Panic In Philly Part 1

Panic In Philly.

by Don Pendleton.

Chapter 1

The Announcement The Announcement.

Panic came to Philadelphia on a cool Spring morning and its name was Death-purposeful, clad in black as a symbol of utter finality, moving swiftly in its inevitability.

It stepped silently into the rear office of Cappy's Liberty Garage and gave the five men in there a stricken moment to see what had come for them.

Al the Mouth DiLucci was the first to unglue himself from that frozen confrontation. He yelled, "Jesus, it's-" and spun away from the stacks of money which were being counted at the battered wooden desk.

The furious chatter of a light automatic pistol cut short the final declaration of Al the Mouth, the hot little missiles from its blazing muzzle forming a shattered-flesh wreath upon his neck and shoulders as he spun into eternity.

The other four targets were lunging about in scattered patterns of flight, two of them making electrified stabs toward their own weapons.

The chatter-gun tracked onto Iron Mike Cappolini and shredded the elbow of his gun arm just as his revolver was clearing leather. The .38 kept moving, flying from the grasp of suddenly nerveless fingers to shatter the painted gla.s.s wall of the office. Meanwhile the firetrack of death swept on, seeking and finding vital matter. Iron Mike's throat exploded in twin crimson geysers; the big guy twisted to his knees and flopped face down into his own blood.

Jack the Bartender Avanti managed to jerk off two panicky shots toward that furiously blazing muzzle of death as he sprinted for the rear door. Then Death overtook him and pummeled him into a twisting, sliding heap at the back wall.

Collectors John Brunelli and Ham Magliocci, noted and feared throughout South Philly for their uninhibited pursuit of payday loan "vigorish", received their final collections as they scampered for cover behind the wooden desk stacked with the fruits of their toil. Brunelli's out flung arm raked the desk clean as he oozed across it; the collectors and the collected shared a common heap within the pool of blood that quickly marked the end of vigorish.

Death had "come fearful quick" to Cappy's Liberty Garage-so quickly, in fact, that a mechanic and a customer standing just beyond that shattered gla.s.s wall were still frozen into shocked statues when the chattering knell ceased and quiet descended.

Gawking at the carnage through the broken wall, both men reacted with swiftly raising hands as the tall figure in executioner black turned calm attention upon them.

These two would later aver that the sight of Death Alive and Looking was even more unnerving than the sudden presence of Death Eternal Still. It was clad in black tight-fitting combat garb -belts crisscrossing the chest, another encircling the waist, "guns and stuff hanging from them", the machine pistol suspended from a cord about the shoulders, eyes of bluest ice regarding them from an expressionless face of chiseled steel.

The muzzle of the chatter-gun dropped. The tall man's hand moved in an almost imperceptible flick of motion. A small metallic object flew through the shattered wall and clattered to the cement floor at the men's feet.

"That's for Don Stefano," a cool voice informed them. "Tell him. It's over. Tell him."

And then the tall apparition in black was gone, fading quickly into the shadows at the rear wall.

Perhaps ten seconds had elapsed since the first rattling burst of automatic weapons fire.

The two spectators to the awesome event did not move until they heard the door open and close; then the customer took a staggering step backwards and exclaimed in an awed whisper, "Christ-did you see see that guy!" that guy!"

The mechanic knelt to extend a shaking hand toward the metallic object on the floor. He picked it up, examined it, and released a hissing sigh.

"Yeah. That's what it is," he declared with a quiet rush of breath, "What? What is it?"

"A marksman's medal. The Brotherly Love Outfit is in for it now."

"You saying that was Mack Bolan, the guy they call the Executioner?" the Executioner?" the other man said, awed. He bent forward for a closer look at the medal, "You saying this place is a the other man said, awed. He bent forward for a closer look at the medal, "You saying this place is a Mafia front?" Mafia front?"

"It was," was," the mechanic replied quietly, peering toward Death in the next room. "But ....like the guy said ...it's over now." the mechanic replied quietly, peering toward Death in the next room. "But ....like the guy said ...it's over now."

Not quite.

Mack Bolan knew better.

The Panic in Philly had only just begun.

POLICE BUSINESS.

**RESTRICTED COMMUNIQUE** SCRAMBLE CIRCUIT AUTHY #PH105 FROM PHILA PD 141025L.

TO H BROGNOLA/USDOJ/WASHDC **URGENT**

BT.

BOLAN STRUCK THIS CITY APPROX 0900 THIS DATE. MACHINE-GUNNED LOAN RACKETEER MICHAEL J CAPPOLINI AND FOUR UNDERLINGS. LOCAL INFORMANTS REPORT Ma.s.sIVE MOVEMENTS ORGCRIME TRIGGERMEN. REQUEST ALL FEDERAL a.s.sISTANCE POSSIBLE.

BT.

DOUGHERTY PHILA SENDS.

EOM.

Chapter 2

Gradigghia.

In a western Ma.s.sachusetts city several hundred miles removed from the developments at Philadelphia, the number two man in that city's local Mafia arm paced restlessly about his modest headquarters in a downtown office building.

He was a handsome man in his early thirties, medium height and build, with darkly glinting eyes which could switch in a flash from affable warmth to frosty speculation.

His name was Turrin; sometimes he was referred to but never directly addressed as Leo the p.u.s.s.y.

Leo Turrin was a blood nephew of the late Sergio Frenchi, the boss of Western Ma.s.sachusetts until his organization committed the blunder of the century-it was the Frenchi "family" which had figured in the birth of Mack Bolan's home-front war against the mob.

Uncle Sergio had died during that initial skirmish and his family had fallen into almost total disarray. Leo the p.u.s.s.y had proved a strong rallying point for the reconst.i.tution of that vital Mafia arm and he had risen considerably in stature in the new organization.

Like Bolan, Turrin was a Vietnam veteran. Prior to his army service, he had resisted the tantalizing pull of Uncle Sergio and his a.s.surances of easy money and practically unlimited power.

Though he had grown up in its shadow, Leo had forever despised the Mafia and all that it stood for. With Vietnam behind him, however-and a resultant new maturity --Turrin "came in" with the Frenchi family, but he brought the entire federal government in with him.

That "penetration" had developed into the most successful undercover police operation ever attempted against the mob. With his favored position as blood relative to the aging Capo, Capo, Turrin's rise to importance in the Pittsfield arm was almost automatic. He had balanced upon the edge of that knife for more than five years, had become a Turrin's rise to importance in the Pittsfield arm was almost automatic. He had balanced upon the edge of that knife for more than five years, had become a Caporegime Caporegime under Frenchi, and was beginning to attain national stature when Bolan the Bold came along. under Frenchi, and was beginning to attain national stature when Bolan the Bold came along.

The blitz artist had hit Uncle Sergio's little kingdom with thunder and lightning, d.a.m.n near dislodging Turrin himself in the process. Only the last-minute revelation of Turrin's true role had saved him from Bolan's vengeance. From the rubble, though, the undercover cop had built for him- self an even stronger position and considerable prestige in the national reaches of the syndicate.

He had also salvaged from those ruins the beginning of a great, if terribly hazardous, friendship with Mack Bolan.

Turrin personally considered himself as neither fish nor fowl. His active friendship with Bolan presented no conflict of duties in his own mind. He was a cop . . . but not really. He was a Mafioso . . . Mafioso . . . but not really. The only but not really. The only real real thing he had found during five years of carefully manufactured deceit was the continuing relationship with the man whom both the law and the mob considered public enemy number one. To Turrin's mind, Mack Bolan was the greatest human being alive. He wasn't perfect, no-not even infallible-but still the by G.o.d thing he had found during five years of carefully manufactured deceit was the continuing relationship with the man whom both the law and the mob considered public enemy number one. To Turrin's mind, Mack Bolan was the greatest human being alive. He wasn't perfect, no-not even infallible-but still the by G.o.d greatest greatest human being Turrin had ever encountered. human being Turrin had ever encountered.

A man like Bolan did not happen to the world every day, nor even in every age or epoch. The Bolans of the world came few and far between. You could count them on humanity's ten fingers, all the ones who had ever been.

And Leo Turrin worried a lot about Mack Bolan.

Perhaps no one, not Bolan himself, understood better than Leo Turrin the staggering array of forces pitted against, the guy's survival. Turrin was in a position to view both sides of the guy's personal gauntlet, the cops as well as the mob . . . and yeah, he had good reason for worry. He'd done a lot of pacing the past few days, waiting, wondering when the claws of the pincers would close around the world's best answer to La Cosa Nostra. La Cosa Nostra.

And so it was on that brooding Spring afternoon when the call finally came.

Turrin's personal shadow, a goon called Hot Stuff Ribiello, scooped up the phone and muttered into it. "Yeah. I dunno, just a minute." He caught Turrin's expressionless eye and announced, "Long distance, collect. For you, boss. Guy named La- Mancha. You wanta accept?"

The underboss of Pittsfield coolly replied, "I don't know no La Mancha."

"He don't know no La Mancha," Ribiello relayed to the operator. Tell the guy to get lost,"

"Tell him to spend his own d.a.m.n nickel," Turrin instructed boredly.

"He should spend his own nickels," the goon dutifully relayed He laughed and hung up. Some of these boys really got their nerve. I never made a collect call in my whole life even."

"Good for you," Turrin growled He rubbed the back of his neck, then moved the hand around to ma.s.sage the throat "h.e.l.l," he told the bodyguard, "I got to get some air. I'm going out to smell some sunshine."

Turrin started for the door. Rublello trudged along behind.

"Not you," Turrin growled. "Stay put. I'm expecting Jake to call. Get the number where he's at and I'll call 'im back."

"Don't stand on no street corners," the bodyguard suggested, as he gladly returned to the comfort of his chair.

Turrin grunted and ambled into the hallway, He lit a cigarette and displayed outward patience as he waited for the elevator. In the lobby he chatted for a moment with the girl at the newsstand, then drifted out the back way and across the parking lot, pausing now and then to sniff the air and flex his shoulders at the sun.

Precisely five minutes after rejection of the collect call from La Mancha, Turrin stepped into a public phone booth a block and a half from his office building, just in time to answer the first ring.

"Yeah, dammit, what's been keeping you?" he asked without preamble.

A cool chuckle drifted through the instrument and a pleasantly modulated voice informed him, "Just got your broadcast twenty minutes ago. What's the flap?"

"The flap, buddy, is your b.l.o.o.d.y a.s.s," Turrin growled. "Everybody wants it, and in that condition. I was hoping you'd call before-"

"Too late," reported the real live Man from La Mancha, Mack Bolan.

"Yeah, I know, I heard it," Turrin said gloomily. "Of all places, Sarge, why Philly? Philly? Why not Kansas City or Hot Springs, why not Dallas or Phoenixor-h.e.l.l, even St. Louis or Detroit? Philly is where the big guns are mobbing up, Philly's the place-" Why not Kansas City or Hot Springs, why not Dallas or Phoenixor-h.e.l.l, even St. Louis or Detroit? Philly is where the big guns are mobbing up, Philly's the place-"

"You know why I'm here, Leo."

"Yeah, yeah. I guess it figures."

"Did you have something specific in mind, Mother, or did you just want to say good-bye?"

"Specific, yeah," Turrin growled. "I'd say that. Message from your buddy in Washington. He suggests quote take a vacation unquote."

"Brognola, eh?"

"Yeh. He's walking a tightrope, you know. Officially he's running the entire national Get Bolan Get Bolan show. Unofficially his guts turn over every time he thinks about it. But you know Hal. The job is the job." show. Unofficially his guts turn over every time he thinks about it. But you know Hal. The job is the job."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Bolan murmured. He sighed. Turrin heard the click of a cigarette lighter and a slow, hissing exhalation. "Sounds like I'm back in season."

"Worse yet. The heat is on-very. Some congressional subcommittee is stoking the boiler. Hal thinks it'd be a good time for you to catch some RR. He says Argentina is beautiful this time of year."

The chuckle from the other end of the connection was downright icy. 'Lousy hunting down there, Leo."

"Yeah." The number two man of Pittsfieldshook away a spinal shiver. "Well, listening"

A moment later, Bolan replied, "I'm "I wouldn't try Philly right now. Don Stefano has been expecting you. The word I hear, he's imported a private army just to wait for your head to show. I think-"

"Imported from where?"

"The old country. Sicily. Very mean-" "Gradigghia," "Gradigghia," Bolan muttered. Bolan muttered.

"That's the word. And I'll give you another, buddy. Malacarni. Malacarni. It means a very bold dude, capable of anything. These old-country It means a very bold dude, capable of anything. These old-country Gradigghia, Gradigghia, the Sicilian Mafia gangs, are composed entirely of people like that. They are very mean boys." the Sicilian Mafia gangs, are composed entirely of people like that. They are very mean boys."