"I don't know what you're getting at," Arnie Farmer Castiglione said sullenly.

"Well, let's just talk the possibility. Suppose we set up two programs. Huh? We turn Joe loose at this end, turn you loose at yours, see who gets to the finish line first. Huh?"

"Bullshit," Arnie Farmer replied.

"No, I'm serious." Marinello's glance flashed to the Pensylvania boss. "You really think this Leo Pussy could get next to Bolan?"

The other shrugged his shoulders. "If anybody can, he can."

The shrewd eyes moved to Staccio. "How about it, Joe? You want to sit down with Leo the Pussy and discuss things?"

The upstate man nodded solemnly. "I'll give it a try."

"I say bullshit," Castiglione coldly commented. "I already tried that route. Trying to get next to Bolan, I mean. I sent him a nigger friend. He sent me back a planeload of dead soldiers."

"I still think it's worth a try," Staccio insisted.

"All right, let's talk it up this way," Marinello suggested. "Arnie, you head up the contract campaign. You'll have Nick Trigger as your number one boy, and you sure can't complain about that. You also got Danno and his crew. You add whatever else you think you need, and you go after Bolan's ass. Joe, you take whatever you need and go after his head. How about it? Does it make sense? I'm asking all of you, now. What do you think?"

"I still say bullshit," said Arnie Farmer. "But I'll go along with it, even if it is dumb… if that's what everyone wants. But understand this. I take no responsibility for what happens to Joe or this Leo the Pussy.

We'll just get in each other's way, and my boys are going to be shooting first and talking afterwards."

"Why do you keep saying it's dumb?" Staccio asked.

"Because," Castiglione replied, "if this Leo can get next to Bolan, he can get there also with a gun in his hand… and I don't see—"

"What you don't see is that Bolan is more than a common rodman. That boy has a sixth sense about this stuff. I been studying him, ever since Miami. I keep thinking about the Talifero brothers. Also I just can't forget this fantastic stuff he pulled off at Palm Springs, against Deej and his boys. He's got something going for him, I don't know what. But you got to remember, every cop in the world is after this boy's ass, just like us. And he keeps dancing away from them just like he does us. It's a sixth sense, that's what, and he can smell a trap two days before he gets to it. He's—"

The boss from New Jersey interrupted with quiet laughter. "Maybe he uses black magic, Joe," he said. "He puts on this black suit and turns into a devil or something."

Another man at that table shivered and said, "Shit, don't even kid about that."

"What I'm saying," Staccio went on grimly, "is that I have to go into this thing with a very sincere approach. No tricks, no traps, straight all the way. The horse race ends the minute I make contact. We got to get that straight right now. And whatever I make with Bolan, I make with all the authority of the full council. It's got to be like a contract hit—all the families have got to honor it. That means everybody, not just us here now, but all of us, and that means also Arnie the Farmer Castiglione and the Virginia bluebloods."

Marinello had been watching Castiglione during the speech. He nodded, his eyes still on the man from Virginia, and said, "Our word is our honor, Joe, like always."

"Okay, just so we all understand that. Otherwise, if I got doubts myself, then Bolan will tumble to it, and then Joe Staccio is in one bad spot."

Castiglione smiled wryly and observed, "I believe Joe is superstitious."

"No, he's right," Marinello said. "I go along with that, Joe. If we can come to an agreement here, between us, then we'll set up a telephone conference with the others and we'll get it all ironed out. So what do we say. Are we agreed to try it?"

"We gotta know the terms and the details, Augie," Pennsylvania said.

"Well we got all night to knock it around, huh?" Marinello replied.

"Let's talk my end first," Castiglione suggested. "I'm already thinned out over Bolan. I'd like to have a crew from each family, and that means they pay their own way, too."

"I'll loan you Jimmy Potatoes and his crew," Pennsylvania shot back.

"I'll send Tommy Thompson and company," said Marinello.

"Scooter Rizzo," chimed in another New York boss.

"Okay, that's great," Castiglione said. "When you set up that phone council, I'll want talent from each of them, too."

Marinello solemnly nodded his head. "Okay. This is a great approach. Now let's talk about the other end. How do you figure we can support your effort, Joe?"

"Well, first of all, let's talk about the package I'm going to offer Bolan. It's got to be attractive. I mean, not just a truce, but something he'd really go for, something with a future. Let's talk about rank in the organization. With the Talifero boys temporarily out of the picture, we need a hard arm for the Commissione. I'm thinking—"

"Aw shit!" Castiglione cried, aghast with what Joe Staccio was thinking.

"No now, wait a minute, Arnie," Marinello said, favoring his old buddy with a sly wink. "Let's let Joe talk about it. Go ahead, Joe, I believe we're getting somewhere."

"Okay," Staccio said, "what I'm thinking is…"

And so it went, into the long night at Mafiaville, with frayed nerves, heated passions, cold fears, and a stab at reality. The final result of this "crisis conference" would find a terrifying impact on Mack Bolan's violent domain, and the severest test yet of his holy war with the underworld. Bolan's long night had not ended. It had only just begun.

Chapter Eight

Psyched in

Bolan awoke to total darkness. His hand found the grip of the Beretta and he lay very still until his mind had found its place and he knew where he was. With this knowledge came a wavering image of a beautiful girl with flawless flesh snuggling to him in a warm embrace, and he had to wonder if the memory was valid. He was alone in the bed now, that much was certain; he pushed silently away and reconned the darkness until satisfied that no other presence shared the apartment with him.

He returned to the bedroom and turned on a lamp. His digital calchron revealed that fourteen hours had elapsed since his arrival at Queen's House, and the clutching at his stomach was indicating that he'd been much too long without food. The flat's heating system was functioning now; he had no sensation of discomfort as he padded nakedly about the bedroom for his clothing. He donned the black nylon nightsuit and strapped on his gunleather, then went straight to the kitchen. Eggs, milk, and bacon were in the refrigerator. He immediately stirred two raw eggs into a class of milk and consigned this to his clamoring stomach, then lit the fire under the coffee pot and returned to the bedroom.

It was then that he found the note from Ann Franklin. It lay across his stack of money and read, "Meet me at Soho Psych at 11:00 P.M." Lying atop the note was a glossy book of paper matches, the embossed cover proclaiming that Soho Psych was the swingingest place in London. It also provided the address of the meeting place.

Bolan finished dressing, adding herringbone tweed slacks and jacket and a fresh shirt and tie over the skinsuit. He pondered briefly over the money, then transferred most of it to the little pouch at the waist of the nightsuit. The only small bills, two American fifties and five British 10-pound notes, went into his wallet.

By 9:30 he had consumed a comfortable mass of bacon and fried eggs, and the quart of milk, and was topping off with lukewarm coffee. It was time to move out. He went quietly down the rear stairs to the garage, opened the trunk of the Lincoln, and contemplated his arsenal. The Vzisubmacbinegun went under the front seat, along with a stack of ammo clips. It was a fine little weapon, using the standard NATO round and featuring a folding stock which reduced overall length to about seventeen inches. After a brief mental debate, Bolan took the Weatherby and a belt of ammo to the apartment and stashed it in the bedroom closet. Then he returned to the car and drove to the edge of the Soho district, found a parking place on a side street around the corner from Ronnie Scoffs, the renowned jazz club, and joined the foot traffic on Frith Street.