left him standing there and raced up the stairs to the main level and ran to the parking lot, extricated his car from the jam, and tore out the drive in full acceleration.