DiGeorge was staring thoughtfully into empty space. He noisily cleared his throat and said, "I wonder if you've thought of something, Phil. I wonder if you realize that someone has been playing games with old Deej."

Marasco inspected his Capo's face, found no clue to his thoughts, and replied, "What kind of games, Deej?"

"What was it Franky Lucky was telling me about this fight he had with Bolan? He said he saw Bolan down at the corners, and he recognized him, and they shot it out. And this was just a few days after Bolan ducked us over at th' Village. Right?"

"Yeah." Marasco was chewing the thought. "But I . . ." His eyes widened and he said, "Whuup! Willie Walker says on the phone that Bolan got his face carved the day of the hit."

"That's just what I been thinking, Philip Honey," DiGeorge mused. "Now somebody has got a story crossed. I wonder who?"

"Why would Franky want to cross you up, Deej?"

"That's what I have to wonder about, Phil. We're just saying if, now. If Screwy Looey was telling it straight. Have you ever caught Lou in a lie, Phil? I mean ever? An important lie?"

Marasco was thinking about it. He shook his head and replied, "I don't believe Lou ever gave you anything but a straight lip, Deej. But we got to remember one thing. Lou could have thought he had something. Maybe someone else wanted him to think that."

"You ever know any boys that got face jobs, Phil?"

"Yeah. It used to be the fashion back East."

"How long before they're out of bandages?"

"Oh, two or three weeks."

DiGeorge grunted. "And the boys I knew, they went around with puss pockets and Band-Aids for sometimes a month after that. It's a messy thing, this face job."

"They're even moving hearts around from body to body now, Deej. Maybe they got better ways to give face jobs now, too."

"I want somebody to find out about that," DiGeorge commanded.

"Sure, Deej."

"Meanwhile, Franky Lucky is right back in probate. If Bolan did get a face job, Franky didn't see him at no desert corners a few days later, no matter how fancy they get with face jobs. There's only one of two ways, saying that Bolan did get carved. He either saw him in bandages, or he saw him wearing the new face. Now that's plain, ain't it? Franky Lucky could not have recognized Bolan three days after a face job!"

"That's a fact, Deej," Marasco said. He appeared to be slightly out of breath. "Saying, of course, that Lou had the straight lip, then Franky Lucky has been using a curved one."

DiGeorge sighed. "That's a fact, Philip Honey." He sighed again. "You say the boy shoots a hard hit, eh?"

"You'd have to see what I saw, Deej, before you could ever know."

"Wouldn't it be hell," DiGeorge said tiredly, "if Franky Lucky turns out to be this Bolan's new face."

Marasco lost his breath entirely. His face paled. "I wouldn't go that far, Deej," he puffed.

"I would," DiGeorge stated matter-of-factly. "That's why I'm the Capo, Philip Honey. I would. When is Victor Poppy due in?"

"L.A. International at two o'clock," Marasco replied mechanically. "Franky might have lied a little, Deej. About shooting it up with Bolan. Just to get your attention."

"I thought of that, too. I have to think of everything, Phil. Don't worry, I'm thinking. I sure want to see this gift Victor's bringing us."

"I'd have to guess that Franky Lucky is straight, Deej," Marasco stated, phrasing the strongest argument he dared.

"You do the guessing, Phil," DiGeorge replied with a weary smile. "I'll do the thinking."

Bolan stopped at a secluded public telephone booth and gambled on finding Carl Lyons at the contact number. The gamble paid off. Lyons immediately asked, "What do you know about the events at Palm Village early this morning?"

"Enough," Bolan said. "I'll trade some intel with you."

"No trades," Lyons clipped back. "Tim Braddock's at the point of death, and the most grisly damn piece of . . ."

"I know all about it, Lyons," Bolan said humbly. "Will Braddock make it?"

"The doctors are hopeful, At the very best though, he'll be out of things for quite a while."

"He's a good cop," Bolan said, genuinely regretful.

"Better than some I know," Lyons replied in a faint self-mockery. "What'd you call about, Pointer?"

"My cover's in danger. I need some intel."

"Just a minute . . . Brognola's here and frothing. He was doubling up between us and Braddock, and . . . just a minute, Pointer."

Bolan heard a whispered consultation, then the light click of another receiver coming on the line.

"Okay," Lyons said. "Brognola's on with us. You give us some words first. Who made that hit up there this morning, besides Pena?"

"I don't know all the names, but you can identify the remains," Bolan replied. "You'll find them scattered around the junction of the Palm Springs high and low roads. Six of them, including Pena."

"All dead," Brognola's smooth voice stated.

"That's right," Bolan said. "Now can we talk about my problem?"

"Who killed them?" from Brognola.

"Call it a double contract," Bolan said. "Julian DiGeorge got the idea that Pena has been informing. The other five boys were siding with Pena."

"Then the rubout had no connection with the murders of the Conns and the plastic surgeon?" Brognola asked.

"I didn't say that," Bolan replied.

Lyons snarled. "This guy is playing games with you, Hal. Bolan, you executed those men, didn't you!"

"Who's he talking to?" Bolan asked Brognola.

"They found out that Brantzen had altered your face, and they went up there to wring something out of him! That much is obvious so save all of us the time and stop playing games. You happened along, saw what they'd done to your doctor friend, and went gunning for them. Now you're saying that your cover is in jeopardy. What kind of information did Pena get back to the mob before you killed him, Bolan?"

"Just a moment, before you answer that, Mr. Pointer," Brognola said. "Please don't leave the line."

Again the sounds of a muted, off-phone discussion came to Bolan's ears. Then Brognola came back on. "Mr. Pointer," he said, "we appreciate the work you've been doing for us, and we have no wish to compromise your position. You don't have to say anything to incriminate yourself."

"Fair enough," Bolan replied.

"We are not questioning your identity. Just tell us this much. Were the murders at Palm Village this morning ordered by Julian DiGeorge?"

"No," Bolan said. "It was all Pena's idea."

"I see. And now Pena and his squad are dead."

"That's right."

"At DiGeorge's orders?"

"There was a contract out on Pena"

"I see," Brognola replied with some confusion.

Bolan sighed. "Okay, Lyons," he said. "I don't want you people to start questioning my intel. You're right, it's no time for games. Besides, I'm about as incriminated as one person can get already. This is Bolan. I've penetrated the DiGeorge family, and I pulled off the hit on Pena this morning. I was acting purely for myself on that one, though. You saw, or heard, what they did to Brantzen."

"Yeah," Lyons said softly. "Braddock gave a pretty good description of the guy who helped him, Bolan. It fits a man who was sitting in my car the other night, in Redlands."

"Yeah," Bolan said. "About my problem."

"Go ahead," Lyons sighed.

"I hear that: the Commissione employs a private staff of enforcers. I need to know who runs that show."

"That's your department, Hal," Lyons said.

"Presently only ten bosses sit on the Commissione," Brognola reported. He rattled off the names. "You'll note that DiGeorge's name is not present. He walked out in a huff two years ago over some dispute about the narcotics traffic. He sits in from time to time, though, when some subject important to him comes up for discussion. Technically, he still has a voice on that council."