Panic In Philly Part 8

The doctor said, "No, no, just a bit of first- and second-degree b.u.ms, arms and upper torso. He'll be all right." Drasco explained, "Our friend Jules Sticatta, His clothes caught fire."

Bolan clucked his tongue and said, "I'm very sorry for our friend Jules."

The door chimes sounded.

Bolan commanded, "I'm handling this," and went to the door. His hand brushed something in the breast pocket of the blazer as he smoothed the jacket over his hardware, and he discovered in there a pair of gold wire-rimmed gla.s.ses with tinted lenses. He tried them, found a slight correction in the left lens but not enough to interfere with his own 20/20. Every little edge would help, at a time like this. He left them in place and swung the door open all the way, standing dead center and blocking entry with his own presence.

A pa.s.sel of uniformed cops were on the front stoop, and others could be seen moving across the grounds.

A big sandy-haired guy in a gray suit and matching night-coat was standing just off the doorway, gazing out across the property. Another guy, a smaller Italian type, stood beside him giving Bolan the once-over.

Bolan said, "Did you come to look at the scenery or did you have some casual hara.s.sment in mind?" The big cop turned to give him a frosty glare.

He sighed and extended a folded, official-looking paper. "Here's my hara.s.sment chit," he growled. Bolan did not even look at it. He said, "All right, come on in," and stepped out of the way. The two plain-clothes men moved into the reception hall and the little posse of uniformed cops came in behind them.

Bolan commented, "So many to do so little?" "Identify yourself, sir," the big cop snapped. "You first," Bolan countered.

The cop flashed his badge.

Bolan grinned and said, "You have to do better than that."

"Who's hara.s.sing whom?" the guy growled, and held out the ID folder for Bolan's inspection. He looked at Drasco and nodded pleasantly. "h.e.l.lo, Carmine," he said.

Drasco said, "Hi, Captain. You look tired." "As h.e.l.l," the cop said.

Bolan ignored that interplay, pushing the ID back and jerking his head toward the Italian. "Now him," he said.

That one wordlessly thrust FBI credentials under Bolan's nose.

Bolan said, "Is that a federal warrant you have there?"

The FBI guy said, "I have a right to be here but I'll wait outside if you'd rather."

"What's the difference, it's okay," Bolan replied, shrugging.

"Let's see your identification," the big cop reminded him.

"He's okay," Drasco put in. "I'll vouch for him."

The expression on the Captain's face seemed to say that he wouldn't let Drasco vouch for the mayor of Philadelphia.

Bolan tried to pa.s.s the wallet over but the cop, a Captain Thomkins, told him, "Hold it in your own hands, please, and just show me your driver's license."

Bolan said, "Suppose I don't drive?"

"You'd better have something to show me, mister."

Bolan grinned and displayed the New York driver's license, then the private eye ID. The cop's eyes showed interest. He said, "New York, eh? A little out of your territory, aren't you?"

Bolan replied, "I'm in grace. Just got here today."

"You better drop downtown in the morning and register. Is that a gun permit there? New York?"

"I'll be back over the line by midnight," Bolan a.s.sured him. He showed the cop the front side of the Ace of Spades, just for the h.e.l.l of it.

Thompkins commented, "Consultant, huh? You must be a very busy man."

"I try to be," Bolan told him. "You're not going through this routine with every guy in the place, I hope."

"You want to read the warrant?"

The FBI guy was looking around, casing the layout.

Bolan told the big cop, "Let's be men. You boys must have better things to do, I'm sure. Go on. Get with it. Let's make this quick and easy."

"We'll need to talk to Stefano Angeletti." "Does it say that in the warrant?"

"No. But I'm sure he'd like to cooperate. Oddly enough we have a common cause, I'm not exactly proud to say."

Bolan jerked a thumb toward the library and said, "He's in there. But it's getting late and he's tired. He's an old man, remember, and this is his doctor here." Bolan indicated Kastler with a twitch of the thumb. "It's been a tough day and I'm sure you know what I mean."

Thomkins said, "You are telling me," and , walked into the library.

Drasco and Kastler followed him in.

A younger plain-clothes cop stepped in from the outside, stared curiously at Bolan for a moment, then led the uniformed men into the big living room where the crews hung out.

Another troop moved in through the open doorway and went up the stairs to the second floor.

Bolan and the FBI guy were left alone in the reception hall.

The guy was giving him a very intent look. He cleared his throat and, in a very casual and low- pitched voice, told Bolan, "Brognola sends his regards."

Bolan's chest went ice cold and he tried to keep his eyes and face the same as he replied, "Who?" "He says it's a bad time for a hit."

Bolan let his lips slide into a lopsided, disbelieving grin. "Come on now," he said. "Not you. Ami cu di 1' amici?"

"Forget it and drop dead," the fed replied disgustedly and went on to the library.

Bolan watched him walk away. Under his breath he said, "Yeah, I almost did."

A loud commotion overhead at that moment brought the young plain-clothes cop hurrying from the crew room. Two uniformed men were retreating in confusion toward the stairway landing, accompanied by a variety of flying objects, some of which were crashing into the wall behind them and sending fragments of broken pottery and gla.s.s bouncing down to the main floor.

A young woman appeared at the top of the stairs, screaming vile words in an unending stream. She was clad only in bra and panties.

Frank the Kid ran into the hall and exclaimed, "Philippa!"

The young cop was starting up there.

Bolan jostled him aside, growled, "Let me," and led the way.

One of the uniformed officers told Bolan as he went past, "We have to look in that room."

Bolan said, "Sure you do. Come on."

He ducked a flying vase and scooped the woman up, carrying her back along the hallway under one arm. He called over his shoulder to the cops, "Get with it, let's go."

They went.

Philippa the b.i.t.c.h was kicking and yelling and trying to bite a chunk out of Bolan's leg.

His free hand grabbed her by the hair of her head and he told her, "You're disgracing your papa. What's the matter with you, huh?"

She yelled, "I'm going to kill you, all of you!"

The young cop brushed past, gave Bolan a sympathetic smile, and went on to aid the men in blue.

Bolan recognized the cop. He'd spent a pleasant minute or so with the guy earlier that day.

The inspection upstairs took only another few seconds. The cops filed past, giving the man and his burden plenty of clearance; then Bolan carried the girl to her room and dropped her on the bed.

"Behave yourself," he said gently, and went out.

She was quiet now, sending a thoughtful gaze after him as he closed the door.

A guy down on the landing was reporting to another in the reception hall, "Nothing up there. It's clean."

The cops were leaving.

Another crisis was ending, another test met.

Others, however, were lying in wait for Mack the Wild Card. The night of tests had only just begun.

He flexed his shoulders, removed the tinted wire-frames and dropped them into the pocket, and went down to see what could be stirred up on this, his possibly last night on earth.

Chapter 14/ A Stirring.

Captain Thomkins held a brief meeting with his detail leaders just outside the entrance to the Angeletti property; shortly thereafter the army of cops began their decampment from the neighborhood.

The Captain himself, with FBI Agent Joseph Persicone in the vehicle with him, was among the first to take departure. He had the look of a man who would like nothing better than to simply let go and have a good, unembarra.s.sed cry.

Persicone respected the mood until they were well clear of the area, then he broke the silence to admit, "That Cavaretta guy . . . for a minute there, for just one trembling moment, I had the creepy feeling that the guy was Mack Bolan.

"I just made an a.s.s of myself. The guy thought I was trying to pose as an amicu di l'amici-a friend of the friends-a bought cop."

Thomkins grunted and commented, "You've been chasing the guy across too many towns, Joe. Glad I've just got the one. Few minutes ago you were trying to convince me he was blown to pieces."

"I know," Persicone said, sighing.

"Anyway, it just couldn't be. I know what that Cavaretta guy is. I'm going to run a make on him, just for the h.e.l.l of it, but I already know. Did you notice his finger ... tips? Sealed solid. He was sent down here by the old men in New York. And it was obvious that he was acting with plenty of authority. He was running the joint. Did you see the way he took over Philippa the Brat?"

"That was the young lady with tantrums? Yes, I caught the tail of it Angeletti's daughter, eh?" "The one and only "

Persicone said, "I gather she's not very popular with the official household. I caught a lot of sn.i.g.g.e.ring and quiet cheering-on when Cavaretta grabbed her Even old man Angeletti was whispering, 'Hit her, hit her.' Had to feel a bit sorry for the old guy. I'm Italian, you know. I know how he felt."

"Okay, Italian, tell me something I've often wondered about. How does the girl feel? Raised up in all that? She knows what her old man is, knows what he's done to get where he is. What's her place in all that?"

"She has no place," Persicone replied quietly. "Mafia or not, liberated twentieth century or not, the female members of a traditional Italian family have no place. They cook, they bear children, educate them, teach them to love the Holy Mother of G.o.d, and generally stand as the very center of the universe for their family But they have no voice, no vote, not even any opinions in the affairs of their men. Worst of all, they even have to shed * their tears in private."

"It's not still that way," Thomkins said. "Is it?" "In a family like that one back there? Sure it is." "It figures then," the Captain said. "Philippa's fit, I mean. I'd say she's about ready to blow a gasket. That one is no shrinking Madonna, I'll tell you."

"Could be," Persicone agreed. "I'll jot that down in my notes for future considerations. Unless Bolan makes future considerations unnecessary."

"What's your learned expert opinion in the matter?" the Captain growled. "Will the guy pop up again? Or is he through with our town."

"If he's not dead then he's not through," Persicone replied without even thinking about it.

"Well, he's not dead," Thompkins quietly declared.

"Then he's not through."

The Captain sighed, He stuck a cigarette between his lips and viciously jabbed his thumb against the dashboard lighter. "Neither am I," he said.

Persicone grinned. "What? No bottle and bedsprings?"

"Not until the guy is through," Thomkins growled.

"It's going to be a long night," Persicone said, sighing.

Thomkins lit his cigarette, expelled the smoke with a hiss, and said, "It's already been a long night. I left Strauss back there, though. He's young; he can take it."

"Take what?"

"The suspense. I put 'im on bird-dog stake-out. Told him not to come home until he's got the man by the throat."

"That could be dangerous . . a man alone. . ." "He's not all that alone. Three squads are backing him up-way back but not so far away they can't give instant response."

"That's not a stake-out," Persicone said. "It's a forward scout at the enemy's door."

"That," said the get-Bolan chief, "is precisely what it is."

Stefano had gone up to "look in on" Philippa.