“Hey, Franco,” James said, his distaste evident. Bolan examined the man unobtrusively. What he had taken for fat at first glance was actually muscle. Franco was short and shaped like a fireplug. Jailhouse tattoos ran up and across his bare arms and neck. A prominent swastika rested between the edge of his jaw and his ear. “Is Sweets here yet?”
“Yeah, and now that your lazy ass is here, we can get started. Time is money, greaser.” Franco cocked an eye at Bolan. “Who’s this guy?”
“My cousin Frank,” James said.
“No shit. He’s big for a beaner.”
“I eat my vegetables,” Bolan said mildly. He looked at James. “This isn’t Sweets, I take it.”
“Nope, this here is Franco, which is not his real name, but is likely one he picked out of one of them Time-Life collected histories of Second World War books,” James said. “Franco, say hello to my cousin, Frank LaMancha.”
“Hello, Cousin Frank,” Franco said. “Why are you inflicting your august personage upon us today?” He stood, bobbing up onto the soles of his cowboy boots and flexing his wide hands. His knuckles popped audibly. Bolan sized him up at once; a petty bully, spoiling for a fight.
“He needs money, Franco. And it ain’t your business,” James said.
“Damn well is my business if you bringing someone new into this deal,” Franco said. “I don’t know him. Sweets don’t know him. How do we know he ain’t working for somebody?”
“Because I’m vouching for him,” James said.
“Oh, well, in that case,” Franco said, shrugging. Then, lightning quick, his fist jabbed out, catching James in the gut. As the border patrol agent folded over wheezing, Franco rounded on Bolan and launched a kick at his knee. Bolan blocked the blow with his palms and resisted the urge to draw his weapon. People were gathering, eager to see the fight. Franco hopped back, raising his ink-covered fists. “Good reflexes for a Mexican,” he grunted.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bolan said, sliding forward lightly. He tossed off a loose blow that Franco easily deflected and then hammered a sucker punch into the other man’s kidney. Franco coughed and stumbled and Bolan circled him like a wolf, jabbing and tapping at him with featherlight strikes. Then Franco uttered a wordless cry and rushed him.
Bolan knew immediately that letting Franco get his arms around him would be a mistake. The muscles in the smaller man’s arm looked like steel cables for all that his belly was soft. Bolan stepped aside at the last moment and drove his elbow into the back of Franco’s neck, dropping him to the ground. The thug groaned and made to stand, but Bolan stuck a boot between his shoulder blades and shoved him down. He drew the .38 then and took aim. “Stay down,” he said. “I’d hate to have to shoot a man I just met.”
“I feel the same way myself,” someone said over the sound of a pistol being cocked. “So how about you drop the hogleg, pal?”
Chapter 5
“Your professionals are brawling in the street,” Tumart said, letting the threadbare curtain twitch back in place. He turned and looked at Sweets, sprawled lazily in the small room’s only chair. He seemed unconcerned by both the violence below and the glares that Abbas and Fahd were tossing his way.
“They do that. High spirits is all it is. I’ll stop them in a minute,” Sweets said.
“This room smells of fornication,” Abbas said.
“Probably because it’s a whorehouse. Or used to be,” Sweets drawled. Abbas flushed and spun to face Tumart.
“He insults us!”
“He insults you,” Tumart said, scratching at the corner of his empty eye socket. “My nose is not so sensitive as yours.” He looked at Sweets. “I do smell blood, however.”
“Blood?” Sweets said, sitting up. Tumart couldn’t be sure, but he thought the coyote’s face blanched slightly.
“Yes. In the room opposite ours. One of your men is staying in there, is he not?”
“Digger,” Sweets said. “My brother.”
“Is that his name? How unusual. Is he hurt? Ill perhaps?”
“No. Not as such,” Sweets said, choosing his words with obvious care. “He’s just a bit odd is all. I watch out for him now that our momma is gone to Jesus.” He pushed himself to his feet and trotted to the window. “What did you ask me up here for?” he said, looking out the window.
“Have the last of your drivers arrived yet? We are on a schedule.”
“They’re here,” Sweets said. “I just need to give them a shout and see whether they’re going to bite.”
“I thought that you were certain of them,” Abbas said sharply.
Sweets smiled at the man. “Certain is as certain does. Don’t mean nothing from one moment to the next.”
“How Zen,” Tumart said. “But not good enough. What if they find themselves not as certain as you have assured?”
“They will be.”
“But if not?” Sweets looked at him, and that look spoke volumes. Tumart nodded. “Ah,” he said. “Sentimentality is for lesser men, is that it?”
“It ain’t personal. Just business,” Sweets said and shrugged. “If any of them punk out, we’ll divide by the number we got. We can always make room and still give your boys enough local color to blend in with.”
“And by make room, you mean...”
Sweets drew his thumb across his throat in a lazy gesture. “Simple ways are the best, I find. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I got a fight to break up.” He left the room and Tumart closed the door behind him. He turned to look at the others.
“I believe we made the right choice,” the man said.
“He is a pig,” Abbas snapped. Fahd, as always, said nothing.
“Yes. But pigs are dangerous.” Tumart sat on the bed and rubbed his chin. “They will just as happily eat the hand that feeds them as the food they are given. Mr. Sweets is just the same. And, I feel, his men are no different. We will counsel our brothers to maintain vigilance.”
“And when they have done their job?” Abbas asked.
“Then we will slaughter our fine fat pigs,” Tumart said softly. “Not with relish, but out of necessity.” He sat back and closed his eye. “Now, Abbas, if you would follow Fahd’s example and be silent, I intend to conserve my energy for when it becomes necessary.”
* * *
“SO HOW ABOUT YOU DROP the hogleg, pal?”
Bolan froze. Then he tossed his pistol aside and stepped off the groaning Franco. “You’ve got me at a disadvantage,” he said, turning around.
“On purpose, I do assure you,” Sweets said, gesturing with the M-9. “Go stand over there.” He kicked Franco in the side as Bolan moved. “And you, Franco, get your worthless ass up.” He looked over at James. “Hi, Jorge, got yourself a running partner then, eh?”
“My cousin,” the border patrol agent wheezed, rubbing the spot where Franco’s punch had connected. “He needs money.”
“Way of the world these days.” Sweets rubbed his cheek with the pistol’s barrel as he examined Bolan. For a moment, the Executioner felt as if he was being sized up by a viper about to take a bite. The feeling passed quickly, however, as Sweets turned away. “Are you vouching for him, Jorge?”
“He’s my cousin,” James said again.
“Like blood and water, huh?” Sweets said. He grinned. “I can dig it.” He turned back to Bolan. “Django Sweets.”
“Frank LaMancha.”
“Pleased to meetcha,” Sweets said, extending a hand. Bolan took it. Sweets had a strong grip, and his skin was like leather. He pulled Bolan close and the Executioner didn’t resist. “Don’t pound on no one else while you’re on the clock, though. I need all my boys driveworthy,” he said.
“Franco pushed him, Sweets,” James said.
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