A pretty brunette occupied a reception desk outside the network of wrought iron. She was doodling on a scratch pad, the secretarial chair swivelled so that it faced the front door, her body twisted at the waist with the upper torso leaning over the desk, a silken expanse of long legs crossed at the knees and attractively displayed from a tight-fitting skirt that reached only to about midthigh. She looked up with a bored smile, not bothering to rearrange her position at the desk.
"Good morning," the visitor said. The voice was deeply pleasant and suggestive of an accustomed authority.
"Everybody's out," the girl told him, flashing her eyes toward the empty desks as though to confirm the truth of her statement. "... if you'd like to wait..."
He showed frank interest in her legs, from the hem of the skirt on down, and said, "I'm Mack Bolan. Mr. Plasky said he'd see me at nine." He glanced at his watch. "It's nine now."
"Oh, well, I think maybe Mr. Plasky is in," the girl said, gazing at the visitor with a newfound respect. She picked up a telephone and punched a button at the base of the instrument, all the while viewing Bolan with cool appraisal. "There's a Mr. Bolan here," she whispered into the mouthpiece; then, still holding the receiver to an ear, told Bolan: "Go on in "
The tall man angled a glance toward a door at the far end of the room and raised his eyebrows quizzically. The girl merely nodded, then giggled into the mouthpiece of the telephone and gasped, "Oh, Mr. Plasky!"
Bolan grinned as he pushed through a swinging gate in the wrought iron. He walked past the row of office-pens and opened the wooden door to the private office, glancing back at the brunette as he went in. She was still giggling delightedly into the telephone. He closed the door and turned his attention to the man behind the desk. The chair was swivelled so that Plasky's back was toward the door. His feet were crossed atop a low window-ledge and he was half-lying in the chair, the telephone clasped loosely to his head. He was telling the receptionist an off-color story, and vastly enjoying the telling.
Bolan dropped into a leather chair and lit a cigarette. Plasky ended the story with an explosive laugh, then launched immediately into another, swivelling about and raising his voice to share it with his visitor. Despite the high-humored jocularity of the moment, Bolan was aware that he was being sized up, and he did some sizing himself. Plasky was a heavy man, but not soft, thick of chest and shoulders. The hand clasping the telephone was a powerful one with stubby, squared-off fingers well manicured. Bolan aged the man at about forty. The hair was light brown, nearly blonde, and carefully barbered. A chiselled, ruddy face completed the not-unhandsome picture.
Bolan grinned with the punch line of the story and could hear the delighted shrieking of the brunette rattling the diaphragm of the telephone receiver. Plasky dropped the instrument, the genial lines of his face instantly reforming into a cool composure as his eyes locked onto his visitor's.
The day's contribution to employee relations," he explained in a suddenly businesslike voice. "You're Bolan, eh?" he asked, with hardly a pause.
The visitor nodded. "Mack Bolan. I won't be in town long. Figured I better get this business settled."
Plasky fussed with a manila folder that lay unopened on his desk. It was good of you to contact us," he said. "Course-you understand our circumstances. Uh-we're an auditing firm. You understand that. The unfortunate -uh-circumstances-over at Triangle Industrial..."
"I won't be in town long," Bolan repeated. "I was told that you are temporarily in charge of the Triangle accounts."
"Wasn't that a terrible thing?" Plasky muttered. "Five good men-imagine that-some nut, some lunatic, and five good men-wiped out-just like that!" He snapped thick fingers in emphasis. "I-uh-I've got your father's book here, Mr. Bolan," he went on, in subdued tones. He flipped up the front cover of the manila folder, stared briefly at something inside, then closed it again. "Frankly, this account is in a mess. Your father is in serious arrears."
Bolan produced a small spiral notebook and tossed it onto the desk. "Not according to this," he said. "That's my father's record. He borrowed four hundred dollars eleven months ago. He has repaid five hundred and fifty. And I have reason to believe that other payments, not recorded in his book, have been made by other members of the family. Obviously your books are in error."
Plasky smiled blandly and spread his hands, palms up, on the desktop, ignoring Bolan's notebook. "Loan companies are not charitable institutions, Mr. Bolan, and let me assure you-we do not make errors in our books. Each account is double-audited, and-"
"He borrowed four, he repaid five-and-a-half. The debt should be paid."
Plasky was working diligently at the smile. "Your confusion is understandable, soldier." He was reminding Bolan of his lower place in the order of intelligence. "Like I said, financiers are not charity-minded. They rent out their money. It's a simple rental arrangement. If you rent a house or a car, you expect to pay your rent each month and also to return the property- all of the property-when your rental period has expired. Right?"
Bolan merely nodded.
"We rented your father a sum of money. The rental period specified was ninety days. If your father had returned our property at the expiration of that period, and if his rent was all paid up at that time, the debt would have been settled. But he did not. Naturally, in any business arrangement, there are certain penalty agreements to be invoked when one of the parties defaults. So many people fail to understand the financial structure of the business world. Now all your father has managed to do is to barely keep up the rent payments and to pay some of the penalties. He still has all of the property he rented-in this case, our money. We want it back. Are we so unreasonable?"
"Five hundred and fifty bucks is pretty high rent on four hundred bucks, isn't it?" Bolan observed softly.
"You're forgetting the penalties," Plasky shot back. He smiled. "All right, you're an intelligent man, Mr. Bolan. Sure, our interest rates are high. We provide a service at a risk that few financiers would be interested in. Why didn't your father borrow this money from a bank? Huh? You know the answer to that. No bank would have risked a nickel on your father. We did. We risked four hundred dollars on him. Frankly, soldier, your old man was a bad risk. Naturally our interest rates have to take that cruel fact into account And, of course, we don't force anyone to do business with us. We-"
"You keep saying 'we,'" Bolan interrupted. I thought-"
"Plasky Enterprises is associated with Triangle, of course," Plasky said. "Shall we get down to business now? Are you prepared to settle your father's account?"
"As far as I'm concerned it's already settled," Bolan replied mildly. I just came in to tell you that"
"Our business is with your father, Mr. Bolan," Plasky said, coloring furiously. "He'll have to talk for himself."
That'd be a pretty good trick, Mr. Plasky. He was buried ten days ago."
There was a moment of silence as Plasky whipped the cover of the Bolan account open and closed several times. Finally he said, "We'll just refer the matter to our legal department. We can tie up the estate, you know."
"There's no estate and you know it," Bolan told him. "The debt is paid, Plasky. He got four, he returned five and a half. The debt is paid." He rose to leave.
"You don't know what you're saying, fella," Plasky sneered, rising with him.
Is your legal department going to pack up their brass knucks and follow me to Vietnam?" Bolan asked, his tone faintly mocking.