Executioner.003.Battle Mask.1970 by Pendleton Don

Author:Pendleton, Don [Pendleton, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0100-12-31T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

CHARISMA

Bolan was shown into the DiGeorge library by a steely-eyed "butler" in formal attire which almost but not quite concealed a gun under the left arm. He was offered a drink, accepted a fancy tumbler of Scotch on the rocks, and was asked to make himself comfortable. He did so, dropping into a heavy leather lounge. A pedestal-type ashtray immediately appeared at his right elbow; the butler excused himself and departed. The lighting was dim and the dark panelling of the room seemed to cast ominous shadows across Bolan's view. His eyes were roving the bookshelves, seeing while not seeing the obviously never disturbed volumes reposing there. A chill trickled down his neck to the base of his spine; he was, he knew, being watched from some concealed observation post. He casually lit a cigarette then got to his feet and paced about the room gulping the Scotch on the move.

Bolan placed the empty glass on a desk, opened his coat, inspected his gunleather in an obvious manner, closed his coat, and paced some more. Presently the door opened and two men entered. One of them Bolan recognized as an obscure palace guard, a smooth-faced youngster who could have just stepped off an Ivy League campus. The other was a very light-stepping heavyweight with a ground-beef face, massive shoulders, and ridiculously small feet. It was the same man Bolan had encountered earlier in the parking lot. The youth halted just inside the doorway and allowed Bolan to see his .38-the older man stood an arm's reach from Bolan's gun hand.

"You forgot to check your hardware," said little-feet, pleasantly enough.

"I like to know who I'm checking it with," Bolan replied stiffly.

"The name's Marasco," the heavyweight solemnly told him.

Bolan nodded. "Okay," he said. His hand moved slowly to the coatfront.

Marasco said quickly, "Not that way. Lean over, both hands on the desk."

"Huh-uh," Bolan replied, grinning. His eyes flashed in a quick round trip to the youth at the door. "I don't turn my back to no rodman."

"Slow and easy, then," Marasco said, almost smiling. "Lay it on the desk."

Bolan complied with the instructions. Marasco stepped forward, took the pistol, and casually dropped it into his coat pocket. "You can pick it up at the gate on your way out," he said lightly. He took one step toward the door, then paused and turned back to Bolan as though in an afterthought. "Your name Lambretta?"

Bolan nodded a silent affirmation.

"You connected with a Rocky Lambretta from Jersey City?"

"Rocky was a cousin," Bolan replied unemotionally. "He's been dead since '62."

Marasco jerked his head in an understanding nod, took another step toward the door, paused and turned back again. "Frankie, is it?"

Bolan grinned and said, "Why the twenty questions? You know my name."

"You ever work in Miami or Saint Pete?"

"You want me to sit down and write you out a life history?"

Marasco shrugged his shoulders and went on to the door. "Mr. DiGeorge will be down in a minute," he said. "Just make yourself at home.

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