Damage Radius. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ the room as she set it down, this time doing so on the other side of the table from Bolan to allow him a view of the cleavage barely hidden by her low-scooped, laced neckline. Several more trips brought out bowls of potatoes and vegetables. As well as more exposures of female flesh.

      “Not a bad spread,” Bolan said, breaking the silence.

      “You talking about the food or the waitress, Mr. Cooper?” McFarley laughed.

      “I meant the food,” Bolan said. “But the scenery isn’t bad, either.”

      “Nothing but the best around here,” McFarley replied. “Sure beats a po’boy on Bourbon Street. Or the disease-ridden hookers who work the jazz clubs.”

      “It does indeed,” Bolan said.

      McFarley laughed out loud. “Our waitress also works downstairs,” he said. “She’s yours later, Mr. Cooper, if you’d like. And it’s on the house. Any of the girls you want. And however many you can handle—if you’re into that sort of thing.”

      Bolan nodded. “If you’re giving me gifts like that, you’d better start calling me Matt. Mr. Cooper just doesn’t quite have the right ring for an orgy.”

      “All right then, Matt, me boyo,” McFarley said in a thick brogue. “And while I don’t extend this to many of my other employees, I think you should call me Tommy.”

      “You sure you want to do that?” Bolan asked as Maria sliced a large piece of duck breast and set it on his plate. “I’m just a gym manager.”

      McFarley laughed again. “Not after tonight,” he said. “I’ve got a feeling about you, Matt Cooper.” He paused for a second then went on. “Plus, I know far more about your past than you think I do,” he said in a slightly lower voice.

      I doubt that, Bolan thought. The fact was he knew exactly what the man knew about him. Aware that McFarley had connections high within the New Orleans Police Department, Bolan had seen to it that Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man Farm’s wheelchair-bound computer expert, had hacked into police files the world over and set up dummy files for Matt Cooper. They included arrests in many of the same criminal activities McFarley engaged in.

      But no convictions.

      The types, and vast number of arrests, had told McFarley that Matt Cooper was a player.

      The lack of convictions told him that Cooper was smart.

      “My question is,” McFarley asked after swallowing a mouthful of roast duck, “why did you want a job as a gym manager in the first place? It’s like a neurosurgeon working in a car wash.”

      “Without boring you with the details,” Bolan said, “I presently find it advantageous to keep a low profile. There’s been a misunderstanding between two parties I worked with. It’ll blow over with time, but right now, I need something that keeps me out of the limelight within our own peculiar little loops.”

      The Irishman scooped up a forkful of green peas and stuck the utensil in his mouth as he nodded. When he had swallowed again, he said, “I understand.” He started to cut another piece of duck with his knife and fork, then stopped. “You know, Matt,” he said, “with your experience you might be more valuable to me in other areas besides managing my gym.”

      Bolan reached for a bowl of applesauce and spooned some onto his plate. “I’ve already told you, Tommy,” he said, finally using the man’s first name. “I’m laying low for a while.”

      “When you’re with me,” McFarley said, “you’ve got nothing to worry about. We can change your name if it’d make you feel better. Even change your face if you’d like. I’ve got a cosmetic surgeon who—”

      “That’s okay,” Bolan interrupted. “I’ve had my face changed a couple of times in the past. That’s enough.”

      The statement was not an idle comment. It was the truth.

      “Good enough, then, laddie,” McFarley said. “I don’t think you’ll be running across any of the people you’ve worked with in the past anyway. I’ve got my own pipelines, and like you said, we’ve got ‘loops’ not just one ‘loop.’ We may know what the other folk who do our kind of business are doing, but we aren’t in league with them all.”

      Maria returned, clearing the table of dishes and bowls, and making sure Bolan got a good look at her again, both top and bottom.

      “Are you up for dessert?” McFarley asked.

      “I’m already stuffed,” Bolan said. “Better skip it. Besides, who knows which of your boxers I’m going to have to beat up tomorrow?”

      McFarley stood up. “Like I told you,” he said. “Your days at the gym are over. I can hire any number of punch-drunk old fighters to hold the heavy bag and mop the floor of that place. The only time you need to go back there is to get whatever clothes and other things you moved into that pathetic little bedroom behind the office.” He stopped talking for a moment, then said, “Let’s adjourn to my office.”

      Bolan followed the Irishman out of the room, down another hallway in what he had already seen was a labyrinth—almost a maze—of short halls and rooms. The entire top floor of the mansion had obviously been gutted, then redesigned to fit McFarley’s tastes. It was nothing if not confusing, and Bolan couldn’t help but suspect the man had set it up that way in case the unlikely police raid ever occurred. Without a map of the floor, it would take officers looking for drugs, illegal weapons, or any other evidence of crime extra seconds, if not minutes, to search the entire floor.

      Seconds and minutes in which evidence could be destroyed. Or be used to effect an escape.

      The Executioner reminded himself to spend as much time up here as he could in order to get the layout into his head. The time would come when he, probably alone, would have to search the penthouse for McFarley.

      The Irishman led Bolan through a reception area, then past a desk on which several green potted plants sat. The desk also had several framed photos of what looked like family members. Bolan guessed that the older woman in some of the pictures had to be McFarley’s secretary, and that the Irishman had hired her in at least some effort to separate business from pleasure. All in all, however, the reception area looked vastly out of place in what was basically a whorehouse.

      Reaching into his pocket, McFarley pulled out a key and unlocked the door to his office, ushering Bolan in before flipping the light switch. The Executioner stood to the side to allow McFarley to enter, and waited while the man circled the desk to his chair.

      “Have a seat wherever you’d like, Matt,” the Irishman said before sitting down himself.

      Bolan turned. The first thing his eyes fell upon were the wet blood stains and caking brain matter on the couch and wall behind it. “Looks like you had a hard day,” he said casually, then turned toward a stuffed armchair against the side wall. “Think I’ll sit over here.” He walked to the chair and dropped into it. “I have this policy against intentionally sitting in freshly spilled brain matter.”

      Bolan had been watching McFarley out of the corner of his eye, and the expression on the man’s face told him the criminal kingpin had purposely brought Matt Cooper to this office so he’d see the bloody mess. The Irishman wanted to see how he reacted. And he wanted to know if Cooper would ask about it.

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