Violent Streets (11 page)

The sleek black crew wagon sat on the grassy shoulder of West Shore Drive, facing north. Away to the right, or east, Lake Phalen was hidden from view behind a sheltering screen of trees and shrubbery.

Riding shotgun in the front, crew chief Danny Toppacardi was getting nervous. He checked his watch at frequent intervals, mentally marking off the minutes until their scheduled rendezvous with the man. He wasn't late — not yet — but Danny Tops was already feeling the strain.

Not that the other members of the crew seemed put out by the waiting. In the driver's seat beside him, Lou Nova was working his way through his third cigar of the morning, puffing contentedly away. In the back, gunners Vince Cella and Solly Giuffre had the broads sandwiched in, and they weren't feeling the sweat, no way. Solly kept one arm looped around the lady cop's shoulders, and the fingers of his free hand were tracing little abstract patterns on her knee.

Danny heard a slap from back there, and the lady cop was saying, "Stop that!" in a no-nonsense tone. The crew chief turned around in time to see her straightening her skirt and Solly pulling back his hand like a kid caught reaching into the cookie jar.

The gunner flashed him a vacuous, shit-eating grin, and said, "No sweat, Danny. We're A-okay back here, right, momma?"

The policewoman just glared at him silently.

Perfect, just perfect. Danny felt disgust rising in him, on top of the nerves.

"Cool it, Solly," he drawled. "This ain't no social outing."

Chastised, the gunner lost his smile, replacing it with a petulant expression.

"Sure, Danny," he groused. "Whatever."

Toppacardi turned back toward the front, staring at nothing through the Lincoln's broad windshield. Sure, he could understand and sympathize with the restlessness of his troops. They had been on station for fifteen minutes, waiting for Old Man Smalley to grace them with his presence and take the two broads off their hands. That was a long time to spend sitting out in broad daylight with two kidnapped women in the back seat. Too damn long, yeah.

Hell, Danny could feel the restiveness himself, even if he couldn't afford to let it show.

Fifteen minutes sitting in the park with nothing to look at but trees and birds, and one car that had cruised by a few minutes earlier, putting everybody on edge. No wonder Solly and Vince were feeling their oats back there with the broads.

Danny wouldn't have minded cutting a slice of that for himself, but a job was a job, dammit. The boys should keep that in mind.

Another two minutes had passed, and Danny Toppacardi had checked his watch twice more before Roger Smalley's car pulled up and slid to a stop on the grassy shoulder ahead of them. The old man got out and walked back to meet them, his face locked into one of those politician's smiles that Danny Tops had learned to distrust on sight.

And Smalley took his own damn time about reaching the side of the car, finally getting there and leaning in through the window with his arms crossed on the sill, grinning at the broads in back.

"Ladies, I trust your accommodations were adequate," he said politely,

And the lady cop snapped back, "Go to hell, Smalley!"

Danny watched the old guy's face, stifling a grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He liked nothing better than to see a pompous ass deflated, but the dude was a paying customer, and he couldn't forget that either.

The crew chief's face was blank, impassive, as the assistant commissioner turned to address him for the first time.

"Any problems?" Smalley asked.

Danny Tops gave his head a casual shake.

"Nothin' we couldn't handle," he said. "What do you want us to do with the load?"

Smalley tossed another quick glance back toward the women.

"I should be taking them off your hands momentarily," he said.

As if on cue, another car rolled past them, easing to a stop some yards ahead of Smalley's vehicle. It bore no markings, but the four hardmen made it instantly as a police cruiser. They tensed reflexively, hands starting the casual slide toward hidden guns. Roger Smalley noted the reaction and tried to calm them with reassuring words.

"Relax," the commissioner said, "he's with me. There's no problem."

Danny Tops kept his hand inside his jacket, just in case. He watched a husky cop in plainclothes exit the cruiser and walk around to pull a skinny, pasty-faced kid from the passenger's side. The kid looked twenty-one, twenty-two tops. His hands were cuffed behind him, and his darting eyes had the desperate look of a cornered animal.

Roger Smalley was grinning like a shark with prey in sight.

"I believe we're all ready now. If one of you gentlemen could help me escort the ladies to the lake..."

"That's me," Vinnie called from the back seat, already crawling out and reaching for the broad nearest him.

Danny glanced back in time to catch Solly scowling at the other gunner, and Vince Cella was waggling an upraised middle finger at him, snickering derisively.

"Maybe next time, Solly," he said, playing it to the hilt. Solly Giuffre's answer was a husky growl.

Commissioner Smalley stepped back to make room as the two broads were half carried, half pulled out of the back seat. In another moment they were on the shoulder of the road, with Vince holding each one by an arm, grinning broadly.

"Excellent," the commissioner said, turning to Danny. "There is one other thing. I'm expecting some, er, unwelcome company. A man, probably alone. When he arrives, make him comfortable until I get back. Understood?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sure."

And that was all Danny Toppacardi needed on that sunny summer morning. First he brings his crew out to the park, where they park in broad daylight for a quarter-hour with two hot broads in the back, and now he's waiting for some wildcard to appear from who knows where. And all the time they're sitting there, Vince and the two cops are off at the lake doing God knows what to the two broads.

He shook his head wearily, letting his breath out slowly in a long, disgusted sigh.

At age forty, he could remember the good old days when cops were bought off or frightened off or rubbed out. None of this kowtowing bullshit in those days, no sir. It wasn't right, somehow. He could feel it in his bones.

Danny watched as the little group disappeared into the trees and underbrush, Smalley leading the way like some kind of movie star with his entourage. Vinnie Cella went next, with the broads held close on either side of him, and the husky detective brought up the rear, keeping a tight watch on the scrawny kid. In a moment they were all lost to sight, leaving Danny Tops alone with his crewmen and his thoughts.

They settled down to wait, Danny firing up a smoke and passing the pack to Solly in the back seat. Still sulking, the gunner waved him off.

Maybe a minute after Smalley and his group had faded into the trees, a tall man in windbreaker and slacks appeared up ahead of the Lincoln, walking along on the opposite side of the drive at a casual pace, his nose buried in the morning newspaper.

Danny and Lou Nova saw him at the same time, and the wheelman came erect in his seat, growling, "We got company."

From the back seat, Solly Giuffre chimed in, "Back here, too, Danny."

The crew chief craned his neck and caught sight of a second, smaller man, togged out in sweat clothes and jogging in the opposite direction along the far side of the drive. As he sat there watching, the two men closed on a collision course, the jogger puffing and watching his feet, while the big guy was lost in his paper.

And damned if they didn't collide, right out there with nothing but wide open space all around, jostling each other off stride with the impact.

The wheelman chuckled gleefully. "Stupid bastards."

Danny let himself relax, his hand sliding free of his jacket again.

The big man was looking around himself as if in a daze, the rumpled newspaper dangling from limp hands. And the little jogger was bent over double, clutching his side, all red in the face from his wheezing and puffing. The little guy's mouth started working, and Danny could tell he was chewing the big lummox up one side and down the other, damning him for a clumsy ass.

The big guy stood there taking it for several seconds, his reticence making the little man bolder. The jogger stepped closer, pushing his reddened face up at the big man's like a baseball player giving hell to the umpire on TV. The big guy was trying to answer, but he couldn't seem to get a word in edgewise.

Suddenly, the jogger snatched the papers from the big guy's hand and threw them down on the ground, going into a little dance step on top of them, grinding them into the turf with his sneakers.

Lou and Solly were laughing openly now, and Danny couldn't suppress the grin that worked at his mouth any longer, watching the comic spectacle.

"Christ, it's better than television," he said to no one in particular.

Growing bolder by the moment, the little guy reached up and slapped his large opponent hard across the face, back and forth, making his head rock from the sudden impact of the blows. Danny saw the color flood into his cheeks as something snapped inside, and instantly the two men were grappling madly in a clench, arms flailing, legs twisting and twining as they fought without any thought of timing or strategy.

"I got ten on the little fart," Solly called from the rear.

"You're covered, slick," Lou snapped, keeping his eyes on the action across the street.

Danny Tops watched, amused, as the two combatants staggered and grappled their way into the middle of West Shore Drive. Their diagonal course was bringing them toward the crew wagon, and after a moment Danny noted with surprise that they were almost on top of the Lincoln, moving with surprising speed as they fought.

The crew chief's smile slipped a notch, but he was caught up in the action now, ignoring the little alarm bell that sounded in the back of his mind.

Suddenly, the two men were at the car, butting against the fender, still flailing at each other and cursing ablue streak. The little guy wriggled free long enough to land a looping right on the big man's cheek, wringing a whoop of vicarious support from Solly in the back seat.

Purple with rage, the big man grabbed his wiry opponent under the armpits, taking another flurry of blows in the process, and hurled him bodily over the hood of the Lincoln. The little guy hit once on the way over, emitting a short squawk, and then disappeared over the far edge of the fender.

Danny Tops was suddenly angry. Worse, he smelled a rat.

"Now wait a fucking minute!" he growled, flinging open his door. He was halfway out of the car when the little guy reappeared, crouching beside the fender, a squat automatic pistol with silencer leveled in a two-handed grip.

The crew chief's mouth dropped open, and he felt his bowels loosening. After a split second he started to reach for his own weapon, and the little guy shot him, twice, calm as you please.

Pop-pop!

Danny Toppacardi sat down hard, the hot pain in his abdomen merging at once into icy cold and numbness from the armpits down. He couldn't reach his bolstered .38, or even change positions as he sat there. It was as if his voluntary muscles had suddenly ceased to function.

Off to his left, he heard cursing from Lou and Solly, followed at once by more popping noises and the sound of breaking glass. Beside him in the front seat, Lou Nova was jerking and writhing under the impact of high-velocity slugs. A strangled yelp, quickly extinguished, was all he heard from Solly Giuffre in the back seat.

Danny felt a warm wetness in his lap and looked down, seeking its source. He was surprised to find himself sitting in a swamp of blood, much of it his, and all mixed up in a mass of pulpy tissue that looked suspiciously like brain matter.

Jesus! Lou's brains?

The door sprang open beside him, and suddenly the little jogger had a pistol thrust in Danny's face, his free hand gripping the crew chief's shoulder tightly. His lips were moving quickly, but the sounds seemed somehow delayed on their way to Danny Toppacardi's ears.

"Where are they?" he heard at last. "Smalley and the girl, where'd they go?"

Danny's head lolled limply on his shoulder. He tried to answer, but the words came out sounding like "mmpf loggly." He felt something warm and wet overflowing his lips, coursing down his chin.

"Come on, dammit!" the little guy was shouting, shaking him roughly so that something rattled and snapped inside of him. "Where are they?"

Danny was staring past the florid, twisted face of his tormentor, toward the hazy screen of trees thirty yards off. He could almost imagine the lake beyond, a breeze making ripples on the surface of the water.

It would be nice to slip beneath that surface and just float away.

Somewhere behind Danny Tops and to his left, a deeper voice was coming through the fog, saying, "Come on, Pol. The lake."

Yeah, the lake, right.

And the two guys were sprinting away from the Lincoln, leaving Danny Toppacardi sitting there in a pool of blood. He watched them go, jogging across the emerald grass, their movements merging into slow motion as they reached the screen of undergrowth and plowed on through, fading from sight.

Danny Tops watched them disappear, wishing he could follow. When they were gone, he sat alone in the vehicle of death, watching the sunlight fade from gold to crimson, sinking slowly into midnight black.

Roger Smalley stood on the shore of Lake Phalen, looking out across the calm, unruffled water. As far as he could see in each direction, north and south, there was no sign of life. The strollers and boaters would not appear until later in the morning, and by then he would be gone, his business finished.

He turned his back on the water to face the five persons arrayed before him. To his left, Jack Fawcett stood close beside a nervous-looking Courtney Gilman. On the right, hulking Vince Cella kept a tight grip and wary eye on his two female captives.

"We don't have much time," Smalley said, breaking the silence. "Let's get this over with."

In one smooth motion, he drew the snub-nosed .38 revolver from under his jacket and took two quick steps toward Fawcett and his prisoner. Before the detective could grasp what was happening, Smalley raised his weapon and fired a single shot into Courtney Gilman's scrawny chest. The dying boy sprawled on the grass, twitching briefly, and then lay still.

Jack Fawcett was visibly stunned. His jaw worked silently for an instant before he found his voice.

"What the hell?" It was the best he could manage.

"It's simple," the commissioner told him. "You finally got a hot tip on that sex killer you've been tracking, and you rushed right over to make the collar. Unfortunately, you were too late to save his latest victims, but you were able to settle the score."

Smalley smiled coldly at Fawcett's vacant expression.

"You're a hero, Lieutenant," he finished happily.

The detective shook his head as if to clear it, forcing his words out one at a time.

"This is crazy... I mean, you can't get away with something like this."

Smalley kept the frozen smile in place.

"I'm not even here, Jack. And I assure you, we will get away with it. We have to."

Fawcett looked from his superior to the female captives and back again, the full import of Smalley's words finally coining through to him.

"You mean to kill them, too," he said numbly. It didn't sound like a question.

"What would you suggest, Jack?" Smalley asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Perhaps a press conference, for them to tell their story nationwide?"

Fawcett looked bewildered, thinking fast but coming up empty.

"There has to be another way."

Smalley lost his smile then, and his answering voice cracked across the intervening distance like a whiplash.

"Let's hear it, Lieutenant," he snapped. "You've got thirty seconds."

Jack Fawcett looked angry and confused. Roger Smalley could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, and he knew from the man's expression that he had no alternative suggestions.

The lieutenant glanced down at the dead boy beside him and finally turned away, shaking his head disgustedly.

"I want no part of this," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Smalley's brusque laughter was a bitter rebuke.

"Too late to weasel out, Jack," he sneered. "But don't worry, you won't have to dirty your hands."

The commissioner turned toward Vince Cella and the women, his gun held steady on a level with his waist. When next he spoke, he was addressing himself to the leering gunman.

"What we need here is a crime of passion," he said simply. "Are you up to it?"

Vince Cella grinned wickedly, glancing from one of his prisoners to the other.

"Mister," he drawled, "I'm always up."

Toni and Fran chose that moment to make their break in opposite directions, but the hardman held them easily in place. Making a split-second decision, he cut Toni's legs from under her with one sweep of his ankle, cuffing her hard across the back of the head as she fell. She hit the ground and lay still, barely conscious.

Vince Cella turned his full attention toward the lady cop, releasing his grip on her arm to tangle his fingers in her hair, pulling her close to him. With her arms pinned securely, she could only twist and kick out ineffectually at his shins. The big man easily avoided the blows, his free hand pawing at the front of her blouse.

"C'mon, momma," he leered, "it's party time."

Roger Smalley looked on dispassionately, loosely covering all three of them with the .38 in his hand. A smile very much like a grimace was locked onto his face.

Mack Bolan and Pol Blancanales heard the shot that killed Courtney Gilman. They were in visual contact with their targets by the time Vinnie Cella slammed Toni to the ground and turned on Fran Traynor.

With one thrust of his powerful arms, the gunman hurled her to the ground. He stood over her, legs wide apart, hands busy with the buckle of his belt.

The warriors let him loosen it before they stepped out of concealment. Their silenced weapons scanned the killing ground, the sweeps including the hardman, Roger Smalley, and Jack Fawcett simultaneously.

Four faces turned to gape at the new, unexpected arrivals. The three men registered shock, but Fran Traynor's expression was tempered with heartfelt relief.

The Executioner addressed himself to Vinnie Cella.

"Careful, your pants could fall down."

"Funny man," the punk answered, trying to sneer and missing it by a mile.

Roger Smalley's voice demanded Bolan's attention.

"Ah, Mr. La Mancha, I presume?"

The commissioner held his gun leveled and ready to fire, the muzzle directed at some arbitrary midpoint between Bolan and the Politician.

Fawcett's voice answered for Bolan.

"That's La Mancha," the lieutenant said, pointing. "His partner's the brother."

Smalley wore a little quizzical smile.

"Of course, family loyalty," he said. "How touching. I must say I'm impressed. How did you get past..."

He left it unfinished, his .38 waggling in the general direction of the invisible Lincoln and its cargo of death.

"They're out of it, Smalley," the Executioner told him. "It's down to you."

And the assistant commissioner's face was going through some changes, yeah, screwing itself up all at once into a mask of fury. It pleased Mack Bolan to see the older man lose his self-confident smile.

Across from Smalley, the gunner was holding his loose slacks with one hand, clenching and opening the other convulsively. He was grinding his teeth in anger, his face livid.

"Danny, Lou, Solly..." he began, almost groaning. "You wasted 'em!"

Smalley saw his opening, tensing as he shouted, "Take them, dammit!"

Suddenly the scene erupted into frenzied action. Vince Cella was clawing for his holstered pistol with both hands, taking a backward step and stumbling as his suddenly unfettered slacks dropped down around his ankles. He started to fall, his weapon still hidden, and Bolan helped him get there with a single 9mm mangler through the bridge of his nose.

Roger Smalley was diving toward Toni's prostrate form. Pol saw the move and reacted, but a half-second too slowly. Before he could squeeze off a shot, the commissioner was into a crouch, clutching Toni in front of him in a sitting position, his .38 jammed against her temple.

"Easy, brother," he said, breathing heavily. "It's all over."

"Not yet, Commissioner."

Bolan's voice hit Smalley like a draft from the tomb, blanching the confidence from his face, but he made no move to lower the gun or release his hostage.

"I don't know who the hell you are," Smalley growled, "but you've blown it." He half turned to the detective, keeping his eyes firmly on Bolan and Pol. "Jack! Change of plans. We've got a gangland massacre on our hands. Use your weapon."

Behind Smalley, Jack Fawcett seemed to be moving in slow motion, drawing the .38 special from his belt and moving forward until he stood even with Smalley and the girl, perhaps ten feet to their right.

Mack Bolan read the hesitation on the lieutenant's face.

"Where does it stop, Smalley?" the Executioner called.

"It stops here, mister. Right here! All the loose ends tied up into one tidy knot, right around your neck."

Bolan forced a smile he didn't feel.

"With nine people massacred, one of them a police officer? Make sense, Commissioner."

"Shut up!" Smalley grated, turning again toward Jack Fawcett. "What are you waiting for? Kill them!"

Fawcett glanced from the two armed men to Smalley, and back again. He looked sick, desperate. The weapon in his hand was rising shakily.

"Jesus, Chief," he muttered, almost pleading.

Smalley was livid, his eyes snapping.

"Goddammit, you yellow bastard, I said use your weapon!"

The first shot hit Smalley in the right temple and burst on through the other side in a shower of crimson. For an instant his face wore a frozen, expression of shock, and then the second slug hit him, lifting the top of his skull and punching him over sideways in a lifeless sprawl.

Toni Blancanales, suddenly released from Smalley's death grip, toppled forward on her face.

Jack Fawcett stood over the commissioner's limp form and emptied his .38 into the bloody ruin of that face. Finally, when the hammer fell on empty chambers, he let the pistol tumble from slack fingers onto the bloody grass at his feet.

The detective turned toward Mack Bolan as Pol rushed to his sister's side. The face Bolan saw was that of a man turned suddenly old before his time.

"Your play, La Mancha," he said at last, hands spread in a gesture of surrender.

Bolan returned the Beretta to side leather, already moving to help Fran onto her feet.

"It's endgame, Jack," he said over his shoulder. "All bets are off. Every man for himself."

Jack Fawcett surveyed the scene of carnage around him.

"How the hell do I explain all this?" he wondered aloud. "Jesus, what a mess."

"How about the truth?" Bolan offered. "It's overdue."

The detective held his eyes for a long moment, then nodded wearily.

"Yeah," he sighed, "I guess."

Fran Traynor was dusting herself off and rubbing her bruised arms, watching Jack Fawcett all the while.

"There may be something I can do to help," she said. "I mean... I can explain about Smalley, at least."

"I appreciate that, Fran," Fawcett said, "but it's my mess. Nobody twisted my arm. I'll have to clean it up myself."

Pol Blancanales and his sister were already moving away from the killing ground. Toni was still shaky, and the Politician supported her with a strong arm around her shoulders.

Bolan started to follow them, then paused, turning back toward the two cops as they stood together, side by side.

"I'll drop a few words in the right places, Lieutenant," he said. "I can't gloss it over, but your help won't be forgotten, either."

Fawcett nodded grimly, making no move to stop the three of them as they faded into the trees.

Bolan moved quickly along behind Pol and Toni, watching them closely as they backtracked toward the waiting rental car. There was a sort of emptiness inside him, now that the play had unraveled, but another very important part of him felt full and warm.

It was over, for the moment, in St. Paul. A shadow of fear had been lifted from the Twin Cities. Some lives had been terminated, others changed irrevocably, but in the balance, Bolan felt good about the outcome of his unorthodox campaign.

And yeah, it was over at last. Watching Toni up ahead, the Executioner only hoped that the scars wouldn't linger too long.