Hell, maybe the guy was dead. He'd been bleeding like a stuck pig, Jesus how much blood could a guy lose and still keep going? Maybe the cops had him on ice in some morgue all this time, keeping the secret and just waiting for the organization to do something dumb. Maybe…

Chianti picked up a pencil and hurled it across the office. Maybe shitlYou didn't close contracts on may-be's. At that moment the telephone rang. He stared at it and let it sound twice more, then he grabbed it up and gave a guarded, "Yeah?"

"Sam, this is Fred," came a troubled voice.

The boss, his buddy, godfather to his kids, Sam this is Fred, in a tone of voice that might as well have said Sam you shithead what the fuck are you doing about this fucking contract you shithead you.

He swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat and said, "Glad you called, Freddie. Listen, I think I got that man you wanted."

Another Sam, over in Jersey, had gone through some embarassing shit just recently over a tapped phone, this Sam wasn't having any of that. "Three of my engineers are out now interviewing a likely candidate."

"Yeah?" asked Sam this is Fred.

"Yeah. They made a contact over at East Side this morning. My representative there phoned about an hour ago, maybe an hour-and-a-half, to say they'd come across something interesting. I think maybe we got your man."

"Well I hope so, Sam," was the drawling response. "My board of directors are getting pretty damned edgy over this thing. They seem to think that three days is plenty enough time to at least make a contact. You know what I mean, Sam. They get nervous when these things just drag on and no word ever comes back."

"They'll be getting some word pretty damn quick," Chianti assured his Capo. "I'll lay my whole reputation on that, Freddie."

"It's already there, Sam."

Chianti swallowed again and said, "Yeah, I guess it is."

"By the way, our attorneys say you can rest easy about those engineers that, uh, you know got detained on that legal matter the other day. He says they'll be back to work tomorrow."

"Oh great, I'm glad to hear that." Bullshit, who gave a damn about the dumb pricks who had no better sense than to get theirselves arrested like a bunch of punks. They should've known better than…

"Well, we'll be waiting to hear about this latest contact, Sam. With the greatest interest. Don't let us down, eh?"

"You know I won't, Freddie," Chianti told the Capo.

"Give my regards to Theresa. Oh yeah, Marie wants to know about the card game tonight. You know, consideiring the business pressures and all, what d'you think? Should we call it off?"

"I guess we better, Freddie. I got too much on my mind."

"Yeah, well, we'll try to make it for next Tuesday then."

"Sure, things ought to be more relaxed by then."

"I guess they'll have to be, Sam. See you."

Chianti whispered, "See you," to a dead line and woodenly returned the instrument to its base. Okay, sure, he'd known it, that was how things went. From one tiny crack to a goddamned flood. Now Freddie was calling off the damned ritual card game, that tore it all, Sam the Bomber could damn well see the handwriting on the wall now. Jesus he hadto get Bolan, there wasn't no other way, Sam's whole life hung on it.

He nervously lit a cigar and, immersed in his thoughts, forgot to keep it going. It went out and he lit it again. It went out again and he heaved it across the room. Then Angelo Totti, the big bodyguard, rapped lightly on the door and poked his head inside and said, "You got a minute, boss?"

The boss's response was uncharacteristically petulant. "Hell that's all I have got. What the hell is it now, Angelo?"

The big man came into the room, swinging a set of car keys in front of his face. "There's a kid out here, brought these keys in, says they're yours."

Chianti squinted at the keys, then held out his hand for them. Totti surrendered them and watched interestedly as Chianti examined them. "These go to one of our leased cars," Chianti decided. "What kid did you say?"

"This kid outside here," the bodyguard replied, jerking a thumb at the door. "Neighborhood punk, I seen 'im around before. He got one of your cards too, and something in a little brown envelope. Says he's gotta give it to you personal."

Chianti got to his feet and went to the door. A boy of about fifteen was leaning against the wall of the outer office, whistling softly under his breath and ogling the swank decor.

Chianti barked at him, "Where'd you get these keys, kid?"

"Guy outside," the boy replied with obvious nervousness. "Guy in a blue Chivvy. He parked the car out there and gave me the keys. Told me to bring 'em in." He glanced at a business card in his hand. "Are you Mr. Chianti?"

"Course I'm Mr. Chianti," the contractor growled. He crossed to the door and peered out through the glass porthole. Sure as hell, the car was parked over there across the street.

"Well I got this for you too." The boy was extending a brown envelope.

Chianti reached for it and the boy jerked it back. "The guy told me to collect twenty bucks."

"What the hell for?"

"He just told me to make you give me twenty bucks."

The thing was becoming humorous to the contractor's contractor. He pulled a bill out of his wallet and said, "Okay, I'll tell you what we'll do. I'll lay the twenty bucks on this table here. You put the envelope down there. Then if you can pick up the twenty without getting your arm broke, then it's yours."

The boy dropped the envelope and snatched the money in one lightning motion, jerked the door open, and was gone. Chianti was laughing and Totti said, "You want me to get it back, boss?"

"Naw, Jesus the kid has guts, let him have it." He picked up the small envelope and said, "Now I wonder what… ?"

The envelope came open and a small metallic object fell into Chianti's palm. His eyes raised in bafflement to his bodyguard's face and he grunted, "A marksman's medal. Now what the hell… ?" Then the bafflement turned to something else and the color left his face.

In an awed voice, Totti declared, "That's Bolan's calling card. They say he leaves those things on — "

"I know what it is!" Chianti screeched.

The bodyguard strode to the door and threw it open.

Chianti yelled, "Shut that goddamn door!" and ran into his office.

Totti did as he was told and followed his boss inside. Sam the Bomber was standing carefully at the wall near the front window and peering through a slit in the Venetian blind.

In a half-stifled voice he said, "I don't see nothing.

Look… go back and get Ernie and Nate. Then go out there and check that car out. No. You stay with me. Give Ernie the keys. Tell 'im to be careful."

Totti jerked his head in an understanding nod and hurried out.

This had to be the living end, the contractor's contractor was thinking. The son of a bitch had come to them. Sam almost had to admire that. He also had to fear it. And why not? There was something very bizarre and downright spooky about a fox that whistled at hounds. A fox, especially, with a six-figure bounty on his pelt.

Bolan was watching from a rooftop several doors down and across the street from the Chianti residence. The neighborhood told Bolan quite a bit about his prey. Sam the Bomber had grown up in this district, and he had seldom ventured more than fifty miles in any direction out of it. Here he was a big fish in a small pond, a local boy made good, and here he felt secure in a familiar environment which he had learned to manipulate to his own advantage. Yes, this told Bolan quite a bit about Sam Chianti.

He grinned when he saw the boy come flying out the front door with a scrap of green clutched in his hand. Bolan had been right about that item, also. Tomorrow Sam might drown the boy's father in the East River and terrorize his mother into white slavery, but today he would play the benign neighborhood patriarch and let the kid con him out of some pocket change because it was good for the image. Yeah, Bolan had known a hundred Sam the Bombers.