"No, Poppa, there won't be any more," Andrea replied quietly.

"You'll tell this Lambretta punk to get lost."

She sighed. "Yes, Poppa. He's coming to dinner. I'll tell him then."

"You want me to tell 'im?" DiGeorge asked gently.

"Yes. Yes, I guess so." Her eyes suddenly brimming with tears, the girl jumped to her feet and cried, "I'm sorry, Poppa," and ran out of the room.

"I'm sorry too, bambina," DiGeorge told the empty room. He picked up a heavy glass ashtray and hurled it against the far wall.

Chapter Thirteen

Charisma

Bolan was shown into the DiGeorge library by a steely-eyed "butler" in formal attire which almost but not quite concealed a gun under the left arm. He was offered a drink, accepted a fancy tumbler of Scotch on the rocks, and was asked to make himself comfortable. He did so, dropping into a heavy leather lounge. A pedestal-type ashtray immediately appeared at his right elbow; the butler excused himself and departed. The lighting was dim and the dark panelling of the room seemed to cast ominous shadows across Bolan's view. His eyes were roving the bookshelves, seeing while not seeing the obviously never disturbed volumes reposing there. A chill trickled down his neck to the base of his spine; he was, he knew, being watched from some concealed observation post. He casually lit a cigarette then got to his feet and paced about the room gulping the Scotch on the move.

Bolan placed the empty glass on a desk, opened his coat, inspected his gunleather in an obvious manner, closed his coat, and paced some more. Presently the door opened and two men entered. One of them Bolan recognized as an obscure palace guard, a smooth-faced youngster who could have just stepped off an Ivy League campus. The other was a very light-stepping heavyweight with a ground-beef face, massive shoulders, and ridiculously small feet. It was the same man Bolan had encountered earlier in the parking lot. The youth halted just inside the doorway and allowed Bolan to see his .38-the older man stood an arm's reach from Bolan's gun hand.

"You forgot to check your hardware," said little-feet, pleasantly enough.

"I like to know who I'm checking it with," Bolan replied stiffly.

"The name's Marasco," the heavyweight solemnly told him.

Bolan nodded. "Okay," he said. His hand moved slowly to the coatfront.

Marasco said quickly, "Not that way. Lean over, both hands on the desk."

"Huh-uh," Bolan replied, grinning. His eyes flashed in a quick round trip to the youth at the door. "I don't turn my back to no rodman."

"Slow and easy, then," Marasco said, almost smiling. "Lay it on the desk."

Bolan complied with the instructions. Marasco stepped forward, took the pistol, and casually dropped it into his coat pocket. "You can pick it up at the gate on your way out," he said lightly. He took one step toward the door, then paused and turned back to Bolan as though in an afterthought. "Your name Lambretta?"

Bolan nodded a silent affirmation.

"You connected with a Rocky Lambretta from Jersey City?"

"Rocky was a cousin," Bolan replied unemotionally. "He's been dead since '62."

Marasco jerked his head in an understanding nod, took another step toward the door, paused and turned back again. "Frankie, is it?"

Bolan grinned and said, "Why the twenty questions? You know my name."

"You ever work in Miami or Saint Pete?"

"You want me to sit down and write you out a life history?"

Marasco shrugged his shoulders and went on to the door. "Mr. DiGeorge will be down in a minute," he said. "Just make yourself at home."

"I was comfortable before you came in here," Bolan said sarcastically.

Marasco winked and made his exit. The youth grinned at Bolan and followed the heavier man out, pulling the door closed. Bolan kept his face expressionless and stared at the closed door for a long moment, then went over to the sideboard and poured himself another drink. He still felt eyes upon him, but had no fears that he could not behave in a convincing manner. He had grown up in an Italian neighborhood; as for understanding the enemy, his brief apprenticeship with the Sergio Frenchi family in the opening days of the Pittsfield adventure would prove of inestimable value in the days which lay ahead. Bolan continued to play the role, gulping the Scotch while restlessly pacing about the room. Five minutes later, Julian DiGeorge made his appearance.

Without preliminaries, he asked, "What're you doing in the Springs?"

Bolan said, "Look, to hell with it. It was just a gag I went along with. I never had no serious eyes on your kid. We had a few laughs and that was it. You walked in on us and I was just trying to save the kid some face. But enough's enough."

"Answer my question," DiGeorge demanded. His face had not changed expression.

"You already got the answers!" Bolan exploded.

"Why were you fooling around with my daughter?"

Bolan bugged his eyes and said, "You kidding? What man wouldn't go for . . ." He abruptly stopped talking, dug in his pocket for a cigarette, stuck it between his lips then pulled it away without lighting it. "Look, Deej, the girl's of age, she's a beauty, and she ain't exactly no Virgin Mary if you'll pardon the comparison. We met in the bar at my hotel, and we laughed around a little and we got to be friends. No one could be more surprised than me when I find out later whose kid she turns out to be. Her name's D'Agosta, you know, not DiGeorge anymore. Hell, I didn't know who she was. We only met three days ago."

DiGeorge's shoulders had tightened noticeably but his face remained impassive. "What brought you to the Springs?" he demanded quietly.

Bolan whipped a large, folded news clipping from his pocket and slapped it on the desk. "Need you really ask?" he said disgustedly.

DiGeorge stepped to the desk and picked up the clipping, unfolded it, glanced at it, then dropped it with a chuckle. "It figures," he said.

Bolan picked up his clipping, a news concerning the Executioner's Los Angeles exploits, a large close-up photo of Bolan's face dominating the item. "The word's that the contract is wide open," Bolan muttered past his Lambretta mask.

"And you thought you'd pick up a quick'n easy hundred thou," the Mafia boss said, still chuckling.

"I got it that you had a dugout here. I figured it was worth a play."

"Did you also get it that this Bolan punk is probably in Brazil by now? Or better yet, that he's dead and buried in a secret grave by the cops up at the Village?"

Bolan snorted and said, "He's right here in Palm Springs!"

DiGeorge's amused expression immediately evaporated. "Where did you get that?"

"We already tangled once." Bolan quickly unbuttoned his shirt, spread it wide, and displayed a quarter-inch-wide groove in the flesh just beneath his left armpit. "A .45 slug dug that trench, and it had the Executioner's brand on it."

"Don't say that word!" DiGeorge snapped.

"What word?"

"Don't call the punk by his pet name! Lemme see that scratch!"

"Scratch, hell," Bolan said. He adjusted the shirt to afford DiGeorge a better inspection of the wound.

DiGeorge clucked his tongue and said, "You were lucky, Franky. Another inch to the right, and you . . ." He let go the shirt and studied the wound with an academic air. "It's healing pretty good. What is it — about a week old?"

"About that," Bolan said. He rebuttoned the shirt and carefully tucked in the tails.

"Yeah, you were lucky," DiGeorge repeated. "Franky Lucky, that's a name that ought to stick. Not many guys walking around can talk about their gunfight with this Bolan. You sure that was him?"

A new air of respect had pervaded the previously strained atmosphere between the two men. Bolan recognized it immediately. "It was him all right," he replied. "We came up eyeball to eyeball down by Desert Junction last Tuesday night."