The girl stepped into his arms and began crying on his shoulder. The tall man returned to the sunning board, sat down, and snared a pack of Pall Mall, from the flagstones. He lit a cigarette and got into socks and shoes. DiGeorge and the girl approached the sunning board, arms linked, smiling at each other self-consciously.

"Maybe it takes something like this to break up an iceberg," DiGeorge was saying to his daughter. "It's been weeks since you'n me were pals." He nudged Lambretta with his toe and said, "So whoever said it was any fun being a young widow, eh? When's the wedding? How long you two been making it big like this, eh?"

Andrea said hurriedly, "We haven't set the date, Poppa."

"You better set it," DiGeorge said humorously, ". . . from the looks of things when I walked up."

Lambretta smiled around his cigarette and rose to his feet. He put on his shirt, then extended an open hand to the older man. "Friends?" he said simply.

"Hey, a handshake for the future father-in-law?" DiGeorge protested. He bypassed the hand, grasped Lambretta's arms, and planted a noisy kiss on his cheek.

Andrea giggled, said, "I'd better get dressed," and raced toward the door.

DiGeorge watched her out of sight, then his smile faded and he stepped quickly away from the other man, inspecting him with a suddenly critical eye. "You better be able to stand a close investigation, Mister hopeful son-in-law," he said ominously.

Mack Bolan smiled through his Lambretta mask and said, "You can get as close as you like, Dad ."

Chapter Eleven

The cover

In the curious old-world formality still found in Mafia circles, pride and respect could be considered as the basics of any human relationships in that society. Indeed, it was rare for even a Capo to openly insult the lowliest of his cadre; it was a serious offense, subject to trial before a kangaroo court, for any member to "lay hands" upon another in anger, and one of the charter rules was that a man's wife was inviolable by others of the organization. Mack Bolan was aware of this curious code of conduct-curious mainly because of its framework of crime and violence. He would not have deliberately chosen such a far-out introduction to Capo Julian DiGeorge, couched as it was in such strong overtones of disrespect and humiliation: one does not win Capos and influence Mafiosi by trampling all over their sensitivities, was Bolan's own assessment of his bold faux pas, but the thing had been done, could not be undone, and perhaps it would turn out to be the best of all possible introductions.

Andrea had changed quickly into colorfully appealing hiphuggers and tight nylon blouse, returning to the patio just as her father was leaving by another exit. She gazed shyly at the man she knew as Frank Lambretta and said, "Poor Poppa, I could have spared him that."

"I guess he'll live through it," Bolan said, smiling. "If I can, he can."

The girl laughed melodiously and carefully seated herself in a deck chair, her eyes remaining steady on Bolan. "I guess I do owe you an apology," she said. "And a note of thanks. I'm sorry I had to spring that marriage routine. I was just thinking of Poppa's feelings. If you . . ."

"It's okay," Bolan interrupted. "We can carry the gag along for a while if you'd like."

The girl soberly nodded he agreement. "I was about to say, if you wouldn't mind playing the charade for a while it would save me an awfully messy situation. Poppa is a bit old-worldly about such things."

Bolan showed her the winning Lambretta smile and said, "Can I pick you up for dinner?"

She was staring at him fixedly as she shook her head in a slow negative. "You're forgetting your family obligations," she told him in mock sobriety. "Poppa will be expecting you for dinner, here, so make it by eight, please, jacket and tie."

"Eight it is," he replied, grinning.

She abandoned the chair and went into his arms, lifting her lips in a breathless invitation. He accepted the offering. She sighed into his mouth then wriggled loose and nuzzled his throat. "The weather's pretty warm down here," she whispered. "Don't worry about dinner. Maybe we can go somewhere after."

Bolan patted her bottom, released her, and walked toward the exit DiGeorge had cleared moments earlier. He turned to wave a farewell but the girl was already disappearing around a corner. Bolan went on out, passing through a narrow archway and into the parking area at the side of the villa. A chunky man in a Palm Beach suit, whom Bolan had not seen during any of his frequent visits to the villa over the past several days, rounded a corner of the building, moving fast toward a parked car. The man did a double-take at Bolan and said, "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm sure you'll find that out without my help," Bolan replied pleasantly. He slid behind the wheel of a gleaming Mercedes, cranked the powerful engine, and spun out with a spray of gravel.

The man 'm the Palm Beach was still staring after him as he stopped for clearance through the gate, a mere formality in view of Bolan-Lambretta's now-familiar presence at the DiGeorge country estate.

Not until the villa was a half mile behind did Bolan readjust the mirror for an inspection of his face. He probed the tender tissues with careful fingers, wincing at contact with the area that had fallen under DiGeorge's stinging slap. It had required all his self-control to maintain a steady visage during that moment of incredible pain. He was hoping now that no interior damage had been done. Things were working out too well to have his face crumble on him. Yes . . . things were working out. He thought of Andrea, and knew a mixture of pleasure and regret. It had, of course, been a completely casual relationship . . . with no questions asked and none wanted. He had no reason to feel guilty about his opportunistic cultivation of the girl. She had been ready for a tumble . . . it could have been Bolan or anybody, so why not Bolan? He was using her, sure, but then she was using him also. This much was patently clear. She had wanted DiGeorge to find them in that compromising scene. She was using Bolan to strike back at her father, to hurt him. Okay. So Bolan was doing the same thing with her, and with the same target in view.

These thoughts carried him back to his hotel. He went directly to his room, showered, changed to a light suit, and buckled on his side harness with the snap-out revolver. Then he went down to the desk, nodded at the clerk, an ever-smiling and always immaculate man of about forty, and placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. "Who's been asking about me?" Bolan asked the clerk.

The clerk eyed the money, then raised a veiled gaze to his guest. "Has someone been asking you, Mr. Lambretta?" he asked drily.

"That's what the twenty wants to know."

"As a matter of fact . . . "The man drummed his fingers on the counter and smiled cautiously. ". . . A man was in here less than an hour ago who seemed to have an interest in you, Mr. Lambretta."

"What did you tell him?"

The clerk's eyes fell again to the twenty-dollar bill. He smiled and said, "Well, really . . . what is there to tell, Mr. Lambretta? You're registered here. You deal in cash, not credit cards. You're quiet, mind your own business, and . . ." He flashed Bolan a hopeless look.

"And I lay a hundred on the ponies every morning with my friendly local bookmaker," Bolan added.

The clerk's eyes darted to left and right but the smile did not leave his face. "Loose talk is not very sporting, Mr. Lambretta," he said nervously. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't speak so casually of such, uh, connections."

Bolan retrieved the twenty, leaned away from the desk and unbuttoned his coat, allowing it to stand open to reveal the snubbed .32 nestling there as he dug into his pocket and produced a money-clip. He returned the twenty to the clip, extracted a fifty, and dropped it in front of the clerk. The man's eyes shifted from the gun to the new bill lying on the counter. He nervously wet his lips and said, "I really don't see . . ."