Bolan's traumatic punches at the organization had produced a more far-reaching effect, DiGeorge knew, than probably Bolan himself even realized. Normal attrition through an occasional death or arrest within the ranks had never posed too much of a problem for the strongly organized and formally administered combine. Intra-family disputes and "licenses" came under the exclusive jurisdiction of that family's Capo; he was a boss whose slightest whim was enforced by a life-or-death disciplinary code. DiGeorge could not remember a time since the Maranzano-Genovese wars of the thirties when there had been such a high attrition rate within a Cosa Nostra family. Thanks to Bolan, the hierarchy of DiGeorge's family was now a shambles.
Things were bad even at the crew level. DiGeorge smiled wryly, thinking of Screwy Looey Pena as his Chief Enforcer. Screwy Looey had been a good soldier. DiGeorge had no doubt that he would forever be a good soldier, loyal to the death, but he simply did not have the stuff for rank. Where would DiGeorge go to fill his vacancies? The families had been closed to new members for years and there was a notable absence of young new blood in the organization. Oh, there were young employees, sure, but hell, you couldn't give an employee rank. DiGeorge filed a mental note to raise the issue with the Commissione, the national Cosa Nostra ruling council, at the first opportunity. Meanwhile, he would have to wrestle alone with the problems of succession.
DiGeorge's reception at Palm Springs on October 15th reflected the tenor of the times. Six vehicles, including an armor-plated Cadillac, awaited him at the private hangar. The reception committee numbered 26, but was headed by a long-haired "soldier" known as Little John Zarecky. Obviously nervous and awed by the great man's presence, Zarecky stammeringly reported to DiGeorge that Pena had not been heard from and that Willie Walker had departed "with a crew" two days previously. This left the palace guard without a ranking commander; Little John had been left in charge. DiGeorge immediately passed the mantle of authority to Philip "Honey" Marasco, a 42-year-old bodyguard who had accompanied him on the Mexican trip. Thus it was that DiGeorge had no one to bring him up to date on the happenings at home as the motorcade wended its way to the sprawling Palm Springs villa, and thus it was that Julian DiGeorge had no inkling of the existence of the man called Frank Lambretta until the startling confrontation on DiGeorge's poolside patio.
The pool and patio occupied a "private" area of the villa, a preserve stormily demanded some time earlier by DiGeorge's widowed daughter, Andrea DiGeorge D'Agosta, who strongly resented the presence of "hoods and goons" in the family home. Andrea, who had been ignorant of her father's underworld connections until the Bolan adventures, was also nurturing an ill-concealed resentment of DiGeorge himself, and the two had been all but estranged during the weeks since DiGeorge's exposure as a Cosa Nostra boss.
DiGeorge was not particularly surprised to find Andrea at the pool. Indeed, she had been spending most of her daylight hours there since the incident at Beverly Hills — "mooning around," as DiGeorge put it, "and wishing we could get the spilt wine back in the broken bottle." What did surprise and shock him was the inescapable fact that his daughter was technically naked and that, moreover, she was entertaining a strange man who was in about the same state of undress.
"You slut you!" was DiGeorge's homecoming salutation to his daughter.
The man in the case was clad only in a pair of wet jockey shorts. He was lying face up on a sunning board. Andrea, wearing only the scanty bottom half of a bikini, was lying atop the man in a tight embrace. She raised her face to her father and said, "Poppa! Turn your head!"
"I'll turn your head right offa your shoulder!" DiGeorge howled. "Get up offa there and get your clothes on!"
In a voice choked with embarassment and anger, the girl insisted, "I'm not moving until you turn your head!"
"Yeah, that's right," the unhappy father roared. "You'll show your bottom to any two-bit bum that happens past, but your Poppa's gotta turn his head!" He had already turned away, however, rocking angrily on the balls of his feet and squeezing his hands together in frustrated rage. "Who's the bum?" he yelled.
Andrea's voice was shaking as she replied, "I'm not talking to you, Poppa, until you calm down. And Frank is not a bum. We're going to be married, in fact, and . . . and . . ." She lost her voice completely and was having trouble hooking herself into the bikini top. A small girl, just over five feet tall and weighing hardly a hundred pounds, she made up in quality of what she lost in quantity, with all the planes and angles which have made Italian beauties the sex symbols of the world.
Her "partner in crime," as she laughingly referred to him later, exhibited no reaction to her "we're going to be married" line. He rolled easily off the sunning board and pulled on a pair of white Levi slacks, smiled faintly at the girl, then went over to the brooding figure of her father.
"I'm Frank Lambretta, Mr. DiGeorge," he quietly announced.
DiGeorge inspected him through veiled eyes. He saw a tall man, lithe, muscular, maybe 30 or 35, a bit too damn good-looking. A playboy, maybe. The Springs were full of them. DiGeorge felt cheapened by his daughter's indiscretion. He let go a disgusted snort and delivered a stinging backhand slap to the man's face. The tall man obviously saw the blow coming but he stood and received without flinching. A four-finger imprint showed a pale contrast to the smooth flesh surrounding it; a muscle bunched in the jaw and a nerve rippled the flesh beneath the eye.
"I guess you figure I had that coming," the man said. He spoke slowly, obviously laboring for self-control. "But that was your first and last free swing. Be advised."
"Yeah, yeah," DiGeorge muttered, "I'm scared to death with your advice."
The girl had succeeded in covering her heaving bosom and was marching toward her father with fire in her eyes. "You're a nut, a nut!" she cried. "You go all holy over an innocent thing like this while all the time you're standing there a murderer, and a thief, and a . . ."
Grunting with rage, DiGeorge had been pushed too far and had let loose another slap, this one aimed at his daughter. She, too, saw it coming and ducked back, cutting off her accusations with an alarmed yelp, but the man called Lambretta had reacted even faster. His hand shot out and imprisoned the infuriated DiGeorge's wrist, abruptly arresting the swing and holding the stiffened hand like a vibrating leaf directly in front of DiGeorge's eyes.
The two men glared into each other's eyes for a tense moment, the silence of the struggle unbroken until Lambretta whispered, "Give the kid a break, Deej."
"I'll give her a broken head," DiGeorge hissed.
"Call it all my fault," Lambretta suggested in a barely audible voice, still gripping the other's wrist. "I pressured her into it. Now let it go at that."
"You let go my wrist!"
"If I do, and if you go for the kid, Deej, I'll drop you in the pool. Now stop being old-country." Lambretta released his grip and moved a pace backwards, smiling faintly at the outraged father.
"Do you know just who you're talking to, punk?" DiGeorge snarled.
Lambretta jerked his head in a curt nod. "Yes, I know who I'm talking to. And it still goes. If I have to dunk you to cool you off, then get ready for a swim, Deej."
Suddenly aware that he had been repeatedly called "Deej" by the brash interloper, DiGeorge stared at his tormentor more closely and asked, "Where do you get off calling me Deej? What'd you say your name is?"
Andrea began giggling in the sudden letdown of dangerous tensions. DiGeorge threw her an angry glare, then stomped his foot and opened his arms to her. "Aw, come on, come on," he said forgivingly.