Bolan nodded his head. "You said something about acid."

"Yeah, hell, the whole bit. Grass, speed, acid, goofballs, the big H—everything that kicks or purrs."

"How do you know?"

Harrington grinned. "I found someone who shared his bed and board for a while."

Bolan's eyebrows rose. "A girl?"

"Yeah. And what a girl. All boobs and butt, beautiful as a rose and just about as brainless."

"She knows quite a bit about Varone's operations?"

Harrington shrugged. "In a general sort of way. You can never tell about these dumb ones. How much detail they know, I mean. She came in to record a cover for Varone 'bout three months ago, then stayed on to keep his bed warm for a few weeks. Lived right there in his apartment above the recording studios. Then he got tired of her and showed her the way out." A faint smile briefly lighted Harrington's face. "She's like a damn recorder herself, Mack. Push one button and she records. Push another and she plays back. I can't figure a guy like Varone letting her learn that much, then turning her loose on the world. Unless he just figured she was too damn dumb to have learned anything about him. She is dumb, Mack. But all her mental energies seem to work through her memory cells. No kidding, she's like a damn tape recorder."

"Could you find her again?"

"Sure," Harrington said, smiling. "You want to talk to her?"

"Maybe." Bolan was staring fixedly at his fingertips. "What was Varone doing today?"

"Busy-busy," Harrington replied. "Chopper has the log. We split off at two o'clock. He stayed on Varone while I checked out the other stuff."

Bolan nodded, his face devoid of expression. "I'll get with Chopper for the details. What impression did you get, Guns—from what Chopper told you, I mean?"

"About Varone? I'd say he's running scared. He made about six stops, one of 'em at a big joint up in Beverly Hills. Stayed in there about twenty minutes. And then he drove all the way down to San Pedro."

"Who'd he see there?"

Harrington shrugged. "Chopper said he went into this warehouse on the waterfront. Stayed about five minutes, then bugged straight home."

Bolan got to his feet. "I'd better talk to Chopper. Sounds like things are shaping up. Deadeye?"

"Yeah?" Washington had been listening attentively to the conversation. He was now grinning broadly at Bolan, leaning forward to intercept his words.

"Get ready for a fire mission. You and me. Take my big sniper down to the range and sight it in up to 300 yards. Give me 'scope calibrations for every hundred feet. Better do the same for yours if you haven't already."

Washington was all smiles. "Hot damn," he said.

"Will I be in this one?" Harrington asked.

"You bet you will. You and Chopper will flank us."

"Where's the hit?"

"I'll have to talk to Chopper before I'm sure. But from what you've told me, along with what I got from Gadget's tape, it looks like Beverly Hills."

"The big joint?"

Bolan nodded. "The big joint. Varone's been trying to set up a family council. Beverly Hills sounds like the place. I'll take Zitter and Bloodbrother out there for a recon while we still have some daylight."

Bolan left them and headed for the horse to speak with Chopper. Harrington looked at Washington and said, "He doesn't believe in sitting around, does he?"

"I was tellin' you what that soul did this afternoon," Washington said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "So, see—he just walked up to that policeman's house and rung the doorbell. I see him in there talking to the little boy. Then the cop gets there, and Mack is standin' there in the window, talkin' to him like a soul brother—cool, see, like egg custard on a summer day, and then he ..."

Deadeye Washington had found something to believe in. He believed in Mack Bolan's guts.

Sergeant Carl Lyons picked up his detail assignment at the operations center, then stepped hesitantly into Captain Braddock's office. The captain was having a desk-top dinner of coffee and sandwiches. He looked up with a scowl. "Something on your mind, Carl?" he asked.

Lyons stood just inside the doorway. "I didn't see Rickert's name on the board," he replied. "Wondering if he's on tonight."

"He's on a special," Braddock growled. He distastefully eyed a sandwich, lifting a coffee cup to his lips instead.

A surge of emotion had briefly illuminated Lyons's face. "Undercover?" he asked tautly.

Braddock's eyes smiled across the rim of the cup, as though he were visualizing the unlikely suggestion. "Rickert's a bit old for intrigue," he replied. "What is it, Carl?"

"Oh, it's a ... personal matter. What's coming off, Captain? The assignments are all shuffled."

Braddock stared at his young sergeant for a moment; then he smiled and said, "Close the door and come on in, Carl. You have a moment, don't you?"

Lyons nodded and advanced into the office, taking a chair at the front of the desk.

"Don't even mention this to the men of your detail," Braddock told him. "We are setting the wheels in motion for a Mafia dragnet, scheduled for first thing tomorrow. It's a harassment move, pure and simple, and the only object is to prevent the buildup of a Mafia army in response to the Bolan threat. We will be altering the Hardcase strategy also, and you'll be kept abreast of developments in that area. Is Bolan getting to you, Carl?"

Lyons was thrown temporarily off-guard by the sudden question. "I don't... how do you mean?"

"What did you want to see Rickert about?"

"Is he working the details of the dragnet?"

"How come you answer every one of my questions with one of your own?"

Lyons colored and cleared his throat. "That son of a bitch was at my house today."

"What son of a bitch?"

"Bolan."

A heavy silence descended. Presently, Braddock said, "It took you long enough to tell me about it."

"I wanted to see Rickert first."

"Why?"

"Look, Captain, he just walked right into my house. My son entertained him in the living room while Janie was trying to rustle him up something to drink!"

"No, dammit—Bolan!"

Another silence; then: "I can understand how you feel, Carl. Look, we'll put a man on your house. Next time he..."

"He won't be back. He sat there and waited for me. I talked to him. He did what he came to do, and he left."

"I see. No—I don't see. Just like that? He left?"

Lyons curtly nodded his head. "Damn right. I wasn't about to risk a gunfight. Not with Janie and Tommy fifteen feet away."

"All right. There are various questions that immediately come to my mind, but for openers, what did he come to do?"

Lyons glared steadily into his superior's eyes for a tense moment; then he wordlessly got to his feet, walked out of the office, and returned an instant later carrying a small plastic case. "Something here I want you to listen to," he announced in a choked voice. "Make your own conclusions. I've already made mine."

Zeno Varone's voice rasped through the telephone line in a threatening snarl. "Well by God, Charlie, you just better put a spike in it, that's all I can say. Just what the hell you think your job is, anyway?"

"Don't talk like a total ass," Rickert came back in an angry near whisper. "This isn't anything I can control. It's value enough that I'm even able to tip you to it."

"We won't stand still for no rousting, Charlie."

"And just what in hell do you think you can do about it?" responded the lieutenant's infuriated whisper.

"I'll tell you what we can do about it! Well slap 'em with so many false-arrest suits, they'll..."

"Then you'll have to do your slapping from a cell! I'm telling you, they are beginning the roundup at eight tomorrow morning. Now you take it from there!" An abrupt click and a hum announced the disconnection.