San Diego Siege (4 page)

The San Diego territory had long been considered a tenderloin area for
La Cosa Nostra.
This "key" territory — bounded on one side by one of the world's ten greatest natural harbors and on another by the Mexican border — until recently had functioned as an "arm" of the DiGeorge Family, the Los Angeles mob which had already tasted the Executioner's war effort.

With DiGeorge's death and the dissolution of that "family," the national ruling council,
La Com-missione,
stepped in to administer the syndicate's interests in that area.

Ben Lucasi had been a DiGeorge underboss. He and "Deej" had been longtime friends. He'd hated to see Deej have to go that way ... but in his secret moments, Lucasi would admit that even the darkest cloud usually carried a silver lining.

Under the new setup, Big Ben was practically autonomous — reporting directly to the Commission of Capo's at the national level of government.

San Diego was no longer an "arm" of anything or anybody. San Diego now belonged to Big Ben Lucasi, period. And, yeah, Big Ben (who measured 5'4" even in elevator shoes and weighed-in soaking wet at 120 pounds) liked things a hell of a lot better that way.

He was not, of course, a full-fledged
Capo.
Not yet. But that honor would come, just like all the other good things had come. The whole California territory was reorganizing itself around San Diego.

One of these days the boys all around the country would be referring to this arm as
The Lucasi Family.
And why not? Where the money was, that's where the power was — and now that he was no longer getting a lot of jealous bullshit from L.A., Ben Lucasi was mining the San Diego gold like it hadn't been mined since the forty-niners.

What with
Agua Caliente
a few minutes south and with Las Vegas just a hop over the mountains by plane — hell, a guy would have to have his mind in his balls not to make a goldmine out of that happy circumstance. And the whole goddam fuck-in' U. S. Navy sitting out here at his right hand, running back and forth to the Orient — what kind of a lamebrain wouldn't turn a thing like that to his profit?

Some of the locals were starting to snicker about his "seagoing Mafia." Which was okay. Let them make jokes. Lucasi owned also a "khaki Mafia." Let 'em laugh — that was okay. As long as everybody was laughing there'd be no worry. Meanwhile San Diego was fast becoming the underground capital of the western world, and Ben Lucasi was becoming the most powerful non-Capo anywhere.

The Lucasi home was an unpretentious but modern split-level situated in one of the new neighborhoods near Mission Bay Park. He lived there with his third wife, Dorothy — a 23-year-old ex-showgirl from Las Vegas. Lucasi was 56. He had a daughter, 35, and a son, 32, from his first marriage. The son worked in a casino in Nassau; the daughter, at last report, was somewhere in Europe "with another lousy gigolo."

The first Mrs. Lucasi had died under mysterious circumstances while the children were still quite young, during that era when Bennie was scrambling everywhere for the buck. His criminal record from those early days reveals arrests for pandering, rape, felonious assault, theft, gambling, arson, extortion, intimidation, black-marketeering, manslaughter, and murder. The official FBI report on this very busy criminal enumerated 52 specific charges… with but 2 convictions and 2 suspended sentences.

He had spent a combined total of 66 days behind bars.

His last arrest had occurred in 1944, on a black-marketing charge.

Lucasi had come west at the end of the war, settling first in Reno, Nevada for a few years, then on to Las Vegas when the boom began there. In the late fifties he relocated to San Francisco, later gravitating to Los Angeles for a lieutenancy under Julian DiGeorge, who eventually sent him on to San Diego to boss that arm of the family.

So, sure. Except for a few nervous moments here and there, the world was looking rosy indeed for this late-blooming syndicate boss. The nervous moments came from increased anti-crime activity at the federal level — the damned Strike Forces — and a growing awareness among local citizens regarding the interconnections between the straight and the kinky communities.

And, of course, there was that Bolan bastard.

Bolan had almost torn things for good when he went on the warpath against Deej. The repercussions from that conflict had been felt clear down into San Diego ... and to points beyond. Lucasi himself had been enroute to Palm Springs when Bolan finally lowered the boom on DiGeorge there. And he'd seen, at first hand, the aftermath of a Mack Bolan hit. Yeah, he still had nightmares sometimes over what he'd seen at Palm Springs.

Goddamn
how relieved Bennie had been when Bolan started churning up the turf back east.

Lucasi had thought he was rid of the bastard.

The son of a bitch had been everywhere. He'd hit Miami. He'd hit, for Christ's sake, even over in France and England — and for damn sure Bennie had thought the guy would stay over there somewhere and lay low.

Like hell he did. He hit the five family area, New York, like some crazy avenging angel, and just tore the living shit out of that place.
All five families!

Ben had thought, then, well okay. Go ahead, you crazy bastard. Keep living like that and you won't survive to head west again.

Lucasi had been wrong about that, too.

He'd almost prayed that the guy would try Chicago. Yeah, hit Chi now ... try your luck on a
real
town.

And the son of a bitch did it. And the "real town" folded just like all the others.

Lucasi had begun to feel that this Bolan had some sort of special decree from God or something. No guy — not
no
guy who is one hundred percent mortal — could get away with that kind of shit forever.

So then the guy went into Lucasi's old home base, the town the whole mob loved — Vegas — and Christ, what monkeys he'd made of them all in Vegas.

So, sure. There had to be something eerie about the guy.

Worst of all, the big bastard in Executioner black was west again … and Lucasi doubled his palace guard and went nowhere without a heavy escort of bodyguards.

Then the guy bobs up down in Puerto Rico ... of all the damned places ... but before Lucasi could start breathing naturally again, there the bastard was up in Frisco and tearing hell out of California again.

It was too much.

Lucasi took a quick vacation to Honolulu.

When he returned, Bolan was back east again, romping through Boston first and then tearing through Washington.

No guy should get away with that much.

No one hundred percent
mortal.

If somebody didn't stop him pretty soon, he'd be chewing up San Diego one of these days.

And, sure, Bennie Lucasi had a lot of nervous moments.

How did you stop someone like that?

Lucasi had taken to reading up on black magic, ESP, mind control ... all that. He dipped briefly into Yoga — trying to find Bolan's secret.

He even went to confession at that little mission down on the coast.

The poor hayseed priest had thought Lucasi was bullshitting him. Bawled him out good for playing games with the confession box.

Lucasi lit a candle at that mission, just the same.

That cock Bolan would be trying San Diego sooner or later ... no doubt about that.

Lucasi had to be ready for him. He had to — somewhere, somehow — find the edge that would equalize Bolan.

He'd been trying. God, he'd tried everything.

And now it seemed that his preparation time had run out.

Sammy Simonetti was standing right there in his living room and handing him the most feared symbol which Ben Lucasi ever expected to see.

A fuckin' marksman's medal.

In a strangely quiet voice, he asked Sammy, "You bringing me this instead of my hundred thou?"

Simonetti was sweating, overly-defensive. "I swear to hell, Mr. Lucasi, the guy just — "

"Where'd you say he hit you?" the chieftain interrupted in that same deadened voice. "Vegas?"

"No sir, right out here on this end, at the airport."

"Where the hell is my black milk, Sammy?"

"Jesus, I told you.
He
took it."

"You still got both arms, I see."

"Yessir, they didn't hardly put a mark on me. That's what I can't understand. They didn't hurt Chicano and Schoolteacher either. Just locked 'em in the trunk of the car."

"They who?" Lucasi muttered.

"Bolan and his triggerman."

"Bolan don't use no triggermen," Lucasi said quickly, a hint of fire returning to his voice.

"He did this time. There were two of them. Come up on me just like a couple of goddamn shadows. I didn't know from nothing, boss. Just ail of a sudden here was this damn Beretta looking down my throat."

"The guy works
alone,
you dumb shit!" Lucasi shouted. "Now you get your story straight!"

"Jesus, I swear, it happened just like I said," Simonetti moaned.

Lucasi turned his back on the courier and, to no one in particular, commanded, "Take Sammy outside and get his story straight."

A large man who had been lurking near the door opened it and gave the nod to Simonetti. "Let's go," he growled.

The black-money courier's eyes rolled; he started to give an emotional protest to the boss, then quickly changed his mind and stumbled out the door. Another man fell in behind him, solemnly pulling the door closed behind their exit.

Lucasi was flipping the marksman's medal like a coin, staring past it unseeingly, his eyes characteristically locked into a dead focus while his mind whirred.

Presently he said, quietly, "Somebody could be shooting us full of juice, Diver."

The large man at the door, Lucasi's house captain, replied, "Could be. I been wondering when somebody would try something like that. Those marksman's medals can be picked up most anywhere."

"It doesn't sound like a Bolan hit," Lucasi said.

"No, it don't, Ben."

"You were back east last month. How many of the boys did you run into?"

The large man shrugged. "I guess a dozen or two. Why?"

"New York boys?"

The man nodded. "Yeah. Them too."

"Did you talk to one — just
one
— who'd ever seen Bolan face to face?"

The big man just grinned.

"Of course you didn't," Lucasi said, smirking. "The only boys who've seen Bolan, you'd have to go to hell to talk to them. Right?"

The house captain jerked his head in agreement. "He don't fuck around much, the way I hear it. He just hits and splits, and when he's gone, there ain't nobody around to tell what happened."

"Exactly." Lucasi tossed the medal again and deliberately let it fall to the floor. "So who's got my goddamn hundred thou, Diver?"

"It sounds fishy, all right," the captain agreed.

"You go out and help talk to Sammy."

The large man grinned sourly and went out.

Lucasi lit a cigar and worked furiously at it until the tip was glowing fiercely, then he walked stiffly out of the room, along a short hallway to his sleeping quarters.

He went directly to the bed and whipped the covers away from the nude woman who was sleeping there. He yelled, "Outta that rack, you lazy bitch!"

Dorothy Lucasi sleepily sat up, swinging the long Vegas-showgirl legs over the side of the bed. "Are you crazy, Bennie?" she inquired in a practiced monotone. She often asked him that, in the same tone of voice.

His wife stood a full head taller than Lucasi. He glowered at her as she lurched to her feet and looked about dazedly for her dressing gown. Instead of helping her find the wrap, he yelled, "Yeah, I'm crazy to have married a floozy like you!" Lucasi often said that, also.

"You get some clothes on that million dollar meat and hustle it into the kitchen. It's seven o'clock and I goddammit want something to eat!"

She was sleepily complaining, "Why can't Frenchy fix … ?" when her chin dropped and the words quit coming.

Lucasi thought at first that she was looking at him in some new way he'd never yet seen, then he knew that her transfixed gaze was going beyond him and onto something behind him.

A chill seized his spine and shook it, and he turned slowly to find the object of his wife's rarely undiluted attention.

A big tall guy was just standing there against the wall, next to the window — and he must have been there all the while. He was dressed all in black, with guns and belts and things strapped all over him, and that face was like carved out of Mount Rushmore, except for the peculiarly hot-icy eyes that smouldered out of that deepfreeze.

Yeah. Bolan had come to town, all right.

Lucasi felt himself crumbling inside.

His voice sounded high and squeaky to himself as he told the impressive apparition in black, "So. Sammy had it straight."

The guy wasn't even holding a gun on him ... the wise cock. He was just standing there, sort of relaxed, staring a hole through Ben Lucasi.

The seconds ticked away, silently. Dorothy sat back down on the bed and modestly covered her lap with a sheet. It was the first act of modesty on her part that Ben Lucasi had ever been aware of. He found himself wondering about the effect this guy had on the dames.

Presently Lucasi cleared his throat and said, "Uh, what do you want, eh?"

"Harlan Winters," the guy replied, and it was a voice straight out of hell.

"Who?" the Mafia chieftain nervously inquired.

Dorothy giggled, like some nut. "Harlie Winters," she said, very helpfully.

"He ain't here," Lucasi declared quickly, wishing he could bust that broad right in the nose.

"He's dead," the big guy said.

Lucasi whispered, "God I'm sorry, I didn't know that."

"Friend of yours?"

The guy sure didn't use many words.

"Uh, well... in a way. We, uh ... met once or twice." He snapped a quick glance toward his wife. She was wearing a shocked face. He hoped to God she'd keep her flannel mouth shut and he kept right on talking to edge her out, just in case.

"Winters was a nice man, God — that's terrible. How'd he die?"