“We’ll check the sting later,” Davis said, his adrenaline pumping. He checked the service revolver in his snap-on belt holster. His .38 was there and ready. In his back pocket he felt his cold piece.
The unmarked police car stopped near the warehouse. A cruiser was nearby. The two cops in it grinned when they saw Davis. He nodded at them. They had each earned an envelope with fifty dollars in it.
“Captain, we saw some dude start out of the warehouse with a sack over his shoulder,” the first uniformed cop told him. “The guy saw us and ran back inside like a jackrabbit.”
“Right, Officer. You cover this door. Send your partner around to that side entrance down there. Paulson and I will go in and rout him out.”
They jumped on the nearest loading dock, and slid into shadows.
“We’ll work straight down the main aisle,” Captain Davis said. It was a general storage warehouse. “You check to the left, I’ll keep to the right.”
They worked slowly forward with their revolvers out. They were halfway when Davis motioned Paulson to follow him into the aisle on the right. No direct overhead light shone on the narrow alley between the tall stacks of boxes containing television sets.
“You watch at this corner,” Davis whispered to Paulson. “I heard something over there.” As Paulson looked around the boxes, Davis took from his pocket a .38 with the serial numbers filed off. He backed up six feet and shot Paulson in the temple.
He died instantly.
Davis drew his own service revolver and fired four times into the ceiling.
“Down here!” Davis screamed. “Down here! I think Paulson is hit!”
Davis wiped his prints off the cold gun with his handkerchief, then slid it thirty feet down the aisle. He mopped sweat off his forehead, ran three more aisles over, then saw a uniformed cop coming.
“Hold your fire! He got out a far window down there, all the way on the end.”
The uniformed officer found Lieutenant Paulson first, as Captain Davis had planned.
“Christ! The lieutenant is dead!” the cop said as he knelt beside the body. “Jesus! You never said...“
“Don’t just sit there!” Captain Davis roared. “Call for an ambulance! Move it!”
The cop ran down the main aisle, the fifty dollars in his pocket feeling like blood money. He’d had no idea anyone was going to die! He radioed for an ambulance and the coroner. He tried to throw up, but he could not.
An hour later people still milled around the death scene. An assistant chief, Larry Jansen, kept shaking his head. Paulson had been the chief’s fair-haired boy. Jansen had helped promote him over a dozen older men who had scored higher on the testing.
Davis watched the two cops warily, but they said exactly what they were supposed to. The suspect fled into the warehouse. They didn’t see that he was armed. They blocked off all the escape routes but one. The killer used it after shooting the officer. They had no idea why he dropped his gun. Perhaps the captain had wounded him, maybe hit his arm and the weapon fell. It was too dark in the warehouse to describe the man except by saying he appeared to be black and in his twenties.
Captain Davis sat on a box. He was visibly shaken. He did not have to fake it. He had killed before, but never a cop he had worked with, and not this way. He knew he had to do it, but he was sure he could never do it again. He had paid his damn dues! If the Mafia don wanted more from him, he would have to raise the pay scale to three thousand a week.
Chief Jansen touched the captain’s shoulder.
“Harley, take the rest of the day off. Don’t come in tomorrow, either. I know how this hurts. You’ll get over it. It’ll pass. But don’t rush it. Come on, I’ll drive you to your car.”
3
After he talked with Nino Tattaglia, Mack Bolan looked up the pool hall on Grand, then dialed. He talked to two flunkies before he got Wally “The Beast” Franconi on the line.
“Is this Wally Franconi?”
“Yeah. Who’s asking?”
“Recent acquaintance of yours. Remember the guy who broke your arm last night?”
Bolan waited until Franconi stopped screaming. Eventually, the flood of words and insults tapered off. When the Executioner could interrupt, he spoke sharply.
“Franconi, you’re not very well adjusted. Are you still there?”
“I’m here, you fucking bastard!”
“Good. We should get together. I figure I proved to you that you need a guy like me around.”
“Hell, no! I... hey... whaddaya mean?”
“Protection. Those goons who were with you didn’t help you much. You ain’t all that big without your rod, and like I thought, you sure as hell need some help.”
“Man, I gotta say you got guts. But even if I agree to a meet, why wouldn’t I show up with six guys bigger than you and bust both your goddamned arms?”
“You’re smart, that’s why. And so am I. Busting me up ain’t gonna make you no money. Staying alive and healthy so you can use your equipment makes you a money man. I can help you stay in action and turning the coin. Just figures.”
“I got protection. Who you with before?”
“West Coast. Got a little hot out there. Boss said take off a year. I don’t need the money. But I work for six hundred a week.”
“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe we should have a meet and talk. No promises.”
“Hey, none needed. I’m nuts about racing. Know that little one-eighth-mile dirt track just north of town by Parkville?”
“I can find it.”
“Just to talk. About noon.”
“I don’t know. Damn arm still hurts.”
“Take some pain pills. A long drive in the country’ll do you good.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll be there. Just be sure you come alone.”
“Right, Franconi, alone. See you then.”
It was eleven o’clock when Bolan arrived at the little race course. There was a dirt track. There were rickety stands for about two hundred people and pits with no garages. A summer operation. The gate to the track was open, so he put the rented Chevy around the oval at a leisurely pace, figuring to shake loose somebody in charge.
A grease-marked man wearing only shorts and running shoes waved the car into the pits. The Executioner stopped.
“You run the show here?”
“Me and the bank.”
“Hear you got some hot destruction derbies going.”
“Now and then.”
“You got a car I can buy for the destruct?”
“Might. Cash?”
“Right on the radiator. It’s got to have a good solid rear end and reverse and low forward.”
“Any make?”
“Most of them are several makes.”
The man laughed. Bolan figured he was thirty. The Executioner got out of the car and extended his hand. “Scott’s the handle. Where is this bucket of bolts?”
The man said his name was Castile and that he owned the spread. He led Bolan to a battered car and outlined its history.
The destruct racer had started life as a ‘69 Chevy, had outlived three engines and six radiators and all its fenders, but it still owned both low and second and reverse.
“Got a V-8 in there right now that can snarl your pants off. I won the last two destruct derbies we had here with that little cranker.”
“How much?”
“Well, I got six seventy-five in her and she’s a winner. Purse goes two hundred. Eight-fifty and she’s yours.”
“Sold, if I can use your track this afternoon for a couple of hours. You’ll have to clear out. Want the place all to myself and this guy who challenged me.” The Executioner took out his wallet and counted out nine one-hundred-dollar bills. “Close enough,” he said.