The Bone Yard (7 page)

"The litter on the highway?" Anders spoke with mild awe in his voice, a tone that said he knew the answer before Bolan voiced it.

The Executioner's silent nod was anticlimactic.

"She does some writing for the Daily Beacon here in town. Name's Lucy Bernstein."

A frown creased the ethnician's face. He seemed to be searching for something in the mental data banks and finally found it.

"You don't mean old Abe Bernstein's granddaughter? That the one?"

"Abe Bernstein?" Small alarms were going off in the back of Bolan's mind, insistent but still ill-defined. The name meant something to him, but....

"You have to know him, man," the comic said. "The Father of Las Vegas. Word is, he built everything that Meyer and Bugsy missed."

And it was coming back to Bolan, sure. He had dismissed the name and face, consigned it to the small "inactive" file reserved for mobsters who retired because of age or illness, but he called the reference back now, ran it through the terminals of memory.

Abe Bernstein was originally from Detroit, where he had helped to found the famous Purple Gang around the time America was entering World War I. He got a jump on Prohibition, staking out a territory on the river just across from Canada and turning bootleg liquor into liquid gold, defending his investment with a formidable army.

A year before Repeal he smelled the winds of change and made the shift from booze to big-time gambling, staking out preserves around Kentucky, Florida and Southern California that saw him through the Great Depression.

When the Mafia started flexing muscle in the thirties, easing out or killing off the old-line Jewish gangsters, Bernstein traveled west, giving ground reluctantly before the Sicilian juggernaut. Along the way he pioneered in legal gaming, setting up his first small clubs in Reno, moving south when Bugsy Siegel struck the mother lode along Las Vegas Boulevard in 1947.

The Gold Rush Hotel-Casino was his first investment in Las Vegas — one of many that included real estate and industry, construction, politics and cattle ranching. Bernstein funneled thousands — some said millions — into local charity and was rewarded with a host of plaques and honors for his labors, testifying to his latter-day respectability. In time, his sanctuary was invaded once again by mafiosi, and this time there was nowhere to run. As the new wave gradually replaced the old, Abe Bernstein was reduced to something of a puppet, going through the motions of administering that which he once owned outright. Among the Justice Strike Force leaders there was little doubt who held the puppet's strings — and they were long ones, stretching east to Brooklyn and Manhattan.

"I didn't know Abe had a family," Bolan said at last.

The comic frowned.

"A daughter," he responded. "Out of wife number three or four... I don't remember. The daughter's gone now, but there was one child... the granddaughter." Anders hesitated and a chuckle crept into his voice, almost reluctantly. "If she's your Lucy... well, they've got a sense of humor, anyhow."

"What's funny?" Bolan asked.

"Well, Old Jack Goldblume, down there at the Beacon... hell, he used to work for Bernstein at the Gold Rush. Handled all the joint's PR back in the old days, before he got religion and went into the civic conscience business full time." Another hesitation and Anders was no longer laughing. "Kind of makes you feel like it's all in the family, eh?"

Bolan barely heard him. He was already thinking through the riddle, trying jumbled pieces, rejecting each in turn and moving on to something new.

Jack Goldblume used to work for Bernstein at the Gold Rush. Now he ran the Daily Beacon, and they were, presumably, still friends.

Now Bernstein's granddaughter — if she was his granddaughter — worked for Goldblume. As a plant?

A favor for old times' sake? And Lucy Bernstein, acting under Goldblume's orders, was preparing to expose the very Mafia that owned her grandfather. Why?

Bolan knew that to receive the necessary answers, he would have to ask the proper questions. And of several potential sources, he planned to start with one who owed him something. Like her life.

Bolan found the large apartment complex on the first pass. It was off the main drag two blocks over to the south of West Sahara where he had dropped Lucy Bernstein the night before. A quick call to her number listed in the telephone directory had brought no answer, and the Executioner was betting that last night's festivities had shaken her enough to make her call in sick to work and lay low for a day or two.

As on the previous visit, Bolan found the guard shack out front unattended, and he cruised past, slowing over the omnipresent speed bumps, following the parking lot that ran around the complex proper like an asphalt moat. The buildings fit the martial image, bearing more resemblance to a desert fortress than anything elsewhere rough stucco with the red tile roofs of vaguely Spanish style.

The soldier parked as close as possible to his intended target, locked the car and left it.

Lucy's friend lived back inside the complex, away from the lot, and any way he went about it, he would have to walk. Bolan was counting on the empty sentry booth out front to mean there would be no security on foot inside the complex after nightfall, either. He passed a combination swimming pool and sauna with a couple hiding from the nighttime chill inside the heated whirlpool bath. Their movements told him they were making love — or maybe only warming up for later — but he did not take the time to stop and check it out. His mind was occupied with war and death at the moment; lovers had no place on Bolan's solitary battlefield.

He moved along the imitation flagstone path to Building 9, then followed his nose around to apartment 186. It was a two-story town house layout and the only lights showing were upstairs, above a boxed — in patio of sorts.

He spent a moment scanning the surroundings, buttoned his jacket shut, and pressed the doorbell set above a cardboard nameplate that identified the occupant.

Feeble chimes inside, then nothing.

Bolan waited thirty seconds and tried again.

Now he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs inside. Despite the muffling distance they sounded heavy, labored. Male.

A light went on behind the French doors to his left, escaping through the peephole in the door. A shadow blocked it out as someone planted an eye against the viewing lens.

"Who is it?" a male voice inquired.

Right, Bolan thought, noting the heavy flavor of the Bronx. Bolan started thinking fast.

"Pizza man."

"We didn't order nothing'."

He played it cautious, knowing this might be a boyfriend of either young woman. He glanced down at an imaginary sales slip in his hand, performing for the benefit of the invisible observer.

And what materialized in his fist was the silenced Beretta 93-R, safety off and ready to rip.

"Well, I gotta note here says deliver one large pepperoni to a Mrs. Castorina," Bolan told the blank impassive door. There was a hesitation on the other side, slow wheels turning in there and sealing the other man's fate.

"She ain't here now," Mr. Invisible answered.

"Must be some mistake." You made it, slick, the soldier told himself, and plugged a silent mangler through the door six inches underneath the peephole, following through with a kick to the door that exploded the lock mechanism, slamming it back and open, catching the dead man before he had a chance to fall.

Bolan dragged him across the room checking him out with a glance — the scarlet flower blooming on his chest, dead center, and beside him on the floor, a Colt Commander .45 that he would never have another chance to use. One down.

He scanned the combination living room and kitchen, found it empty. He was moving toward the stairs and homing on the sound of running water when a voice hailed him from the second-floor landing overhead. More Bronx in this one, with a hint of speech impediment behind the growl.

"Hey, Lenny — what the hell?" No answer from the leaking Brooklyn delegate.

Bolan waited by the stairs until he heard the sound of cautious footsteps, tracking them halfway down before he made his move, emerging in a combat crouch, the Beretta out in front of him and steadied in both hands. A chunky goon in shirt-sleeves spent a second gaping at him, finally reaching for the side arm he had stupidly left snug inside its shoulder holster, knowing he could never make it in a million years. Mack Bolan stroked the trigger twice, and lisping Bronx became a sliding bag of bones, descending gracelessly toward him. The soldier was already moving, hurdling the corpse and taking the carpeted risers three at a time. The 93-R nosed out ahead of him, and he gained the final landing unopposed. Two bedrooms opened on his right — both dark, empty. Dead ahead the bathroom door was standing halfway open, spilling pale fluorescent light into the hallway. He heard water running — a bathtub by the sound of it — and Bolan drifted to his right, craning for a better look inside the room. Another step, and he could see the mirrored medicine cabinet on the wall above a sink. It let him scrutinize the back side of the open door, a towel rack — and the gunner waiting for him just inside. Bolan stepped back out of sight, approaching catlike and thumbing up the fire-selector switch to shift his weapon from the semiautomatic to 3-shot mode. He took up station three feet from the open door and three feet to its left, directly opposite the waiting gunner, only lath and plaster in between them now.

He held the Beretta up, chest high, imagining the outline of a man emblazoned on the stucco, and stroked the trigger twice, two short bursts ripping through the cheap construction, all six rounds impacting in a fist-sized circle.

A muffled grunt inside was followed by a crash as number three connected face first with the mirrored glass of the medicine cabinet. Bolan stepped inside and found the gunner wedged between the sink and toilet bowl where he had fallen. His riddled back and lacerated face were dribbling crimson pools that beaded up on contact with the waxed linoleum.

The bathroom's other occupant was stretched out naked in the overflowing tub, her face a precious inch or two above the waterline. And it was Lucy Bernstein, barely alive.

Bolan killed the tap and took a heartbeat to appreciate her beauty before he reached down between the floating legs to pull the plug. He caught her under the arms, lifting the lady up in one fluid motion. When she was clear of the tub, Bolan got an arm beneath her thighs and carried her back past the lifeless pistolero to the nearest bedroom. They might have been interrogating her, but more likely they had meant to kill her and leave it looking like a simple household accident. Whatever, someone in Minotte's camp had traced her here and, had it not been for Bolan's timely arrival, she would be another colored pin on Captain Reese's wall map.

He left her on the single bed and backtracked to the bathroom for some towels. The lady was alive and Bolan needed answers from her in a hurry. Later he could give thought to searching out a haven in the hellgrounds for her.

Safety was a slim commodity in Vegas, getting more scarce by the moment. Soon there would be no free zones on the battlefield. Before it came to that Bolan had to have some answers. Solutions to the host of problems that were plaguing him, binding his hands in what appeared to be at least a three-way war.

There was the Yakuza with Seiji Kuwahara at the helm, united in a singleness of purpose that could make them deadly in the clenches. And the Mafia — now anything but solidly united, from the glimpse that Bolan gathered of the meeting at Spinoza's just before he brought the curtain down. If anything, the family representatives seemed likely to attack each other, long before they got around to Kuwahara. There was the Bernstein faction — if it still existed as an independent entity.

Finally there was Bolan, taking on the world as usual, with every hand against him in the hellgrounds. The odds were with the house as always, but perhaps, just maybe, he could find the key to trimming down those odds a bit.

With good fortune and an assist from the kindly Universe he might even find a way to turn them around for a change. And there again he needed answers.

Insight.

Truth.

Another scarce commodity in Glitter City — but the Executioner had time to dig for it.

A lifetime, if it came to that.

Perhaps a deathtime.

Either way he was committed — to the end of the line.

Bolan gave the woman a brisk rubdown that slowly restored a ruddy color to her body. She started showing signs of life as he was finishing, first coughing, moaning like a trapped and injured animal, finally thrashing out with slender arms and legs in all directions. She had surprising strength — the natural result of desperation. Bolan held her down gently until all resistance ebbed.

When the first defensive spasms passed he brought the sheet and blanket up around her chin, tucking her in like a child. He turned the lights up so that she could see him when she woke, then sat astride a straight-backed chair pulled up beside the bed.

Her eyelids flickered moments later and she looked around, getting her bearings. The eyes settled on Bolan, sparking with recognition, and he was pleased to see her rigid form relax a bit beneath the coverlet.

"It's you, again," she said when she had found her voice."

"Afraid so."

She risked a little smile, without conviction.

"Don't be scared. I'm glad to see you."

There was a momentary silence, as she searched the shadows in each corner of the room for any hostile presence.

"The others..."

"They're not with us anymore," he told her simply.

"You... oh, I see." She was remembering Minotte's more than likely, and the showdown on the highway afterward.

He changed the subject, treading softly.

"Where's your roommate?"

"Working nights. She wasn't here when they showed up, thank heaven."

Bolan felt a measure of relief. He had been half expecting to discover yet another female on the premises, this one already cold and stuffed into a cupboard somewhere by the goons before they settled down to handling the main event.

"Okay," he said, "you'll need to warn her off before we leave. Police will have the place sealed off."

"Those men..."

Bolan read the question in the woman's eyes, and answered it forthrightly.

"I don't have time to move them out." He paused, then continued. "Some questions, then we have to get you out of here."

"I understand. I'll make it up to her... somehow."

She started to sit up and the covers slipped. Hasty fingers grabbed for the sheet, color flaming her cheeks before she made the save. For the first time Lucy Bernstein seemed to realize that she was naked — and that she had not put herself to bed.

She tried to feign bravado as she spoke to him again, putting a bold face on her obvious embarrassment, "I guess I don't have many secrets left."

His answer was a thoughtful frown.

"I wouldn't say that."

"Oh"... She saw that he was serious. Her small self-conscious smile evaporated. "You said you had some questions?"

Bolan nodded, jumped right into it with both feet.

"How long have you worked for the Beacon?"

Lucy looked surprised, taken off guard by his choice of subject matter.

"Going on three years now. I applied right out of journalism school. That's USC," she added, perhaps attempting to impress him.

Bolan was impressed already — by the woman's beauty, by her courage... but he was curious about her, too. And he could not afford to take her at face value.

He still needed answers, and he tried a new approach — direct now, sharp.

"I guess the family hookup helped," he said.

She looked confused again.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged.

"It means Jack Goldblume and your grandfather go back some forty years. It never hurts to know the boss."

"My grandfather..."

"What do you know about him, really?" Bolan interrupted, silencing her protest.

There was more color in her cheeks, and it was temper now, with no trace of embarrassment. She came up on one elbow, losing the covers again in the process and retrieving them distractedly, her full attention on the nature of Bolan's questioning.

"I know that he's a kindly decent person, Mr. "Blanski." Oh, I've heard the stories — all about his whiskey during Prohibition, and the gambling clubs. I know that he was questioned by Congress more than thirty years ago."

She paused, regarding Bolan with a fine hostility, and when she spoke again her tone was almost haughty.

"It's ancient history, my fine self-righteous friend. He's never been indicted, never been convicted — nothing!"

"What's that supposed to prove?" he asked her calmly.

She was momentarily speechless and the soldier took advantage of it, veering off along a different track.

"You're working on the Syndicate. I guess you've heard of Frank Spinoza?"

"Certainly." Her tone was stiff with barely suppressed anger.

"That's Frank Spinoza from New York," he prodded.

"I said I know who he is."

But Bolan would not let it go until he made his point.

"Spinoza from New York, who has his office at the Gold Rush."

Lucy was silent now. She watched his face with something close to apprehension in her eyes.

"Your grandfather's casino," Bolan finished.

"Jack Goldblume used to run the PR there."

"I know all that," she said. "So what?"

"So, maybe nothing. Maybe I don't buy coincidence."

"You think that my grandfather got me this job?"

Bolan shrugged.

"Well, you're wrong, mister," she snapped. "I'm a damned good reporter. There were other offers when I graduated, other opportunities. I picked the Beacon and Las Vegas. Me. I like it here, okay?" She was convincing, sure, and Bolan wanted to believe her. But even if she was leveling, it did not mean she knew the full extent of what was going on behind the scenes.

"Who came up with the idea for a Mafia series?" Bolan asked her.

Lucy frowned and somehow it only made her more attractive.

"It just came down," she answered. "I guess the city editor..."