Читать книгу Damage Radius - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

It was half-past-eight when the limo driver pulled through the iron gates and halted in front of the mansion. He hurried around the automobile to open Bolan’s door. As he stepped out of the vehicle, the smell of salt water hit him in the face and the soldier remembered that Lake Pontchartrain was second only to the Great Salt Lake as America’s largest inland body of salt water.

The driver escorted him up the steps, through two rows of chiseled marble statues in the forms of Greek gods, to the front door. The man pressed a button, and the melodious sound of two bars of music came from somewhere inside the huge mansion.

A moment later, a braless woman wearing a light, see-through shift through which a red garter belt and fishnet stockings were visible, opened the door. “Good evening, Mr. Cooper,” she said in her best sultry tone. “Mr. McFarley is expecting you.” She paused and stepped back to allow Bolan to enter. “My name is Sugar. It’s because I’m so sweet.”

“I don’t doubt it a bit,” Bolan said, smiling. He looked her up and down from head to toe, like he knew any hedonistic criminal such as the one he was portraying would do. “I hope I get a taste before the night’s over.”

A huge smile spread across Sugar’s face. She was undoubtedly pleased by the compliment, but her words told Bolan it wasn’t going to happen. “Sorry, honey,” the scantily-clad woman purred. “But I’m Tommy’s private stock.”

Bolan effected a laugh. “Well, if you’re not selling,” he said, “you shouldn’t advertise so well.”

This comment seemed to please Sugar even more. But a moment later, she became more businesslike—at least as businesslike as possible being dressed as she was. “Please come with me, Mr. Cooper,” she said. “Mr. McFarley is anxious to meet you.” With that, she turned her back to Bolan and began an exaggerated wiggle-walk down a hallway to an elevator. Bolan glanced at her hips as she strutted on. She wore no underwear beneath the garter belt, and she swayed back and forth provocatively with every step.

When the elevator doors opened, Sugar stepped back and motioned Bolan to enter. “Just push P for penthouse, Mr. Cooper,” she said, her words still dripping with sexuality. “A couple of Mr. McFarley’s associates will be waiting for you.”

Bolan did as instructed and watched the elevator doors roll closed again. As he rose in the car, he wondered when the device had been installed. The house itself looked to have been built long before the advent of elevators. At one time, it had probably been the main house that oversaw a large plantation near New Orleans.

The doors rolled open again and, just as Sugar had promised, there stood two men wearing dark suits and ties. A slight frown showed on both faces, and the mood suddenly shifted from Sugar’s friendliness to a slightly dangerous feel.

Both of the men had scars at the corners or their eyebrows, a dead giveaway that they were former fighters. The smaller of the two stepped forward and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cooper, but we’ve got to frisk you before we let you go any farther.”

Bolan had expected this, and as he stepped off of the elevator he extended both hands to his sides.

The man who had spoken started at Bolan’s ankles and began running his hands up the outside of his legs, looking for weapons. When he reached the waistband of Bolan’s slacks, his hand stopped on the Cold Steel Espada clipped inside. Pulling it from the Executioner’s belt, his eyes widened when he saw the size of the knife. Using both hands, he opened the blade, then said, “What had you planned on doing with this monster, Mr. Cooper?”

“Anything I needed to,” Bolan came back.

“You’re a knife fighter, are you?” the slightly larger goon standing behind the man holding the knife asked. His voice was slightly sarcastic.

“I’m a fighter, period,” Bolan said calmly.

The smaller man returned to Bolan’s ankles. This time he began feeling through his slacks on the inside of his legs. Just before he got to the groin area, Bolan said, “You seem like a guy who really gets off on this kind of thing. You planning to think about me later tonight, when you’re all alone in bed?”

The comment generated an instant homophobia in the searcher, and he barely tapped the Executioner’s groin area before moving on up to check his chest, arms and shoulder. Satisfied, he said, “Looks like you’re clean except for the pig-sticker.” He paused, staring self-consciously up into Bolan’s eyes. “You’ll get it back when you leave.” Those words ended in another short pause, until finally he said, “And no, I don’t plan to think of you when I go to bed tonight. You’re not my type.”

“That’s encouraging,” Bolan answered.

Without further ado the two men turned and led Bolan down a somewhat confusing set of intertwining hallways until they came to an elaborately furnished dining room.

Tommy McFarley was on his feet, waiting, just outside the room.

The man who had taken Bolan’s Espada whispered something into McFarley’s ear, then he and his partner disappeared back down the hallway.

Bolan studied McFarley’s face for a moment. The man looked slightly older than the pictures in the Stony Man file Bolan had reviewed during his flight to New Orleans. A little white had begun to creep into his hair, and the short, well-trimmed mustache and goatee showed lighter hues as well.

Bolan knew that the pressure of running any huge business—legal or otherwise—got to a man.

McFarley extended his hand and Bolan shook it. “I’ve been wanting to meet you, boyo,” the Irishman told Bolan with a big smile. “Ever since you started beating up my heavyweights.”

It was a statement rather than a question, so Bolan remained silent.

“I’m hungry,” McFarley said. “Let’s eat.” He turned and led Bolan to a long banquet table, much as Sugar had done earlier on the way to the elevator. But, Bolan noted, the view following McFarley wasn’t nearly as interesting as it had been when he’d trailed the woman in the see-through shift.

Places had been set at the head of the table, and just to the left-hand side. Bolan couldn’t help but wonder if McFarley was trying to send him a message by the seating arrangement. If so, that message had to be I’m about to offer you an important opportunity. But you aren’t my right-hand man. At least not yet.

Bolan took his seat as a woman dressed in a low-cut French maid’s outfit—nearly as sexy as Sugar’s shift—brought out a bottle of white wine and two glasses. The soldier held up his hand when she started to fill his glass. “No, thanks,” he said. “Just some water or iced tea, if you would.”

“You don’t drink?” McFarley said in a surprised tone.

“Gave it up years ago,” Bolan said. “Impaired my judgment. Almost got me killed a time or two.”

“Smart, boyo,” the Irishman said. “I drink. But lightly.” He chuckled as he turned toward the French maid. “Too much alcohol interferes with my true pleasures in life. Just half a glass, Maria,” he said, running his hand up under the back of the woman’s short skirt as she poured his wine.

A moment later, the woman he had called Maria left the room and returned with salads for the two men. Another quick trip through a swing door brought a variety of salad dressings in silver bowls. Both times, she gave Bolan a lewd smile like the one he’d gotten from Sugar downstairs. She also exaggerated her bend when she set the bowls on the table, allowing her already short black skirt to ride up over her bare buttocks.

There were a lot of different crimes that were coordinated in this house, the soldier realized. But if there was one theme that ran through all of the operations it was sex. Bolan was a warrior, not a psychologist. But it didn’t take a Freud or Jung to see that McFarley had an enormous appetite—or more likely an addiction—to amorous adventures with the opposite gender.

McFarley began to eat and Bolan followed suit. The kitchen was obviously on the other side of the swing door—unusual here on the fifth story of the mansion. It appeared that, like the installation of the elevator, McFarley had done some extensive remodeling within the old house.

When the salads were finished, Maria appeared holding a silver tray. The smell of roast duck wafted through the room as she set it down, this time doing so on the other side of the table from Bolan to allow him a view of the cleavage barely hidden by her low-scooped, laced neckline. Several more trips brought out bowls of potatoes and vegetables. As well as more exposures of female flesh.

“Not a bad spread,” Bolan said, breaking the silence.

“You talking about the food or the waitress, Mr. Cooper?” McFarley laughed.

“I meant the food,” Bolan said. “But the scenery isn’t bad, either.”

“Nothing but the best around here,” McFarley replied. “Sure beats a po’boy on Bourbon Street. Or the disease-ridden hookers who work the jazz clubs.”

“It does indeed,” Bolan said.

McFarley laughed out loud. “Our waitress also works downstairs,” he said. “She’s yours later, Mr. Cooper, if you’d like. And it’s on the house. Any of the girls you want. And however many you can handle—if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Bolan nodded. “If you’re giving me gifts like that, you’d better start calling me Matt. Mr. Cooper just doesn’t quite have the right ring for an orgy.”

“All right then, Matt, me boyo,” McFarley said in a thick brogue. “And while I don’t extend this to many of my other employees, I think you should call me Tommy.”

“You sure you want to do that?” Bolan asked as Maria sliced a large piece of duck breast and set it on his plate. “I’m just a gym manager.”

McFarley laughed again. “Not after tonight,” he said. “I’ve got a feeling about you, Matt Cooper.” He paused for a second then went on. “Plus, I know far more about your past than you think I do,” he said in a slightly lower voice.

I doubt that, Bolan thought. The fact was he knew exactly what the man knew about him. Aware that McFarley had connections high within the New Orleans Police Department, Bolan had seen to it that Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man Farm’s wheelchair-bound computer expert, had hacked into police files the world over and set up dummy files for Matt Cooper. They included arrests in many of the same criminal activities McFarley engaged in.

But no convictions.

The types, and vast number of arrests, had told McFarley that Matt Cooper was a player.

The lack of convictions told him that Cooper was smart.

“My question is,” McFarley asked after swallowing a mouthful of roast duck, “why did you want a job as a gym manager in the first place? It’s like a neurosurgeon working in a car wash.”

“Without boring you with the details,” Bolan said, “I presently find it advantageous to keep a low profile. There’s been a misunderstanding between two parties I worked with. It’ll blow over with time, but right now, I need something that keeps me out of the limelight within our own peculiar little loops.”

The Irishman scooped up a forkful of green peas and stuck the utensil in his mouth as he nodded. When he had swallowed again, he said, “I understand.” He started to cut another piece of duck with his knife and fork, then stopped. “You know, Matt,” he said, “with your experience you might be more valuable to me in other areas besides managing my gym.”

Bolan reached for a bowl of applesauce and spooned some onto his plate. “I’ve already told you, Tommy,” he said, finally using the man’s first name. “I’m laying low for a while.”

“When you’re with me,” McFarley said, “you’ve got nothing to worry about. We can change your name if it’d make you feel better. Even change your face if you’d like. I’ve got a cosmetic surgeon who—”

“That’s okay,” Bolan interrupted. “I’ve had my face changed a couple of times in the past. That’s enough.”

The statement was not an idle comment. It was the truth.

“Good enough, then, laddie,” McFarley said. “I don’t think you’ll be running across any of the people you’ve worked with in the past anyway. I’ve got my own pipelines, and like you said, we’ve got ‘loops’ not just one ‘loop.’ We may know what the other folk who do our kind of business are doing, but we aren’t in league with them all.”

Maria returned, clearing the table of dishes and bowls, and making sure Bolan got a good look at her again, both top and bottom.

“Are you up for dessert?” McFarley asked.

“I’m already stuffed,” Bolan said. “Better skip it. Besides, who knows which of your boxers I’m going to have to beat up tomorrow?”

McFarley stood up. “Like I told you,” he said. “Your days at the gym are over. I can hire any number of punch-drunk old fighters to hold the heavy bag and mop the floor of that place. The only time you need to go back there is to get whatever clothes and other things you moved into that pathetic little bedroom behind the office.” He stopped talking for a moment, then said, “Let’s adjourn to my office.”

Bolan followed the Irishman out of the room, down another hallway in what he had already seen was a labyrinth—almost a maze—of short halls and rooms. The entire top floor of the mansion had obviously been gutted, then redesigned to fit McFarley’s tastes. It was nothing if not confusing, and Bolan couldn’t help but suspect the man had set it up that way in case the unlikely police raid ever occurred. Without a map of the floor, it would take officers looking for drugs, illegal weapons, or any other evidence of crime extra seconds, if not minutes, to search the entire floor.

Seconds and minutes in which evidence could be destroyed. Or be used to effect an escape.

The Executioner reminded himself to spend as much time up here as he could in order to get the layout into his head. The time would come when he, probably alone, would have to search the penthouse for McFarley.

The Irishman led Bolan through a reception area, then past a desk on which several green potted plants sat. The desk also had several framed photos of what looked like family members. Bolan guessed that the older woman in some of the pictures had to be McFarley’s secretary, and that the Irishman had hired her in at least some effort to separate business from pleasure. All in all, however, the reception area looked vastly out of place in what was basically a whorehouse.

Reaching into his pocket, McFarley pulled out a key and unlocked the door to his office, ushering Bolan in before flipping the light switch. The Executioner stood to the side to allow McFarley to enter, and waited while the man circled the desk to his chair.

“Have a seat wherever you’d like, Matt,” the Irishman said before sitting down himself.

Bolan turned. The first thing his eyes fell upon were the wet blood stains and caking brain matter on the couch and wall behind it. “Looks like you had a hard day,” he said casually, then turned toward a stuffed armchair against the side wall. “Think I’ll sit over here.” He walked to the chair and dropped into it. “I have this policy against intentionally sitting in freshly spilled brain matter.”

Bolan had been watching McFarley out of the corner of his eye, and the expression on the man’s face told him the criminal kingpin had purposely brought Matt Cooper to this office so he’d see the bloody mess. The Irishman wanted to see how he reacted. And he wanted to know if Cooper would ask about it.

Bolan didn’t give him the pleasure. As soon as he’d finished his last comment, he remained silent.

Finally, McFarley broke the silence himself. “It wasn’t me who had the hard day,” he said. “Just one of my employees. I’m afraid he’ll no longer be able to carry out his duties, Matt, and it’s his job that I’m thinking about giving you.” He paused to draw in a breath, his eyes still studying Bolan but getting nothing but a poker face in return. “But I want to shift the responsibilities around a little first,” he finally said. “You’re far more capable, I think, than he was. So you’re going to have more responsibilities.”

Bolan finally let his eyes return to the gore across the room. “Well,” he said, chuckling, “let’s just hope I carry them out better than my predecessor.”

McFarley, obviously disappointed that he hadn’t gotten a reaction of fear from his new employee, became more direct. “He didn’t take care of business,” he said. “And he paid the price.”

“Don’t worry,” Bolan said. “I’ve faced danger before a time or two.”

“According to what I learned about you, it was more than a time or two.”

Bolan nodded. “That was an understatement,” he said. “But as I said, don’t worry. Whatever the job entails, I’ll get it done for you.”

“Then let’s quit playing footsies and get down to business,” McFarley said. “As of now, you’re no longer managing the gym. Let’s talk about what I want you to do first. What I want you to do tomorrow, in fact.”

McFarley then laid out, in detail, what Cooper would be doing the next day.

And while it hardly shocked the Executioner, he was slightly surprised. He had expected to be assigned to some form of smuggling operation—guns, drugs, or other contraband. But the act McFarley gave him was different, and Bolan recognized it for just what it was.

A test. McFarley had opened his home, his office and the girls of his brothel to the Executioner, and the Irishman had smiled and laughed throughout the entire evening as if he and Bolan had been lifelong friends. But as the criminal kingpin spoke the final few words of their multifaceted conversation that evening, Bolan could see in the man’s emerald-green eyes that McFarley still didn’t fully trust him.

And he’d go no farther with him until he did.

“Do you have your own weapons or do I need to furnish them for you?” McFarley asked.

“I’ll be fine on my own,” Bolan said.

“I understand my men took an enormous folding knife from you before.”

“They did,” he said. “And I’d like it back before I leave.” He stood up, then suddenly reached down the front of his slacks and brought out the North American Arms Pug. Setting it silently on McFarley’s desk, he said, “But they completely missed this.”

The Executioner sat back down in the stuffed armchair.

McFarley’s bright green eyes stared furiously at the tiny handgun on his desk. It was a good minute before he finally spoke again. When he did, he said, “I’d say you are to be congratulated on breaching my security, Matt. Very skillfully done. And it took balls.” The laugh he gave out now was forced. “No pun intended.” Reaching out, he lifted the NAA in his hand, looked at it, then tossed it back over his desk.

Bolan caught the little gun in midair.

“Take it,” McFarley said. “If you’d planned on using it on me, you’d have already done it.”

The Executioner nodded and dropped the Pug into the side pocket of his sport coat.

“But while you’re to be congratulated, my men are going to have to be disciplined,” McFarley said.

“I wouldn’t be too hard on them,” Bolan said. “It’s not fair to compare them to me.”

Then McFarley returned to his genuine laughter. “You don’t lack confidence, do you, boyo?”

“If you don’t believe in yourself,” Bolan said, “how can you expect anyone else to believe in you?”

“I can’t argue with that logic,” McFarley said. He stood up behind his desk, indicating that the meeting was over. “My chauffeur will take you back to the gym to get your things. I own an apartment and condominium development a few miles from here, and he’ll help you get settled into one of the units.

“What I told you I wanted done, I want done tomorrow. But I’m not much of a morning person. Shall we meet here for lunch before you go off to complete your work?”

“Lunch sounds fine,” Bolan said, standing up and shaking McFarley’s hand.

“But wait, I almost forgot,” the criminal kingpin said. “I offered you the ladies. Want a few hours down below with Maria or some of the other girls?”

“Sometime, but not tonight. I’ve got a move to make and a plan to develop so I can get your job done tomorrow and stay out of jail after I’ve done it.”

McFarley nodded. “You’re a man of great self-control,” he said. “I like that.”

“I like it, too,” Bolan said.

A moment later he was being led through the hallways by O’Banion and Westbrook, descending in the elevator and being walked to the front door of the brothel. When the shorter of the men opened the door for him, Bolan stopped and held out his hand.

“What is it you want?” the short man asked.

“My knife,” Bolan said.

The shorter man smiled. “I was thinking I’d just keep it myself,” he said. “Got to playing with it when you were having dinner. I like it.”

“I like it, too,” Bolan said as he reached into the side pocket of his sport coat, brought out the NAA .22 Magnum revolver and shoved it under the goon’s nose. “That’s why I want it back.”

“Where’d that come from?” the short man asked, looking cross-eyed down at the barrel.

“I brought it in with me,” Bolan said as he cocked the tiny firearm. “You missed it. Now give me the knife.”

Slowly, the man with the gun in his face reached into his own jacket and pulled out the Cold Steel folding knife.

Bolan clipped the weapon to his belt over his right hip, then pocketed the Pug again.

He waited while the chauffeur opened the limo door for him, then slid into the backseat of the vehicle.