didn’t have to wait long. The 1958 white Cadillac convertible with shark fins and whitewalls was bucked up against the back door to the garage. A squat bulldog he knew from Justice intel as Bruno Marino waddled through the door. The wise guy threw a look toward the lot, down the alley in both directions, then keyed open the trunk. Frank Brutaglia materialized next, cursing Marino as he lugged the tarp-covered cargo through the door in a fireman’s carry. Brutaglia was dumping the load in the trunk, both of them now grumbling and griping about who would dig the hole, when Bolan made his move. No tough guy farewell line, the Executioner rolled out of the shadows, Beretta up and chugging. The first 9 mm subsonic round cored through the back of Marino’s skull, Brutaglia yelping as he was hit in the face by blood and muck. Dead-weight was crashing into Brutaglia when Bolan slammed the next bullet between his eyes. He made quick work of putting them in their resting place, dumping them on top of Big Tony. It was a tight fit, but there was still a lot to be said about trunk space in the old classics.
The Executioner closed the lid on their coffin and leathered the Beretta. Retreating, he checked the parking lot. Before coming in, the soldier had considered fixing the fleet of fancy wheels with plastic explosives, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. This was a commercial-residential neighborhood, and no one on the block needed to pay indirectly for the crimes of these savages by finding their homes and businesses pummeled and damaged by raining debris.
Melting into the deeper shadows of the alley, Bolan determined for all enemies concerned reality was only just beginning to heat up.
JIMMY MARELLI WAS seething. The image of what the G-man had done, the blatant disrespect shown him, still burned in his mind. A change of clothes, a double Dewar’s or three, and the junior G-man kissing his ass all over the place and swearing he’d get a better TV did not calm the storm inside.
Marelli went to work on his fourth double and fired up a fresh Havana, since he’d chewed the end off the other one during a fifteen-minute tirade. As he blew his way on a thick cloud into the kitchen, he was thinking there was a time not too long ago, Fed or not, he would have beaten the G-man so bad he would have begged for death—take his mother, wife, sister, please, just stop the pain. They didn’t call him The Butcher, he thought, because he worked in a meat-packing plant.
Where had the good old days gone? he wondered, hurling open the fridge, chucking rolls of salami, prosciutto and three kinds of cheese on the counter. He hated living in the past, but couldn’t help wishing he could step back in time. Where a man’s word, his honor, was his own blood. Where a man did what he said he was going to do. Where busting heads or smoking another wise guy—execution-style or shootout—was business. Not like these punk kids today, who enjoyed inflicting pain, but only when it was safe to do so, no threat of payback. Cops, judges, politicians could still be bought, sure, but these days there was no heart in the younger generation, no pride, no honor in even the handling of the easy end. Speaking of easy, they all wanted easy street, but didn’t want to risk getting their hands dirty. They wanted the glory, make their bones and all, but the idea of being a bullet-eater—a survivor who could wear the wounds proud—had about as much appeal to them as rap music to a hillbilly.
Where, oh, where had the days of honor gone?
He knew. They died with the real Don. A bunch of punks who were more show than go had been weaseled into the crew by the kid. No dummy, Marelli saw the future. He was a frightening dinosaur to this new breed, still feared and respected maybe, but things had changed. And when the Old Man died he knew it was time to get out, before one of the youngbloods got popped by the Feds and he found himself filling the Don’s cell. Or some psycho punk with no honor and looking to make a name for himself, walked up behind him and shot him in the head.
Go west then, he’d decided. And he wanted to believe it had been a chance meeting in Vegas. However, the spook knew the kid was looking to go international with guys that would make the World Trade Center suicide bombers look tame and sane by comparison. He and Berosa had decided it was time to think about retirement. A talk ensued, a deal was struck and the kid took the bait. Problem was, the Feds seemed to know about the spook deal even before it happened. Come to find out the kid had been looking to engineer just such a deal with the Colombians and their new Mideast pals. That’s when, Marelli thought, he’d seen the end coming, sure a blade was poised to plunge between his shoulder blades, the whole deal falling into place too easy, and he never trusted easy. Pretty slick, then, putting every shred of detail about the Cabriano Family’s business, A to Z, including the spook angle on disk, and shipping it off where, if needed, it could prove his own life raft if the whole goddamned immunity deal sank like the Titanic.
Muttering a stream of profanity, he began conjuring up ways to get back at the G-man for the insult. Food, like Scotch, cocaine or getting a backroom hummer from one of the girls at the club, normally helped ease the tension, crystalize his thoughts. A fat sub wasn’t going to cut it. First he went to work on the half-empty pot of marinara. Setting another pot on the stove, turning the flame on low, he emptied the marinara into the new pan. To think he’d been cooking for these assholes galled him. Fuck ’em. If they insisted and pleaded for his linguini and white clams, however, he’d reconsider, only next time he’d flavor the sauce with some less appetizing ingredients.
He tossed the empty pot into the sink and grinned at the clattering sound that echoed through the lodge. He was taking a slab of Italian sausage out of the fridge when he found he had company. It was one of the marshals, Gravy or Groovy or something, perching himself on a stool, smack in the doorway, laying the assault rifle across his lap. Like he was making a statement: Jimmy would have to politely excuse himself in order to get past. Was this just another disrespectful asshole move, or was it something else? Marelli wondered. Did the guy want conversation? Was he boxing him in the kitchen for a reason?
Marelli washed a thick cloud of cigar smoke over the guy. Taking a butcher knife, he began chopping up sausage on the cutting board. “What?” he growled. “You wanna shoot my sauce off the stove?”
“He shouldn’t of done what he did, Jimmy. That’s just between us, okay?”
Marelli stared at the guy, didn’t trust something he read in the eyes. He’d been around the block too many times to buy into whatever the guy was selling. No matter how much he gave them, he knew he was still just a murdering scumbag to these guys, smart enough to know all about lines in the sand. He turned and dumped sausage into the pot, turning the flame a little higher. Why were the hairs on the back of his neck rising? Something felt all wrong.
“We’ll get you a new TV.”
“How about a VCR with that shake?”
Groovy nodded. “That can be arranged.”
Marelli grunted, took the knife and sliced open a sub roll.
“Hey, that smells pretty good, Jimmy, whatever you’re cooking.”
Marelli snorted. “Tellin’ me you want some?”
“If you think you can spare a plate.”
“I’ll see what I got.”
THE CABRIANO GENTLEMAN’S club was called the Fireball. For Bolan’s intent and purpose it couldn’t have been more aptly named. Unlike Big Tony’s, the beauty of it was that the building sat alone. Bolan briefly wondered how many city officials were greased to give the immediate area an urban facelift, meaning plenty of elbow room from the Fireball to other establishments.
According to Justice intel, a fair amount of dirty money passed through the back room for the daily count of proceeds from drugs, extortion and local bookies paying their tribute. Agent who had the strip joint under surveillance, inside and out, figured four to six playboy hoods had enticed
