Chicago Wipe-Out

9 Odd man out

Steely nerves and a sharp application of during-do had accompanied that hazardous penetration of enemy territory, to be sure; but Bolan had more going for him than sheer audacity. He had learned in the school of harsh necessity that the human mechanism "sees" with more than the eyes. "Seeing" is a concerted mental activity consisting of a matching-up of retina-image with the mental storehouse of past experiences, as superimposed upon the awareness-needs and desires of the moment.

Bolan would perhaps not describe the process in just this manner, nevertheless he thoroughly understood the human mechanics involved and habitually made full use of this natural condition. Long before the Mafia wars he had become a consummate and instinctive actor in the masquerades he called "role camouflage."

Once, cut off and trapped inside enemy country in Vietnam, Bolan had draped a standard black poncho about his shoulders, donned a straw coolie hat, and knelt in the open over a fishing net in a narrow stream for two hours and in broad daylight while enemy soldiers searched all about him. Despite his relatively great size and the makeshift nature of his "costume," the image reflected in the searchers' eyes and as interpreted by their perceptive processes was that of a black-pajama-clad villager tending his nets — and this, of course, was not the object of the frantic search.

Similarly, in the penetration of Manny's Posh, the enemy had been set-up — by the storm (past experience) and by Bolan's own purposeful machinations (present awareness-needs) — to accept in their midst the presence of a telephone lineman. It is doubtful that any person in that club could have later provided any sort of valid description of "the guy who came to fix the phones" — except that "he was done up for th' South Pole."

Bolan's understanding of the enemy and his own remarkable self control played a heavy part in the success of such ventures, of course. Also, it seems, an appreciation of subtle situation-humor rode with him into the danger zones. Note, in this particular application, the meaningless double-talk about "flux fields."

The incursion into Manny's Poshhad meant considerably more to Bolan than a routine combat recon. He had been interested in finding a weak spot in the enemy's armor. Joliet Jake Vecci, overlord of the lucrative and therefore highly-prized downtown territory, emerged as the most likely target. An underboss, or subcapo, in the Chicago syndicate for many years, the aging Vecci had for some time been quietly agitating for "a kick upstairs" to the honorary status of co-Capo, or Capo Emeritusof the Chicago Family. This could and would have been accomplished but for Vecci's insistence upon retaining direct reins of power in his old territory, a desire which produced considerable friction and displeasure among the younger ranking members of the organization.

Friction, intrigue, and ruthless competition were, of course, no strangers in the supposedly closeknit Cosa Nostra families — and a crafty old powerplant like Jake Vecci was not unaware of the restless maneuverings about him.

This was but one of the interesting stories to emerge from Leopold Stein's notebook, but it seemed to Bolan to be one of the best exploitable at the moment and under the circumstances of the night. Thus, the search for Vecci had been no routine probe but an important combat mission.

And it had required no great feat of imagination to pinpoint this Mafia gathering in the heart of Vecci's territory. Simple observation and alertness had led Bolan to the accurate conclusion that "the boys are mobbing up" at Manny's Posh. The logical extension of this discovery called for a soft probe of the club. This Bolan did, very effectively, and he came out much the wiser and with another "inner ear" direction to his battle plan.

He had instantly recognized Joliet Jake and guessed the identities of Meninghetti and Spanno. The man in the gray suit posed the only mystery, but he had obviously been subservient to Vecci and therefore occupied little of Bolan's mind. The important thing was that he had located the weak spot he'd sought, and it was time to strike.

Bolan left the war-wagon on a side street just around the corner and returned to the alleyway on foot. He ascended a telephone pole behind the building housing Manny's Poshand swung onto the roof. On a previous visit he had run two splices from that pole — one giving him direct access into the main trunk line serving the neighborhood, the other into the private Line to Manny's office. Now, he clamped into the main trunk and used his lineman's phone to call the number in that office just below.

The voice of Manny Roberts responded to the first ring with, "Yeah."

In his best Executioner tones, Bolan said, "Let me speak to Jake."

"Who's this?"

"Never mind who. Just put Jake on."

The muffled, off-angle voice announced, "Some guy, won't say who, wants to talk to you."

Bolan heard a peevish "Awright" in the background. He settled himself against the sheltering lee of the parapet and waited, visualizing Manny Roberts hurrying the telephone over to the old man. Then the rasping voice was strong in the receiver. "Yeah, who's there?"

Bolan said coldly, "I wanted to make sure you were out of the way."

"What's that? Who the hell is this?"

"Shut up and listen, and get it straight the first time through because I'm not repeating it. I'm taking this town out clean, Jake, and I want you clear. You stay where you're at."

"I don't... who the hell is this?"

"Do I have to spell my name in black, dammit?"

Bolan heard heavy breathing and nothing else for a moment, then: "This's no time for games. If you're who I think you are, why're you calling me?Why the friendly warning?"

"I didn't say it was friendly," Bolan replied. "It's just that you won the odd-man-out toss. I'm letting you survive, Jake, only because I'll know who to keep an eye on in the future. I know there'll be plenty of scum left behind when I blow this heap. And I've elected you king of the leftover scum."

The underboss was moving quickly toward apoplexy. He cried, "Hey who is this? Is this... hey it's no time for practical jokes!"

"It's no joke. Count your blessings and light a case of candles when you go to bed tonight, 'cause you'll be the only boss left. But you stay put right there. I'm hitting, and soon, so you stay clear."

Bolan broke the connection and immediately moved his patch to the office line. He expected that Joliet Jake would be making a call of his own, and soon. Bolan wanted to be in on it.

He waited in the stiff cold for two minutes... three... four — then the receiver down below was lifted. Bolan heard harsh breathing and the coded beeps of the touch-tone dial system. He recorded the combination while the connection was being made, then he listened quietly to the hushed conversation.

"This is Jake. Is he there?"

"Uh... just a minute."

"Yeah, hello."

"Hi, how's it going?"

"So far so good. How with you?"

"Not so good. I think the bastard just called me."

"He calledyou? He called you there? At..."

"Yeah, where I told you I'd be. Who else did you tell I'd be here?"

"Why would I tell anybody? I didn't tell anybody."

"Well... I guess I got to believe it was him. Or else someone's getting awful damn cute with the old man."

"Maybe he's been watching you. He could've followed you there."

"Or else we got a loud canary somewheres close by."

"That guy is — well what'd he want? What'd he call you for?"

"He says he's getting ready to wipe everybody out. Everybody but me."

A nervous chuckle greeted this disclosure. "Damn big of him, isn't it. What's this love affair with you?"

"Ahhh, some screwy... I'll tell you all about it later. The thing is, I thought I better pass the word around. I mean in case this guy has some kind of inside line. It makes me nervous as hell, him glomming right onto me like that. I almost have to believe there's a canary somewheres. Ifthat was really him. And if it wasn'thim, then maybe I'm even nervouser. You know what I mean."

"Yeah." This other voice was taking on a decidedly different quality. "I know what you mean. You could be right about that canary, too. In that case, it's probably someone right there in your own outfit."

"I know, that's what worries me too. Listen, what do you think? Should I call the others?"

A pause, then: "Hell, I can't advise you on anything like this. It's your outfit, not mine."

"Sure but you know how I always valued your advice."

"Well... I don't know. If it was me, I guess I wouldn't tell anybody. It might be misunderstood. Besides, this boy is plenty tricky. He could be just setting you up."

"You think so?"

"Sure, it could be. Listen, here's what I'd do. Get ahold of Larry Turk. Put him on it. That way it's out of your hands. Then just sit tight."

"Yeah I guess — hell, I can't get ahold of Turk. He's taking the Hauler to a carpet."

"Already?"

"Hell yes. He says it has to be settled right now tonight. Says he either has the authority or he doesn't. And he's not taking any responsibility for another Acres until he knows exactly where he stands."

"You know what that means for Pete, then."

"Yeah. Well, I guess he deserves it, eh? Listen, I can't just sit here. That bastard might bomb the place or set it on fire or something. You know how he is."

"Yeah I — hey! Did you search that place for bugs?"

"Hell yes we tore the joint apart. I got suspicious for a minute — a guy came in awhile ago to fix the phones. Storm knocked the lines down or something. But he didn't plant nothing, I'm sure of that now."

"Well... okay. Listen, where are they holding that carpet on Pete?"

"Out at — you know."

"Okay, here's what I'd do. I'd give a call out there and try to catch Turk. Just tell 'im you're checking in about this latest thing. Tell him all about it. It's his job to think of something, isn't it? Let himdecide what todo, and it'll also prove that you're on the right side."

"Whattaya mean, prove I'm on the?.."

"Now hold your horses. Hell I didn't say Ithought anything like that."

"Anything like what, for Christ's sake!"

"You know what I mean, this boy calling you direct and all that. With this old trouble, somebody might get the wrong idea."

"Well somebody just better not!"

"They just might, anyway. Call Turk, Jake. Put it on him."

A brief silence, then: "I guess you're right. Okay, thanks. Are you staying right there?"

"Well, uh, yeah I might."

"Whattaya mean, yeah uh you might! What kind of answer is that? Are you afraid to tell me where you're gonna be?"

"Hell, you know better."

"Awright, then, just what are you telling me?"

A pause, then: "I'm not telling you a damn thing, Jake."

A click signaled the end of the connection. Bolan grinned, listening to Joliet Jake's dazed, "Well can you beat that?" as he hung up at his end.

The wait for the next call was much briefer. Again Bolan recorded the touch-tone combination, but it quickly became a useless piece of pre-intelligence as a smooth voice announced, "Giovanni's."

Joliet Jake's trouble tones crowded the line. "This is Mr. Vecci. I'm — uh — interested in a private party you got going there. You know the one I mean?"

"It's all private tonight, Mr. Vecci. We're hard." Bolan raised his eyebrows. "Hard" meant that mob figures only were present at Giovanni's, an exclusive nitery in the suburbs, even to the waiters and bartenders and kitchen help.

"All right, that's swell. Listen, who's this?"

"This is Charles Drago, Mr. Vecci. What can I do?"

"You can collar a certain someone and get 'im to the phone for me, Charlie. He's bringing somebody there to a carpet."

"Oh, well they haven't arrived yet, Mr. Vecci."

"Christ they should've been there long ago."

"I guess it's the storm, sir. It's delaying everybody."

"Well dammit."

"In the meantime, Mr. Vecci, you can channel reports for him through..."

"I'm not channeling no reports,"the underboss growled.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Vecci, my tongue tripped. I was just trying to be..."

"I know, helpful. Okay, Charlie, here's how you can be helpful. You watch that door like a hawk. The minute he comes in, you tell 'im to call me at Manny's."

"Yes sir, at Manny's."

"Right, and don't tell nobody else. And tell him it is urgent," Vecci added, spacing the words for emphasis.

"He'll get the message, Mr. Vecci. And nobody else."

"Okay, thanks."

This time it was Joliet Jake who broke the connection. Bolan moved his patch to the trunk line and scanned the Stein Intelligence with a pencil flash. On the fourth page he located the telephone number which corresponded to the coded beeps of Vecci's first call, and his lips pursed thoughtfully as he noted the name opposite that number.

Bolan pondered for a moment, then placed his second call of the mission. The same voice that had answered Vecci's earlier ring said, "Yeah."

Bolan asked, "Is he there?"

"No he's not here."

"I know damn well he is. Put him on."

"He — uh... who's calling?"

"Never mind who's calling. Put him on, and damn quick."

"He — uh — isn't taking no more calls tonight."

"He damn well better take this one," Bolan growled.

"Well... just a minute."

Presently the other voice came on the line, cautious, reserved. "Okay, what's all the fuss?"

"Listen, they want you to get it out to Giovanni's, and right away."

"They who? I'm afraid you have the wrong number."

"Have it your own way," Bolan replied coldly. "You got the message, that's all I got to tell them."

"Wait a minute. I don't recognize your voice."

"Maybe you're not supposed to. And maybe you better get it out to the suburbs, and quick."

"In this storm? They know I don't go..."

"You better go for this one. The cards are being cut, and you better be ready to pick a side."

The guy was getting flustered. Obviously he was not accustomed to being talked to in this manner. He wheezed, "I don't — well now wait a minute. You'd better tell me what's up. I'm not going anywhere unless..."

Bolan clipped off the protest with, "Just a minute." He held a hand over the transmitter, counted to ten, then came back in a warmer tone of voice. "They said tell you it's for your own good, and thinking of the future. A vote is going to be taken, maybe for a contract or something, and they suggest that you keep that quiet."

"Does this have to do with that carpet for Pete the?.."

"No, they wouldn't ask you out there just for that. I told you it's a new deal. A certain old man seems to be going off his rocker, and they're taking a vote for his retirement. Now I already told you too damn much. You keep this quiet."

"Oh sure, I understand. Well what — I mean, I don't have any vote."

"They say you got an interest, you should at least want to be here when it's all decided. If only to show where you stand. Uh, like I said. There's liable to be a contract or two made out."

"Well... okay, thanks. Tell them I'll try to make it. If I can get through this weather. Uh, about how much time do I have?"

"Not much. Most everybody's already there."

"Okay, thanks again. Tell them I appreciate it."

The line clicked and the dial tone hummed in Bolan's ear. He smiled wryly, shifted his position to unkink his muscles, and promptly patched back into Manny Roberts' private line. He got there as the phone was ringing and waited patiently for the conversation he expected to take place. It did.

"Yeah, hi."

"Hi Jake. Listen, I just heard something terrible. This is for old time's sake. Something's going on up at Giovanni's."

"Yeah I know, they got a thing going there. On Bolan I guess. What d'ya mean, old times sake?"

"I mean I can't even be seen looking out a window at you. You get what I mean. Stay away from that thing at Giovanni's. It's not what you think. Forget about Turk, don't let them even know where you are. Lay low."

"What the hell are you... ?"

"That's all I can say, Jake. I'm sorry, really sorry as hell."

Again, "City Jim" hung up on the underboss, and again Bolan heard the post-connection muttering of the bedeviled old man below: "What th' hell is goin' on around here?"

Bolan severed his patches, gathered his gear, and muttered into the teeth of the storm, "It's the name of the game, Jake. Odd man out. And you're all the oddest bunch I ever saw."