"Death Squad" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pendleton Don)

Chapter Five The Track

Emilio Giordano would not be any man's funny bunny. Only once during his thirty years of manhood had any man made a monkey out of him, and that man had died quickly and violently. Not once during the past fifteen years had any man spoken to him in disrespectful tones, except that stupid senator on the crime commission and that ignorant Sacramento lump they called an Attorney General—and both of these were now smarting under the lash of unrelenting political pressures. If a damn dumb sergeant—a deserter, at that—a common thief and gunman thought he could make Emilio Giordano roll over and play funny bunny for him, then by the blood of Saint Matthew that damn dumb sergeant was going to die with a Giordano grapefruit up his ass.

Fifteen years had passed since 'Milio had last worn a gun. He still knew how to use one. Yeah. Some things a man never loses, like his touch with a fine pistol. He inspected the shiny .38, took a couple of familiarity pulls on the trigger, then loaded it and stuffed it into the holster on the backside of his hip. Next he withdrew his wallet and shuffled through an assortment of cards until he found the gun permit, checked the expiration date, then carefully inserted the permit into a prominent display envelope and returned the wallet to his pocket. No dumb moves by 'Milio, like packing hardware without a license. Hell no.

Take it easy,quot; Varone had advised him, when Giordano called him earlier that afternoon. Sure. Take it easy. Play funny bunny. Let the miserable dumbhead tie you to a manure heap. And rob you. And walk all over you like you're not 'Milio Giordano, Il Fortunato, in whose blood rages four generations of Maffio. Take it easy? Emilio Giordano would never take it that easy.

quot;He wants you to play his game,quot; Varone had said. quot;Can't you see what he's doing? He wants you to run scared and do something stupid. Now don't play his game. Don't play, quot;Milio.quot;

Well, 'Millio would play. He would play the game. But not dumbhead's game. He would show the sergeant a game or two.

Giordano moved around his desk and depressed an intercom button. A fluttery male voice responded immediately. quot;You got the money, Jerry?quot; Giordano asked.

quot;Yes sir. Twenty-five thousand. Twenties and fifties.quot;

quot;All right, bring it up. No—meet me out back. Right now.quot;

Giordano broke the connection and thumbed down another station. quot;Hey!quot; he barked. quot;Wake up out there!quot;

quot;Yessir—garage,quot; came a crisp reply.

quot;You got the cars ready?quot;

quot;Yessir. We're ready.quot;

quot;Awright. I'm coming down. Keep your eyes open, dammit.quot;

quot;Yessir, we're doing that.quot;

Giordano grunted and strode out of his study and through the back of the house. He could hear the carpenters banging noisily in his bedroom, upstairs, and this renewed his irritation with quot;the dumbhead.quot; He kicked the rear door as he opened it and pounded on the handrail of the stairway with an open palm as he quickly descended to the yard.

A gleaming black-and-chrome Continental occupied the driveway. Five of his best boys were in it, conversing in low tones. The driver waved with his fingers as Giordano strode past and received a slow wink in return.

Il Fortunato stepped into a sparkling white Rolls-Royce and seated himself beside a younger man on whose lap reposed a square black briefcase. The two men up front, in the chauffeur's compartment, wore uniforms of unrelieved black, but white chauffeur's caps with gold braid across the visors. Giordano depressed an intercom button on the armrest and said, quot;Danny, go back and make sure Bruno understands two minutes.quot;

The uniformed man who was seated beside the driver jerked his head in understanding, stepped out of the Rolls, carefully closed the door, and walked quickly into the garage. Another Continental waited in there, carrying a rear guard of another five men.

quot;He wants to be sure you understand the two-minute wait before you take off,quot; Danny reported.

A lean young man in the front seat nodded his head curtly. quot;Christ, yeah, we understand,quot; he replied in obvious disgust. quot;And in case he's wondering, we got the route, too. Santa Ana freeway to the Riverside cutoff and then, dammit, there ain't any other way to get there.quot;

Danny smiled and returned to the Rolls. He began his report through the thick glass, then remembered, depressed the intercom button, and said, quot;They're all set, Mr. Giordano.quot;

quot;They understand they don't leave here for two minutes?quot; Giordano snapped.

quot;Yes sir, two minutes, they understand.quot;

quot;Dumbheads probably don't even know the route.quot;

quot;Yes sir, Santa Ana Freeway to the cutoff, then the blacktop to the rear gate. They understand.quot;

quot;Awright,quot; Giordano growled. quot;Let's go check on our grapefruit.quot;

The chauffeur tapped his horn lightly. The lead Continental moved smoothly along the drive, and the Rolls eased along after it. Giordano settled back into the protection of armor plating and bulletproof glass. Don't play, eh? By God, 'Milio was going to play. And the dumbhead was going to pay.

Deadeye Washington slid hastily down the grassy slope, heavy binoculars strapped about his neck, and called out, quot;Okay, they just left. Two cars. Big black one in front, Lincoln or something, and a big white limousine, two chauffeurs, man. Sure making it easy to track.quot;

Bolan smiled tightly and slipped a jaunty plaid beret onto his head. quot;Maybe two damn easy,quot; he said. He leaned into the Corvette and came out with a compact two-way radio. quot;Trackers,quot; he announced into the mouthpiece, quot;Eagle says they're loose.quot; Bolan glanced at Washington.

The Negro mouthed the word, quot;Bloodbrother.quot;

Bolan nodded and continued the announcement without interruption. quot;One rich Detroit black, one white millionaire close behind, on Track Two.quot;

Loudelk's soft voice purred back immediately. quot;Affirm. Passing Track Two . . . right . . . now! Track Two now on quarry. Here's the count. Five in Detroit black. Four in big English white tank, repeat, tank. Track Two on target and going away fast.quot;

Zitka's clipped tones leaped in. quot;Roj, roj, Track One going 'round for pickup at Point Delta.quot;

quot;Track on loose,quot; Bolan commanded. quot;It smells, repeat, smells.quot;

A faint quot;Wilcoquot; came in from Loudelk, followed by a loud retort from Zitka. quot;Bluesuits on,quot; he yelped. quot;Tearing toward Track Two. Beware, beware.quot;

quot;Affirm, Track Two is being wary,quot; replied the cautious Indian voice.

quot;Close only on signal!quot; Bolan commanded. He laid the radio on the seat of the Corvette and slid in behind the wheel, made a sign with his fingers to Washington, and spun the little car about in a jouncing circle, then hit the pavement and sped down the hill.

Washington was sprinting toward an idling Mustang parked in a shelter of trees some yards off the street. He climbed in on the passenger's side, rolled his eyes toward Blancanales, and panted, quot;Okay. Keep 'im in sight.quot;

The Mustang leaped forward. Washington braced himself with his feet and swung the binoculars into the rear seat, lifted the corner of a blanket, shoved a clip into the long Mauser, and settled back with a sigh.

quot;Bloodbrother says they got a tank,quot; he reported.

Blancanales was whipping the Mustang along the curving downgrade. He raised an eyebrow and said, quot;Yeah?quot;

quot;Yeah. Must be one o' them tailor-made bulletproof jobs. Just looked like a big white limousine to me, through the glasses.quot;

quot;Sounds like it's going to be a ball.quot;

quot;You don't know nothing yet. Sarge smells an ambush, and Zitter says cops has joined the parade.quot;

quot;I take it we're trailing loose, then,quot; Blancanales observed. His right hand fumbled on the seat for the radio. He thrust it at Washington. quot;You'll have to stick the antenna out the window,quot; he instructed. quot;Find out what the hell we're doing.quot;

The radio became operational just in time for them to hear Bolan's voice command, quot;Flanks, report in. Flanks.quot;

quot;Flander Two here,quot; Gunsmoke Harrington drawled. quot;Flanker One also. We're together and following the play in the Horse.quot;

Blancanales nodded his silent approval. quot;Good,quot; he whispered.

Bolan was replying, quot;You're not in sight. Where do you run?quot;

quot;We run starboard to track. Will join up at straightaway.quot;

Washington grinned. quot;Sounds like a Dixie Horserace,quot; he snorted.

quot;That horse is too conspicuous up here,quot; Blancanales muttered. quot;But it'll blend in okay on the freeway.quot;

quot;What if we don't take the freeway?quot; Washington wondered aloud.

quot;Doesn't everybody?quot;

Bolan was now replying, following a brief silence on the radio. quot;Okay, Flank. Good thinking. Track one, position report.quot;

quot;Track One is right on bluesuits,quot; Zitka snapped back.

quot;Are they in official vehicle?quot;

quot;Neg, neg. Plainjanes, brown Pontiac. But they're fuzzy, no mistake.quot;

Another brief silence, then: quot;Okay, and another parader is right on you, buddy-o. Now who the hell?quot;

They could hear Zitka's carrier wave idling for several seconds before his voice clipped in. quot;I dunno, but it's a big black and it's got a five count.quot;

quot;Uh-huh, that's great,quot; Bolan said. quot;It figures—a delayed rear guard. Okay, Break away, Track One, with caution, and come around on me.quot;

quot;Roj. Approaching straightaway now. I'll make my move up there.quot;

quot;Track Two is on station and maintaining,quot; Loudelk reported. quot;Instructions!quot;

quot;Maintain track!quot; Bolan snapped.

quot;Affirm.quot;

Blancanales and Washington exchanged solemn glances. They had a good view now of the fiery Corvette ahead. In the distance, they could see the ramp rising to the freeway and the white limousine ascending. Washington craned about to inspect the road behind; then he pressed the transmitter button and spoke into the radio. quot;Backboard. It's clear to the rear,quot; he reported.

quot;Roger, Backboard,quot; Bolan replied. quot;Flanker—I believe I have you in sight now. Can you identify bluesuiter?quot;

quot;Brown Pontiac? 'Firmative. One, two, uh, three up off you, Maestro. The field is getting thick, though.quot;

quot;Yeah. Uh ... can you safely detain them?quot;

quot;Not without getting detained myself. Unless you want 'em zipped.quot;

quot;Hell no, no zipping!quot; Bolan replied. quot;Intercept. Repeat, intercept and delay only.quot;

quot;Gotcha,quot; Harrinton said. quot;Will intercept on straightaway. Can somebody help us build a box?quot;

Zitka's voice chimed in, quot;I'm natural for that. During my breakaway. Okay, Maestro?quot;

quot;Affirmative,quot; Bolan said, quot;Play it cool. Arouse no suspicion.quot;

quot;Roj.quot;

The Mustang was climbing the ramp now, Blancanales tensing at the wheel to merge into the swiftly moving traffic of the freeway. The Corvette swerved across two lanes, accelerating in a full-throated power shift. Blancanales swung in moments later, several cars behind and in the outside lane. He watched his rear view cautiously, then angled across to the inside lane, picking up speed and interlaning to regain position on Bolan's rear. As they headed into a long curve, Washington muttered, I think I see the horse up there, 'bout mid-curve. Isn't that it? Outside lane?quot;

Blancanales was hunched over the steering wheel and squinting through the windshield. quot;Looks like it,quot; he replied. quot;How'd they get so far ahead?quot;

quot;Musta come down the perimeter, got on ahead of us,quot; Washington surmised.

Harrington's voice crackled through the radio at that moment, confirming the tentative indentification. quot;We're leading the parade,quot; he reported. quot;Have the grand marshal in view, coming up on my rear, middle lane, big Detroit black, English white right behind. I'm starting to throttle back. Get set for that box, Tracker.quot;

quot;I'm moving up,quot; Bolan announced. quot;Hold the box until I'm through. Backboard, where the hell are you?quot;

quot;Right in your blind spot, Maestro,quot; Washington reported.

quot;Okay, all units except Tracker Two, well all join the box and try for a grand slam. Listen carefully, there's only time for this once, so get it straight the first time around. Number the lanes 1, 2, 3, and 4—left to right. The interchange is about three minutes away. Lane 4 leaves us there and swings toward the Harbor. Quarry is holding steady in Lane 2, my guess is for either the Santa Ana or the San Berdue. All right, here are positions. Backboard, you come up on my...quot;

Washington was listening to Bolan's calm instructions with a feeling of vague unreality. It just did not seem for real. Here they were, barreling along the damn Hollywood Freeway at better than a mile a minute, practically bumper to bumper in an endless stream of cars moving four abreast, on ramps and off ramps looming up in an almost monotonous recurrence, and in all this, Bolan was trying to set up a traffic trap for two of those hurtling objects. He shook his head and glanced at Blancanales. His partner was listening attentively to the instructions, his eyes flicking in an endless circle, right, left, dead ahead, into the mirror, right, left ... It made Washington feel a bit light headed.

quot;Okay, Horse,quot; Bolan was saying, quot;start your move. Drop down to fifty ... good ... good ... one minute to interchange ...quot;

Washington saw the red Corvette squirt across two lanes of traffic and weave back into their lane several positions ahead. A huge van semitrailer, the vehicle referred to as the horse, was laboring along just ahead, in the far right lane. Three cars that had been following the horse reacted to its sudden slowing by whipping into the second outboard lane and passing. Washington caught a glimpse of the vehicle that was maintaining the quot;holequot; between the two lanes of traffic—it was Bolan's Corvette. He grinned. The two cars now between Bolan and Blancanales were the police vehicle, first, and the third Mafia car. The driver of the Continental was beginning to cast anxious glances to his left and right. Washington could visualize what was going to happen next, and his grin broadened.

quot;Backboard, on station!quot; Bolan commanded.

Blancanales stomped the accelerator and whipped the Mustang into Lane 3, pulled quickly abreast of Bolan, and stayed there.

quot;Okay—Zitter.quot;

The Mercury wagon being piloted by Zitka moved almost sideways into the extreme inboard lane, and now the four of them—Zitka, Blancanales, Bolan, and the diesel horse—were pacing the traffic into the interchange at a leisurely fifty miles per hour.

The next few moments were tense ones and would have proved less anxious if one more vehicle had been available to maintain a two-car gap directly behind the horse. Split-second timing had made the insurance unnecessary, however, and they glided into the boxing zone with the trap perfectly set. The police car, seeing daylight between Bolan and the horse, and with the Giordano vehicle rapidly disappearing into the interchange, whipped over suddenly behind the horse. A puff of smoke belched from the twin exhausts as the Pontiac's passing gear kicked in and it leaned toward the hole between Bolan's right front fender and the left rear corner of the van.

The Mafia rear-guard Continental had swung into the Pontiac's wake, with the obvious intention of following right on through the slot. The slot, however, suddenly ceased to exist as Bolan eased forward with his front bumper directly abreast the horse's rear wheels.

Washington caught a fleeting glimpse of an infuriated face behind the wheel of the police car as tires squealed and the heavy car lurched back into position behind the horse, brakes grabbing in the abrupt forced slowdown. Washington heard but did not see the Continental smack the rear of the police car. It was a light tap, accompanied by more squealing of tires and the sounds of crunching metal and shattering glass.

The horse was now curving gracefully onto the cloverleaf, the two vehicles following in jerky confusion. The vehicles of the Death Squad, less horse, picked up speed and hurried to close on the quarry.

Bolan's elated voice came through the radio: quot;Beautiful, beautiful—that's playing it by the numbers.quot;

quot;That's playing it by your quivering ass,quot; Zitka shot back.

quot;Playing, hell,quot; Harrington sang in. quot;Where the hell am I headed? How do I get this big sunabitch back on the track?quot;

quot;Follow the cloverleaf on around,quot; Bolan snapped back. quot;Just follow the signs and come on around. We're taking the . . . yeah, the Santa Ana. Rejoin with all possible speed. How did our friends make out?quot;

Harrington was chuckling into the radio. They're out of the game. Locked bumpers, looks like. Madder... than... hell!quot;

quot;Better than we hoped for,quot; Bolan replied. quot;Okay—good show, boys. Resume positions and tally-ho.quot;

Washington grinned at Blancanales and shook his head. quot;Hell, this is some damn outfit, isn't it?quot; he commented quietly.

Blancanales nodded as he fell into formation several positions behind the Corvette. Zitka's Mercury was burning rubber up the inside lane to close on Loudelk.

quot;Light me a cigarette,quot; Blancanales requested. I'm afraid to take my hand off the wheel. I'm afraid it'll shake off at the shoulder.quot;

Washington guffawed, lit the cigarette, and shoved it between his partner's lips. quot;Yeah, man, it's some damn outfit,quot; he repeated. quot;Sure glad I joined up. How quot;bout you?quot;

quot;Just wait,quot; Blancanales murmured. quot;Do you know how close we came to having a twenty-jillion-car smashup?quot;

The big Negro was grinning merrily. quot;Wait for what, man?quot;

quot;Wait 'till we finish this mission. If I'm still alive then... well, yeah—I guess I'm glad I'm in.quot;

quot;If you're dead, man, you won't know the difference. You better be glad now, while you got time.quot;

Blancanales flashed his companion a sudden smile. quot;You're right,quot; he said. quot;It's a hell of a squad.quot;