War Against the Mafia

5 - A Gut Transaction

Bolan stepped through the door at five minutes before five o'clock, closed it firmly and locked it, and pulled down the shade. The girl at the reception desk showed him a startled attention, and Bolan showed her the little plastic-embossed card supplied by Turrin. "You're closed for the day," he snapped. His eyes flicked toward the closed door beyond the plastic and wood interview cages. "Who's in there?" he asked harshly.

"J- just Mr. T-thomas," the girl stammered.

Another girl popped up behind a wire enclosure. Bolan turned his attention immediately upon her. "Are you the cashier?" he asked her.

"Yes, sir," she replied breathlessly.

"Got your day's accounts in order?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir, just now."

Bolan was moving around behind the cage. "Bundle everything up and take it into Thomas' office, the money too, everything." He pulled the receptionist to her feet and gently pushed her toward the back office. "Get in there and tell Thomas to get his books ready for a spot audit. Everything on the top of the desk, please." He was rattling the wire gate to the cashier's cage. "Let me in there, I'll give you a hand," he barked.

The receptionist turned back to him with a pained expression. "I-I forgot your name," she said.

"Just tell him I'm from Plasky's office," he snapped. "Move-move! I don't have all night!"

The girl nodded and half-ran across the outer office, rapped lightly on the closed door, and swept inside. Bolan picked up a wooden tray and began stacking currency the cashier was removing from her cash drawer.

The two of them noisily invaded the private office a moment later. Thomas, the office manager, scowled at Bolan and said, "I don't think-"

"Good, don't think," Bolan snapped him off. "You haven't been here long enough to start thinking." He jerked a thumb toward a massive steel door. "Get the vault open," he commanded.

The young man's face was showing an inner conflict. "I'd like to see your, uh, identification," he said.

Bolan once again swept the plastic card into sight, held it briefly in front of the man's eyes, then returned it to his pocket. He smiled suddenly, a warm reach of friendship. "Look, don't be so nervous," he said softly. "Plasky thinks these spot audits will keep you on your toes. You have nothing to worry about, I'm sure. Open the vault so we can get this over with."

Thomas hesitatingly began working the combination of the door lock, then turned the big wheel and swung the door open. "What is your cash on hand?" Bolan asked tersely.

The cashier thrust a scrap of paper tape into the manager's hand. He glanced at it. "Forty-two thousand, six hundred eighty-nine and forty," he mumbled.

"Oh Goddamn, not that figure," Bolan replied with obvious exasperation. "The holding fund, Thomas, damn-it, not your nickels and dimes."

The younger man blinked, stepped into the vault, slid back a section of steel wall, and produced a large leather case. "Why didn't you say so in the first place," he complained petulantly.

"Open it," Bolan commanded.

Thomas fished a key from somewhere inside the vault, inserted it into the case lock, then blinked past Bolan to the young women who were standing awkwardly in the center of the office floor. Bolan understood the look.

"You ladies wait in the outer office," he said. The two girls exchanged glances and went out. Thomas carried the case over to his desk, opened it, and glared at Bolan.

"I hope to God you don't want to count it," he said miserably.

"What's the tally?"

"Two hundred and fifty thousand."

"Certified?"

The manager nodded and produced a sheet of paper from the top of the stacked currency. Bolan pretended to study the list of figures, said, "Uh-huh," and moved back toward the vault

"Just exactly what are you looking for?" Thomas wanted to know.

"Come here and I'll show you," Bolan said. He jerked the other man inside the vault and slammed his head against the steel wall. The young man's legs rubberized and he slid to the floor. Bolan stepped past him and began hurling ledgers and records out into the office. He stripped the vault completely, stuffing currency into the open case on the manager's desk and piling everything else on the floor. He slammed and locked the vault door, then touched his lighter to the pile of papers on the floor, picked up the case of money, and went out to join the young ladies.

"I want all your records out here-out here on the floor," he barked. The girls looked at each other, then began opening drawers and arranging papers and file folders atop the counter. "Don't be so dainty about it," Bolan said roughly. "This's an emergency." He swept the records to the floor, then went over to a metal file cabinet and began unloading the drawers. Minutes later a bonfire was raging in the outer office, and the eyes of the young ladies were beginning to reflect the presence of a madman in their midst

Bolan seized the cashier and pressed a marksman's medal into her hand. Tell Plasky The Executioner said it was easy as pie," he said calmly.

"Wh- what?"

"Just tell him that. Oh, and you'd better go get that guy out of the vault before this whole place goes up. Oh, and tell Plasky thanks for the bucks, they'll come in handy." He picked up the case of money and opened the door. The girls were already dashing toward the private office. Bolan chuckled and stepped onto the sidewalk, pulling the door firmly closed. He'd returned to the scene of the crime, and by God he'd committed another one, and by God he wondered how The Family would appreciate this one. He suspected that financial considerations were gut-matters to the Matthews. Bolan suspected also that he certainly knew how to hurt a Mafiosi. He walked around the corner, got into his car, and chuckled all the way home.