War Against the Mafia

4 - An Equal Opportunity

It could have been any gathering of successful businessmen, relaxing in a country club atmosphere. The florid face of Nat Plasky was just a shade lighter than the crimson slash of swim trunks that separated his hairy mass into seemingly equal parts. He leaned against a poolside cabana, a sweating glass of iced liquid held carelessly and seemingly forgotten in a massive paw, engaged in quiet conversation with an eye-jerking blonde young woman in an almost nonexistent bikini. Several other dazzling Miss Universe types, displaying various ideas of the nude swimwear look behind fishnet, nudie panels, and enchantingly strategic placements of mini-materials, sprawled here and there beside the pool. Nobody appeared to be wet, nor inclined to get that way.

A suave man of about fifty, carefully attired in white duck trousers, canvas sneakers, and a polo shirt sat at an umbrella table with a younger man who wore slacks, a turtle-neck shirt, and a light sports jacket. Several other men wandered about aimlessly, almost blending into the background of sunning platforms, plastic flotation devices, and colorful cabanas-bodyguards, was Bolan's quick impression. And they were watching him. Some unspoken signal or herd instinct prompted all eyes present to swing toward Bolan as he approached the pool. Plasky waved his glass in Bolan's direction, said something to the blonde, and hurried forward to greet the new arrival.

"We been invaded by the U.S. Army," one girl murmured lazily, eyeing the tall soldier with interest.

"Shut up, stupid," Plasky grunted as he brushed past her. He went to Bolan with hand outstretched, then led the soldier like a long-lost friend to the table where the two other men sat. "Walt Seymour, this is Sergeant Mack Bolan," he intoned formally, presenting Bolan to the older man first. The obvious protocol was not lost on Bolan. He smiled and extended his hand, aware that he had progressed at least one step above Plasky, and also aware that he was receiving a firm but uninvolved grip of social courtesy only. The younger man seized Bolan's hand as soon as it was free and wrung it enthusiastically. It was the sort of handshake Bolan could understand, and he swept the man with a warm gaze.

"I'm Leo Turrin," the warm one said, smiling. "Hear you're just back from "Nam. Welcome home. What outfit you with over there?"

"Ninth Infantry," Bolan replied, hoping he hadn't reacted to the other's name. He'd recognized the comradely tone of another returned veteran, and the face meant nothing in his memory, but Johnny Bolan's words, this guy she called Leo, were dizzying his inner ear.

"I was in the Green Berets," Turrin was saying chattily. "I was a sergeant, too. Specialist-fifth, anyway."

Bolan recognized also the value of the common-interest tie with this obviously "in" member of the circle. He grinned and tried a long shot. "I always heard the most valuable specialists in the Berets were the female-procurers," he said.

The remark scored right on target. Turrin did a double-take toward the suavely poised Seymour, then exploded in a fit of laughter, digging an elbow toward Bolan. "Well, I'll tell you-" he cried, then abruptly quietened upon receipt of a coldly disapproving glare from Seymour. The ex-GI winked at Bolan and dropped back into his chair.

One of the near-nudies appeared at that moment and thrust a frosted glass into Bolan's hand. He thanked her and sat down at Plasky's invitation, directly across from Seymour. "Beautiful girl," Bolan murmured appreciatively.

"Aren't they all," Plasky said boredly. "You like her, she's yours. After we've finished our business." He glanced at the swaying tail section of the girl as she retreated toward the cabanas, as though wondering if he'd missed something.

Bolan noticed that the bodyguards had settled down, apparently on some prearranged station. "Then let's get on with the business," he said, grinning.

Plasky cleared his throat and dropped his eyes toward his own drink. "Seymour and Turrin and I were business associates of Joseph Laurenti. One of the men who were murdered. And of course we knew all five-almost like family, you might say. We are very much interested in-helping the police bring the killer to justice. Have you talked to the police yet, Sergeant Bolan?"

Bolan was expecting the question, especially in view of the fact that he had been picked up that morning almost in the shadow of Plasky's office, and he was prepared for it. "Yes, they pulled me in this morning," he replied. "Right after I left your office."

"You went to them voluntarily," Seymour declared quietly.

Bolan grinned. "Not hardly."

"Why not?" Seymour wanted to know.

"Like I told Mr. Plasky, I didn't want to get tied up in something that would spoil my last few days at home." He broadened the smile. "As it turns out, I'm not going back to "Nam after all. I've been reassigned. I'll be staying right here in Pittsfield for a while."

"Why?" Seymour persisted.

"My kid brother. He's only fourteen. I'm his sole surviving relative."

That was very good of the Army," Plasky put in.

Seymour ignored the goodness of the Army. "So you decided to cooperate fully with the police," he commented. "After you left Mr. Plasky this morning and received word of your good fortune, you immediately contacted the police like any upstanding citizen would wish to do."

Bolan was still grinning. "You don't listen very well, do you. I told you I was pulled in. When I left Plasky this morning, a squad car was pulled up behind my U-Drive. A homicide detective wanted to talk to me."

"Why?" Seymour was beginning to sound hung-up on the word.

"One of those odd coincidences," Bolan replied, sobering. "The same cop who investigated my father's death is working this Triangle thing. He-"

"Your father was murdered also?" Seymour asked quickly.

"Suicide," Bolan said. "Nervous breakdown or something, I don't know. He was despondent and he was sick and he was deeply in debt. This homicide cop remembered that one of the debts was with Triangle. He was just wondering if there could be a connection, if maybe I might be the guy with the quick gun. He called me in to talk about it." Bolan realized he was skating close to a precipice, and hoped he wasn't overdoing the open-face routine. He smiled. "Hell, I don't settle money debts with a gun." He nodded toward Plasky. "You can vouch for that Anyway, I satisfied the cop's curiosity. He thanked me for coming in, and that was that."

"You're leaving something out," Seymour said lazily.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Sam Bolan gunned down his wife and daughter, too."

"Hey, take it easy, Walt," Turrin said softly.

"It's all right," Bolan snapped, his eyes steady on Seymour. "I don't hold it against my pop for doing what he did. Look-I cut out as soon as I was old enough. The less said about the women in my family the better. Okay?"

Seymour and Turrin exchanged glances. They know, Bolan decided.

"Sure, I understand, Sarge," Seymour replied quickly. "Don't mind me, I'm just trying to get your size. Okay?"

"Okay. You got it?"

"I think so. Why don't you tell us your eyewitness version of this killing now, eh?"

Bolan glared at him. "Why should I do you any favors, eh?"

"Well- after all..." Perplexed, Seymour massaged his nose, then chuckled. "You're the one brought the whole thing up," he said. "And you did come all the way out here to my home to talk about it. Didn't you?"

"No."

"No?" Seymour's eyebrows rose and his eyes angled toward Plasky.

Bolan calmly lit a cigarette, blew the smoke straight up, and said, "The cops changed all that."

"I see," Seymour said. But it was obvious that he did not see.

"I did see something. I was down there when the shooting occurred. I saw this guy come running out of the Delsey Building. We nearly collided."

"So?" Plasky asked ominously.

"So I could never go on record with a story like that. It places me at the scene, and with Weatherbee wondering about me I can't afford to be placed at the scene."

"Who is Weatherbee?" Seymour wanted to know.

"A homicide detective."

Seymour sighed and grinned at Plasky. "We don't want you to go on record, Sergeant. We wouldn't place your information in the hands of the police."

"I know that."

"You do?"

Bolan nodded. "But it doesn't change anything. Look, my original idea was to sell you people the information. That's all changed now. The cops told me who you are, see. And that changed everything."

Seymour flashed a glance toward Plasky. "And just who are we?"

"You're the Mafia."

Seymour's smile faded. Plasky coughed. Turrin's fingers began drumming against the table. "We're the what?" Seymour muttered.

"Hell, it's common knowledge," Bolan said. "With the cops, I guess. They told me that Triangle is tied in with the Mafia."

"So what kind of game are you playing, soldier boy?" Plasky hissed.

"Down, Nat, down," Seymour hurried in. He turned appraising eyes onto Bolan. "Just suppose the cops were right about that connection. How would that change anything?"

"It changes my price," Bolan said, soberly returning Seymour's gaze.

Turrin chuckled and relaxed into his chair. Plasky snorted and said something unintelligible. Seymour reacted not at all. Finally he sighed and said, "Either you're mighty smart or mighty damn dumb, Bolan. Just what is the game?"

"The game," Bolan replied slowly, "is that I can identify your killer for you. And suddenly I realize that's the last thing you want. You don't want any identification. Look-I have no argument with you. I know how these things go. I don't know anything about the beef between you and Laurenti, but I do understand discipline. If Laurenti was trying to pull a fast one, then you only did what had to be done. I just want you to understand that I'm no blabbermouth. Not around cops. So-the price is changed. There is no price. There is no eyewitness story. I saw nothing and I say nothing."

Plasky's jaw had dropped. He turned surprised eyes onto Seymour and grunted, "This guy thinks-"

"I know what he thinks!" Seymour snapped. "It's been obvious all along." His gaze had not strayed from the faintly amused face of the soldier. "There was no beef," he informed Bolan. "Regardless of what the newspapers said, Laurenti and his people were not killed by any criminal organization. So you're wasting your time and ours with your little game. If you'll just-"

"How about playing the game with the cards face up," Bolan suggested.

"What are your cards, Sergeant?" Seymour asked, eyes twinkling at Plasky.

"I'm job hunting. Five of your people stopped living yesterday. I figure you have a vacancy."

Turrin shifted uneasily. "What does a soldier need with a job?" Plasky asked faintly.

"I've been twelve years in this uniform," Bolan replied. "I've learned a trade, but it hasn't made me any money. I don't have a dime, and I'll never have a dime, not from what this uniform will bring me."

Seymour was beginning to warm up. "What sort of a trade?" he inquired. "Guns are my business."

"Guns?" Seymour laughed softly. "You think guns are our business?"

Bolan ignored the parry. "I can build them, I can modify them, I can repair them, I can make the ammo for them, and I can shoot them."

Seymour was still clucking. "Even supposing that we are what you think we are, you have your eras confused. This isn't Chicago of the twenties and thirties. This is Pittsfield of the sixties." He shook his head. "You've got us all wrong, Sergeant"

Bolan nodded his head toward a background man who was positioned in the shadow of a poolside cabana. "He's wearing a gun," he said, then stabbed his finger toward the diving platform, and added, "so's that one. I counted five gun-bearers the instant I stepped onto this property. You've got a civilian army here. And you've got vacancies. And I need a job."

"You planning on deserting from the Army?" Turrin put in.

The soldier soberly shook his head. "You know what an ROTC billet is, Turrin? It's a cream-pie duty."

"Tell us about it," Seymour said interestedly.

That's my humanitarian reassignment. To the ROTC unit out here at Franklin High. The Army supplies instructors for these programs. It's cream-pie duty for any soldier. We get a housing allowance, we work regular hours, just like any teacher, and we live like any civilian."

These regular hours-how do you figure to work two jobs at once?"

Bolan grinned. "I'm not the regular instructor. I'm just padded on to give me an official duty station. There's already a guy out there. I'll just be an odd hand. Maybe I'll give a few lectures on gun handling, maybe I'll help out a little on the rifle range. But I was given to understand that I'd be more or less free to come and go as I please."

"Don't sound like the Army to me," Turrin said, smiling.

"Me either," Bolan agreed. "But I'll be up for re-enlistment at the end of the year. And there's this responsibility for the kid brother, see. They're giving me until the end of the year to make some provisions for him. I guess they figure by then I'll either have to return to full duty or just get the hell out of the Army."

"I should think you'd be quite happy with the arrangement," Seymour observed.

"Well, I've got the kid now," Bolan pointed out. "And like I said, not a dime in any bank. I figure I'll take the discharge in December. And I can't see any sense in wasting any time getting phased into civilian life." He smiled broadly. "And then, you've got this vacancy."

"I think the sarge is a conniving opportunist," Seymour said, to nobody in particular.

"We need opportunists-that's what we need, isn't it?" Turrin said.

Seymour sighed. "Yeah, yeah, that's exactly what we need. Well-get those girls over here, Leo. And roll that bar over here. It seems we have a new employee to welcome." He smiled sourly at Bolan. "This is your day of golden opportunity, Sarge. Don't let it turn to brass."

Bolan grinned and picked up his drink It had become tepid and flat. Who cared? Hell, who cared? He gulped it down. He was in. And from the looks of things he was about to get into something else. Her name, somebody told him, was Mara; her function was entirely obvious. She settled into his lap without an invitation, handing him a fresh drink, and wriggled the bikini-clad-or almost-clad-bottom about in an apparent striving for comfort, at the expense of Bolan's own. "I like soldiers," she confided softly, running a hand inside his shirt. The bikini barely topped the swell of her lower abdomen, a thin stretch of elastic traversing the centerline of belled hips and plunging in back well below the pronounced cleft of swollen buttocks. The halter of the bikini was no more than an elasticized scrap of overlaid "now you see it, now you don't" netting. Bolan's free hand found a natural resting place on the silky torso at a point about midway between the upper and lower edges of the "swim" suit, fingers splayed down across the soft indentation of the navel He flicked a glance around in a brief survey of his companions, noted that they were comparably burdened and preoccupied, then let his fingers travel on southward.

The girl giggled and captured his hand, raised slightly off his lap to gaze beneath her, and murmured: "You haven't been around women lately, have you?" She then resettled, again agitating herself into the closest possible conjunction and moving Bolan's hand up and onto her breast. "Have you forgotten what those feel like?" she asked whimsically.

Bolan nudged the net aside and assured her that he had, indeed, not forgotten. She giggled, took the drink out of his hand, set it on the nearby table and slid off his lap, then playfully tugged him out of the chair. "We need to get you into a pair of trunks," she told him. She moved close alongside and beneath his arm, maintaining a tight, lock-step embrace, and steered him to a cabana. She entered with him, locked the door, and moved immediately into his arms, raising her mouth to his. He took it hungrily, suddenly aware of how long it had been since a vibrant American girl had been in his arms. Her breath was sweetly alcoholic, hot and wanting, altogether pleasant, an active tongue probing for effect. Spring-tension hips were thrust high and forward and moving rhythmically for an even more disturbing effect His hands fell onto bunched buttocks, then he hooked his thumbs into the hips and flipped her away, breaking also the hot conjunction of mouths.

She swayed back in for more. He evaded her, the thinking part of his brain seemingly numbed and reacting instinctively. "Afraid you'll mess up your pants?" she murmured. One of her hands moved between them, and she said, "Uh-huh. You've been too long without, Sarge." She moved away from him then, swinging her attention to the far wall of the small hut. An assortment of male swimming trunks hung from pegs there. Her eyes returned to his midsection, sizing him, then she selected from the swimwear. "Put these on," she suggested, tossing the trunks onto a low bench behind Bolan.

Bolan was still feeling somewhat mechanical in his actions. His fingers were already at his shirtfront, working the buttons. She moved back to him and went to work on the tie. A moment later she carefully hung shirt and tie on a peg, pushed him onto the bench, and took off his shoes and socks.

"I don't give this service to just everybody," she told him, smiling darkly. Her hands seized his belt "You're different."

He pushed her hands away and got to his feet. "Everybody's different," he grunted, his thinking faculties returning. He was fumbling with the waistband of his trousers. "I'll be out in a minute," he added, giving her a meaningful gaze.

"You don't really mean that," the girl replied. A quick motion of her hands caused the bikini bra to fall away. Glistening cones sprang forward, jiggling tauntingly in the sudden release, the pale pink at the tips highlighting the projection. She cupped them in her hands, gently agitating the nipples with her thumbs, which were already protruding slightly; they grew noticeably under the attention, riveting Bolan's eyes in fascinating inspection. "That net makes them itch," she explained. "Wouldn't you like to scratch them for me?"

Without a word, Bolan reached forward and tugged down the bikini panties. She stepped out of them with a throaty giggle and reached for his trousers, expertly lowering shorts and all in one brief motion and falling against him, moving sensually for calculated effect. Bolan groaned and clasped her to him, luxuriating in the fusion of male and female flesh. Her arms went tightly about him, hands rubbing feverishly at his back, pile-driving hips once again in action. Bolan twisted out of the embrace, his breathing harsh and ragged.

"It has been a while," he admitted.

"Don't worry about that," she said, obviously enjoying the explosiveness of the encounter. There was no room to stretch out in the tiny dressing room; it was also obvious that she had dealt with similar situations before. She pulled the little bench around and pushed Bolan down onto it, seated on the end, then she climbed aboard, straddling man and bench, seizing and stuffing him in with an obviously practiced maneuver and settling onto him with a harsh bounce. Bolan experienced an immediate tremor, his arms going about her and squeezing her fiercely to him as his back sought the surface of the bench. She went down with him, murmuring, "Good, good."

It had happened so quickly as to seem totally unreal to Bolan. "I don't suppose that did much for you, eh," he muttered apologetically.

She lay there, the magnificent breasts spreading across his chest, lips nibbling at his neck, entirely relaxed.

It can wait," she told him. "You guys always come back full of TNT or something." She struggled to her feet, smiling ruefully at his midsection, pulled a towel from a shelf and dropped it onto him.

"Are you a prostitute?" he asked her, point-blank.

She blinked at him, then smiled. "Sure," she said, still smiling.

"Then it really doesn't matter to you, does it. I mean..."

"I know what you mean." She retrieved the male trunks from the floor and tossed them at him, then began pulling on her own trunks. Then she stared at him silently for a long moment, picked up the bra, seemed to be debating something in her mind, then hung the bra on a wall peg. "But you're wrong," she said suddenly. "It does matter. And I'll show you. It will be better next time. Now that you're de-charged. Well- come on. Let's take a swim. And after that... Well, we'll find a better place than this damn shack. Okay?"

He grinned at her. "Okay," he said. He got into the trunks, and they both went out and took a topless dive into the pool. Bolan was looking forward to the next time, and the next place. Obviously, Mara was also. It was the most exhilarating swim Mack Bolan had ever taken.