know what else to tell you, John."
"You told me precisely what I did
not
want you to tell me, Tim."
Braddock said, "Maybe the Winters girl is more confused than you think. I'll say this much: it doesn't sound like the usual Bolan thing. I mean, when the guy hits your town, you seldom have to wonder if he's really there."
"So I hear," Tatum commented sourly.
Another voice entered the telephone hookup, a voice which sounded as though it were accustomed to respectful listening. "Captain Braddock. This is Chief Larson."
Braddock said, "Yes sir."
"I'm sitting across the desk from John. Excuse me for not announcing my presence earlier but I thought it better that you approach the question without official intimidation. It's time for that now. You're considered the foremost authority in the West on the Bolan problem. I'm asking you now for an official opinion. Is the Executioner operating in this city?"
Braddock sighed. "I'd have to say, yes sir, it sounds that way. He'll probably confirm it, very loudly, at most any time now."
"All right. Ill be talking to your chief but I suppose I should clear it with you first. I'd like you down here with us, in an advisory capacity."
It was getting to be a habit. Braddock had hardly unpacked from the trek to Boston.
He sighed and told the San Diego official, "I'il have to beg off, Sir. My work here is stacked up around my ears. I think we could spring another man, though — and, actually, he's been much closer to Bolan than I have."
"I don't want you unless you're willing, Captain. You won't reconsider?"
"I'm sorry, sir. The department wouldn't allow it even if I wanted to go. If you'll make the request via official channels, though, I'll see that you're provided the best man available." "All right. I'll rely on that, Captain." Tatum chimed in with, "Tim, thanks." "You bet," Braddock replied, and broke the connection.
He immediately poked his intercom and told his secretary, "Run down Sergeant Lyons for me — Carl Lyons. He should be in Organized Crime Division. Tell him to grab a toothbrush and be in my office within the hour. Then set me up for five minutes in the Chiefs office — make it urgent business conference — and request that Captain Mira of OCD be present."
"Sounds like a bell-ringer," the secretary commented.
"You better believe it. Oh — and when you're talking to Sergeant Lyons — tell him if s a
Hard-case."
"I thought
Hardcase
was dead."
"Not yet," Braddock growled into the intercom. "It's apparently alive and well ... in San Diego."
Thank God.
Thank God it was not Braddock's problem this time.
7
Danger's folly
They were supposed to have gotten underway at seven o'clock and here it was eight already. If they were going to cancel these goddamn things, why the hell didn't somebody have enough thought about them to let a guy know it was off?
Gene (the Turtle) Tarantini paced the glistening deck of the flying bridge and ranted inwardly at the sorry way things had been going lately with this chicken outfit.
He'd rather be back in the navy ... almost. Not quite. But there wasn't much difference ... when a guy got to thinking about it. Same damn chicken outfit. Guys pulling rank all the time, giving out orders right and left, expecting you to snap-shit every time they stepped aboard.
Let Tony Danger run his own fuckin' navy!
He stepped over to the voice tube and blew into it to attract attention down below, then he announced, "Hear this, you fucking muddy-water sailors. The admiral has not been piped aboard and it don't look like he's coming. Secure the fucking engines — hey wait, belay that. I think his imperial lateness has finally arrived."
A guy was coming down the steps from the sun deck of the marina's lounge. White bell bottoms, deck shoes, knit shirt, bright yellow nylon wind-breaker and the inevitable skipper's hat. Dark sun glasses. Carrying a briefcase.
The Turtle turned back to the voice tube and passed the word to his two-man crew. "Look
"You told me precisely what I did
not
want you to tell me, Tim."
Braddock said, "Maybe the Winters girl is more confused than you think. I'll say this much: it doesn't sound like the usual Bolan thing. I mean, when the guy hits your town, you seldom have to wonder if he's really there."
"So I hear," Tatum commented sourly.
Another voice entered the telephone hookup, a voice which sounded as though it were accustomed to respectful listening. "Captain Braddock. This is Chief Larson."
Braddock said, "Yes sir."
"I'm sitting across the desk from John. Excuse me for not announcing my presence earlier but I thought it better that you approach the question without official intimidation. It's time for that now. You're considered the foremost authority in the West on the Bolan problem. I'm asking you now for an official opinion. Is the Executioner operating in this city?"
Braddock sighed. "I'd have to say, yes sir, it sounds that way. He'll probably confirm it, very loudly, at most any time now."
"All right. Ill be talking to your chief but I suppose I should clear it with you first. I'd like you down here with us, in an advisory capacity."
It was getting to be a habit. Braddock had hardly unpacked from the trek to Boston.
He sighed and told the San Diego official, "I'il have to beg off, Sir. My work here is stacked up around my ears. I think we could spring another man, though — and, actually, he's been much closer to Bolan than I have."
"I don't want you unless you're willing, Captain. You won't reconsider?"
"I'm sorry, sir. The department wouldn't allow it even if I wanted to go. If you'll make the request via official channels, though, I'll see that you're provided the best man available." "All right. I'll rely on that, Captain." Tatum chimed in with, "Tim, thanks." "You bet," Braddock replied, and broke the connection.
He immediately poked his intercom and told his secretary, "Run down Sergeant Lyons for me — Carl Lyons. He should be in Organized Crime Division. Tell him to grab a toothbrush and be in my office within the hour. Then set me up for five minutes in the Chiefs office — make it urgent business conference — and request that Captain Mira of OCD be present."
"Sounds like a bell-ringer," the secretary commented.
"You better believe it. Oh — and when you're talking to Sergeant Lyons — tell him if s a
Hard-case."
"I thought
Hardcase
was dead."
"Not yet," Braddock growled into the intercom. "It's apparently alive and well ... in San Diego."
Thank God.
Thank God it was not Braddock's problem this time.
7
Danger's folly
They were supposed to have gotten underway at seven o'clock and here it was eight already. If they were going to cancel these goddamn things, why the hell didn't somebody have enough thought about them to let a guy know it was off?
Gene (the Turtle) Tarantini paced the glistening deck of the flying bridge and ranted inwardly at the sorry way things had been going lately with this chicken outfit.
He'd rather be back in the navy ... almost. Not quite. But there wasn't much difference ... when a guy got to thinking about it. Same damn chicken outfit. Guys pulling rank all the time, giving out orders right and left, expecting you to snap-shit every time they stepped aboard.
Let Tony Danger run his own fuckin' navy!
He stepped over to the voice tube and blew into it to attract attention down below, then he announced, "Hear this, you fucking muddy-water sailors. The admiral has not been piped aboard and it don't look like he's coming. Secure the fucking engines — hey wait, belay that. I think his imperial lateness has finally arrived."
A guy was coming down the steps from the sun deck of the marina's lounge. White bell bottoms, deck shoes, knit shirt, bright yellow nylon wind-breaker and the inevitable skipper's hat. Dark sun glasses. Carrying a briefcase.
The Turtle turned back to the voice tube and passed the word to his two-man crew. "Look
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