War Against The Mafia by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Suspense & Thrillers, Action & Adventure
Published: 2009-12-15T06:00:00+00:00

6 — The Council

“Listen, something’s gotta be done about that sonuvabitch!” Seymour snarled. “He’s running wild, hog wild, all over the damn place—burning, and killing, and stealing, and—and ...”

“Look who’s complaining,” Turrin commented bitterly.

“Yes, I’m complaining!” Seymour roared. “He was your goddamn man! Couldn’t you spot the son of a bitch for a phoney without having to get word down from upstairs? You creep, you bastard you—Jesus Christ, any dumb dago wop would know the son of a bitch is a phoney! If you weren’t laying up with those fucking sluts of yours all the goddamn time you might—“

Turrin leaped to his feet and threw a wild punch at his tormentor. Seymour dodged back out of the way, his face going white, his hand scrabbling about for a weapon and coming up with a Coke bottle.

Nat Plasky stepped between them, his arms waving wildly. “Stop it! Stop it!” he yelled. “Don’t you think this is what the bastard wants? He wants us at each other’s throats. Now stop it!”

Leo Turrin’s lips were quivering with rage, but he hunched his shoulders, clenched his hands together, and dropped back into his chair.

“I’m sorry, Leo,” Seymour said humbly. “I didn’t mean that crack about the wops.”

Turrin merely nodded and stared broodingly at the toe of his shoe.

“The Man is going to be very upset over that quarter-million,” Plasky said, after a short silence.

Seymour nodded his head. “We’ll get it back.”

“Sure we will,” Turrin sneered mildly.

“I don’t hardly remember even what the guy looks like,” Plasky ventured. “I only saw him twice, and then just for a few minutes. How the hell did he know about the organization money being in that vault? Huh? How’d he know?”

“Didn’t you know?” Turrin grunted. “He’s the fuckin’ Phantom. The fuckin’ Phantom knows everything.”

“I thought that was the Shadow,” Plasky mused.

“Will you two for Christ’s sake shut up!” Seymour roared.

“Just passin’ the time,” Plasky replied meekly.

“Well, crack your knuckles or something,” Seymour growled. He studied his watch for a moment. “The others will be here in a few minutes.”

Turrin heaved up out of his chair and went over to the bar, half-filled a tumbler with bourbon, added an ice cube, then carried it back to his chair, sipping glumly. “The trouble,” Turrin said presently, “is that you people don’t know this guy. I do. I know him. And I’m shakin’. Believe me, I’m shakin’. This guy is a military machine, believe me. I had a sergeant like him once, just about like him. He scared the shit outta me, too. And so does Bolan. I’m telling you, this guy—“

“Damnit, shut up!” Seymour screamed emotionally.

“No, no I’m not gonna shut up,” Turrin went on stubbornly. “You gotta know who you’re dealing with. Now look at it, just look at it. The nerve of this bastard. In the space of—what—three or four hours?—he hits us bing! bing! bing!—just like clockwork. He burns down my prize palace, completely wrecks an eight-thousand dollar automobile, scares the living shit right outta me, smashes

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