It was a strange world, this world of Mafia. As the most secret societies, it was held together by a rather rigid social structure and governed quiet ritual. Custom and tradition were therefore important elements and tended to ext long beyond practical usage. It was this understanding of Mafia mind in which Bolan was investing his own strange game. He knew that the Aces had become an endangered species thanks chiefly to his own destructive penetration of their ranks. They had constituted an elite force-a secret society within the secret society-with virtually unlimited power and authority in the internal affairs of the Mafia nation They had been, in effect, a sort of Gestapo. And it was a tailor made setup for a guy like Mack Bolan.
He had been walking quietly among them since the third campaign of his war against the Mafia, taking on their camouflage when the "need versus risk" factor seemed to be in balance. It was not, however, a masquerade which a guy would contemplate for extended periods, or for capricious purposes. His enemies were not fools, even though he frequently made them appear as such. Bolan had survived this far in his war not by contempt for his enemy, but by careful respect for their intelligence and cunning. Each penetration was always on the heartbeat, with Bolan's survival in their midst directly dependent upon every word being spoken to the finest nuance, each gesture carried to perfection, every movement of face and eyes geared to the dictates of the changing moment.
It was not a fun thing, not even under the best of circumstances.
Add to that the present reality that Bolan's recent command strike on New York had severely undermined the authority of the Gestapo force. In the immediate wake of that strike it had seemed highly improbable that the supe rhard force would survive at all. But it was a strange world and the Aces had survived, although in greatly modified form. They were no longer autonomous. They could not interfere in any intra family dispute and their function in the no man's land between families was purely as fact-finders and arbitrators.
Theoretically they were still at the disposal for hard duties-of that council of boss known as La Commissione. So they were, in theory, still an enforcement arm of that council. But the council itself was presently in disarray, due to the instability of the Mafia world itself. It had not formally met since the New York fiasco, and La Commissione was in fact nothing more now than an executive staff functioning almost entirely as an administrative service. They maintained communications, and coordinated various operations between the underworld groups.
All of this left the Aces as neither fish nor fowl in that predatory jungle constituting the Mafia world. A few had been hit-as the logical settlement (in this world) of old grievances. Others had simply drifted away and vanished, retiring, perhaps, to obscure fates. Those that remained in service did so at their constant peril-at least until a new stability could be established.
So Bolan was well aware of the various hazards involved in this attempt to softly penetrate the Copa camp. But he was banking on that strange quality of Mafia mind which finds it’s sustenance in tradition, custom, and ritual. And he knew that success could be measured only from one heartbeat to the next.
He was not here for fun and games.
Mazzarelli was a bear of a man, half a head shorter than Bolan but commanding 300 pounds or more of tightly packed brawn-shoulders a yard wide, neck and head appearing as one unit with hardly any variation in circumference. The face was something else, though. Except for the bristly crewcut hair, it recalled memories of the long-dead comedian
Lou Costello-radiating that same air of tragic-comic innocence and vulnerability. But Bolan knew better. This guy was as dangerous as a coiled rattlesnake. All the time.
"Call me Omega," Bolan told him. He did not offer his hand.
"Okay, call me Gordy," said the Bear. The name fit no better than the face. The smile was pure mama mia and could have been entirely disarming had Bolan not known what lurked behind the smile. "How're things in the Big Apple?"
"Tense," Bolan replied.
"I'll bet, yeah. I haven't been there in a long time. I hate that damn town."
"That's okay," said Bolan-Omega. "I hate Chicago."
Those "innocent" eyes buckled a bit. "You like Nashville?"
"Better than Chicago, yeah."
"I'm from East Chicago, you know."
Bolan knew, sure. And he knew this word game, too. "I hate it worse," he said pleasantly.
It was a tense little verbal shoving match, a jockeying for status. Every kid who'd ever been on a schoolyard would recognize this game.
Mazzarelli said, "Yeah?"
Bolan replied, "Yeah. How 'bout you?"
The guy retreated with a chuckle. "Right, right. That's why I come south. Guess I could stay here the rest of my life."
Bolan would try to see to that. He said, "Nick's checking me out, eh?"
"Sure. Wouldn't you”
According to the rules of the game, it was now Bolan's turn to retreat-if, that is, he wished to demonstrate style. He chuckled as he replied. "I hope he doesn't get a wild man up there with a sick sense of humor."
It was enough; not too much. Mazzarelli understood the finer nuances of the word game. The smile became genuine as he stuck out a ham like paw. Bolan shook the hand and smiled back. The Bear said, "Glad you could make it. We're setting up hospitality in the garden. It's very nice out there. You'll like it. Nick wants you should get comfortable and feel at home. Can you stay awhile?"
Bolan made it sound like a regret. "Not long, no."
They crossed a large room featuring a vaulted ceiling and two outer walls of glass. Directly beyond was an elevated garden overlooking the pool. Pools, rather. One was for swimming; numerous others very obviously were not-they were ponds, actually, containing varieties of aquatic plants and clustered about the large central pool to create a beautifully tropic effect. Exotic potted plants and miniature trees combined with all that for a stunningly sensual experience. Swimming there, one would have the definite sensation of a paradise.
Two beautiful girls in microscopic bikinis added a positive dimension to that effect.
"Nice, huh," Mazzarelli said proudly.
Bolan laughed lightly and said, "Maybe I could stay awhile."
"Stay as long as you like," said the Bear. "Summer, winter-it's all the same here."
Bolan could believe that. The whole garden area was enclosed within a dome-like metallic framework in which were emplaced hinged panels of tinted glass. Apparently the panels could be opened or closed for changing environmental needs.
"I'd get soft, here," Bolan growled appreciatively.
Mazzarelli laughed. "No way," he said. "Not with Nick around. And speak of the devil…"
The lord of the manse was approaching, making his appearance via another doorway into the garden. He was a handsome man of medium size and graceful carriage. The sight of him triggered a small peephole in Bolan's mental mug file, bringing to mind the memory of a long obscure intelligence file on the guy. And Bolan had him made, now. Years ago, they had called him "the Professor" because of his interest in books. It was said that he nursed ambitions to be an author and had once been severely reprimanded for maintaining a clandestine diary toward a future attempt at autobiography. All that had been years ago, while he served the late Mafia lord of Los Angeles, Julian "Deer” DiGeorge. There was very little open knowledge of Copa's activities during recent years.
He came forward, hand outstretched, and smiling broadly. "Omega… it's a pleasure, a sincere pleasure."
Bolan shook hands and they sat down at a small table in a grove of miniature palms. The pool was directly ahead and about ten feet below. The bathing beauties were splashing quietly and without much animation in the shallow end. Bolan recognized them for what they were-stage props-as much a part of the scenery as the potted plants surrounding them. A couple of hard-looking guys in white coats were ceremoniously attending to the refreshments which had been wheeled up in elegant serving carts.
Meanwhile, it was small talk time.
Mazzarelli said, "Omega says he'd get soft here, Nick. I can't believe that. Can you?"
The boss of Nashville laughed politely as he replied, "He's pulling your leg, Gordy. Omega here is the hardest case New York can send. So you better get worried. He didn't come all the way down here to romp in the Garden of Eden."
"No I didn't," Bolan admitted, smiling. "But I'm almost converted. This must have cost a lot of bucks, Nick."
Copa the capo waved his hand in dismissal of the consideration as he replied, "What's money for if not to improve the quality of life? I've got a hundred and sixty acres here of God's country. It's my own little kingdom. Everything I need and want is right here. How do you put a price tag on that?"
Bolan said, "You're right."
Mazzarelli had not come that far in the conversation. He quietly asked, "What should I be,worried about?"
Copa arched an eyebrow at Bolan and laughed softly. "What should he be worried about, Omega?"
Bolan did not laugh with him. The small talk was ended. Very softly, he replied, "Plenty." The nuance was perfect.
And the Bear did not like it. He was very obviously on the defensive as he asked. "Did this guy check out, Nick?"
"Of course he checked out." Copa made a little ceremony of returning the ID wallet to Bolan. "That," he said soberly, for Mazzarelli's benefit, "is an Aces' Full House. What Omega wants, Omega gets in this territory." The next was directed only at the visitor. "Let's talk like men."
Bolan nodded. "You always do, Nick."
The Professor liked that nuance. He said, "Thanks. Here's what I want to say. I don't know anything about the troubles in New York. I'm not part of them and they're not part of me. I have no complaints with the administration. You guys have been doing a whale of a job and my doors are wide open to you. If you have a problem then I have a problem and vice versa. Like I said, my doors are wide open. But I run a tight ship. I don't want you doing anything in my territory unless you've cleared it with me, first. Now that's about as plain as I can put it."
"That's plain enough," Bolan replied, not committing himself to anything further.
"So why are you here?"
"I came to get Carl Leonetti."
"Who?"
The Bolan gaze turned fully upon Mazzarelli although it was clear that he was responding to the other. "You'll remember Roberto. Carl is his kid."
Copa thought about that for a moment before quietly replying, "That goes way back. Roberto's wife and kid disappeared ten, fifteen years ago. You're not still looking for them?"
"The lady died ten years ago. The kid did not. He came to Nashville last week. He's needed in New York. I came to take him home."
Mazzarelli's eyes became non committal slits, but the rest of the face was pure mama mia once again. "You mean you came to hit 'im," he said.
"I mean exactly what I said," Bolan told him.
"Wait a minute here," Copa said, in obvious confusion-and it seemed genuine. "There's more to this than I'm hearing. Why would Roberto's kid be in my territory? What's this all about?"
That was good enough for Bolan. It confirmed a feeling he'd had almost from the beginning. "Gordy can tell you more about that than I can," he said quietly.
The Copa gaze traveled quickly and compellingly to his lieutenant. "What's this all about?"
"I thought I told you," Mazzarelli said blandly.
"Told me what?"
"It's no big deal. I guess it wasn't important enough and I just forgot. Clemenza ran into the Leonetti kid awhile back when he was on a buying trip. You know. I think they had some kind of business deal. I don't know for sure. Anyway, Leonetti turns up here, maybe a week ago. In town, I mean. I guess he was looking for a connection."
"Did he say he was hot?"
"He didn't say, Nick."
"What did he say?"
Bolan was clearly no longer a participant in the conversation at the table. It was almost as though the other two had forgotten his presence. Which is perhaps why he was the first to become aware of the lady. He did not know how long she had been standing there in the background. But there she was-very striking, very lovely. She wore a silk lounging suit-on the order of a jumpsuit-and wore it very well. The dark hair was shoulder length and tawny, the eyes large and suffering. The age was anyone's guess but Bolan would call it quite a bit younger than Copa. And there was something very familiar about that haunted, pretty face.
Bolan came to his feet and greeted her with, "Well, hello."
That ended the private conversation between the other two. Copa stood up quickly and took the lady's hand. He told Bolan-Omega, "I said everything I wanted was right here. This is most of it. Omega, meet Mrs. Copa. Maybe you already know her as Molly Franklin."
Of course. Most people in the country would have found something very familiar about the lady. She was one of the current legends of the Nashville music scene. She'd come to this town as a raggedy teenager from a mountain hamlet with a suitcase full of original music and a voice to give unique life to that music. And she'd conquered Music City long ago, very nearly conquering all of America, as well, through television appearances in recent years.
Bolan murmured an acknowledgement of the introduction and the four sat down to small talk and light refreshments. After several minutes, Copa suggested that the lady show the visitor around the garden. She softly acquiesced. Bolan and the lady wandered away. Copa and Mazzarelli immediately returned to their original conversation.
She was showing Bolan a rubber tree which overhung the swimming pool, speaking almost mechanically in that soft drawl of the problems inherent in tropical gardening in Tennessee, when she shifted smoothly into another problem much closer to Mack Bolan's interests.
"Can you get me out of here?" she quietly inquired.
He was not certain that he heard her rightly. "What?"
"Can you get me out of here?"
"Can't you get yourself out?"
"I wouldn't be asking you if I could."
"Are you a prisoner?"
"Yes I am a prisoner. In my own home. This is my home, dammit and he won't let me-will you take me with you?"
Bolan took her arm and moved her along the pool's edge. "What makes you think I can?"
"The whole house has been buzzing ever since you got here. I've heard nothing else. You're an important man. I know you can take me away if you want to."
"I wouldn't want to get in the middle of a family spat," he told her.
"It is not a family spat." She shot a look of pure hatred toward the table. "Let him have it. I just want out of here."
"Let him have what?"
"The house, the land, all of it. But not me. I want out."
All of which was very interesting and intriguing to Bolan the Bold… but perhaps also a complication which might prove very hazardous to the mission goal.
He told the lady, "You put me in a very delicate position."
The lady told the visitor. "Well you won't find what you're looking for here."
He said, "You know what I'm looking for?"
"I heard enough that I can guess. You won't find him here. Her, either. Get me out and I'll tell you where to find them."
Complicating, yeah. But very, very interesting. Unless the lady was merely grasping at straws.
"Convince me," Bolan said quietly.
"He's from Singapore. He has a Russian wife. Gordy is trying to-and we-the flowering plants make such a mess of the pool, and we…"
She'd shifted back just in time. Copa was moving toward them… almost upon them.
Bolan told the lady with the haunted face, convinced. You've got a real problem here."
Copa said, "No problem can't be fixed. Right, honey?"
"I don't know," she said coldly.
"Depends on the proper approach," Bolan said, speaking for the benefit of both. He made eye contact with the lady and put as much understanding as he could gather there. "You have to pick your own time and place. I always do that." He turned to her husband. "Right, Rick?"
Copa laughed and said, "Better listen to the man, honey. Troubleshooting is his business."
"I heard every word he said," the lady reassured her husband.
Yeah. Bolan was sure of that.
She'd heard, also, every word he had not said.
So now what?