Shadow Hunt. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ on his gun belt. Just close enough to his sidearm to make a point, but not close enough to give offense.

      “Is that an order?” Bolan asked.

      “Nah, just a friendly suggestion.”

      “I think I’ll hang around for a couple of days. After all, he may need a little assistance finding his way back home. Gentlemen.”

      Bolan blatantly turned his back on them and walked out the door.

      AFTER BOLAN LEFT, Smythe moved to the phone on the desk.

      “What the hell was that?” Lacroix barked.

      “It’s not like I invited him, Duke,” he replied. “He just showed up here. I’m calling Mr. Costello right away. I can handle this.”

      “You’re an idiot,” Lacroix said. “He’s here looking for Jack Rio. Did he tell you that? I haven’t been informed about a formal investigation into his death, which means they’re either keeping it below the radar or it’s personal for this guy. I’d almost rather it was a covert operation. Personal matters can get messy.”

      “Yeah, that’s who he’s looking for,” he said. “What of it? We can take care of him just like we did Rio.”

      Lacroix shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Something about that man sets me off. I wouldn’t go underestimating him.”

      “You worry too much,” Smythe said, picking up the phone.

      “And you don’t worry enough,” the police chief said, moving to the door. “I’m going to look into this.”

      “You do that,” Smythe said, dialing the phone number from memory. It rang several times before a smooth voice answered.

      “Mr. Costello’s residence,” Victor Salerno said.

      “Vic, it’s Trenton.”

      “I’ve told you not to call me Vic, Smythe. Now what the hell do you want?” he asked. “Mr. Costello is busy.”

      “He’s not too busy for this,” he snapped. “Put him on.”

      “You’ve got a big mouth for a little man,” Salerno replied. “Really big.”

      “Look, I just had a U.S. marshal in here looking for Rio, and he’s not just going to walk away, so maybe you’d like to stop commenting on my big mouth and put the boss on.”

      There was a long silence, then Salerno said, “Hold on, little man.”

      There was the sound of muffled words, then, “Mr. Smythe,” Costello said as he came on the line. “I understand we have a small problem.”

      “I don’t know how big the problem is,” he said, then filled him in on his meeting with the U.S. marshal.

      “And what did you tell him?” Costello asked.

      “I told him to meet me at seven at Mosca’s,” Smythe said. In the background, he could hear the faint, painful moaning of someone—likely Jack Rio—being tortured.

      “That will do nicely,” Costello said. “I’ll send along a welcoming committee and the problem will be solved. Good day, Mr. Smythe.”

      “Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you.” He hung up the phone and sat down heavily. Things were going too far, too fast. Sooner or later, they’d all get caught and go to prison or worse.

      And he agreed with Duke Lacroix. There was something about that man Cooper that gave him the willies. Smythe sat back down at his computer and went to his online banking. Maybe it was time to start thinking about moving some money.

      3

      In cities famous for their food, New Orleans stood out. But Mosca’s wasn’t just a well-known restaurant, it was a tradition meant to be celebrated, like Mardis Gras. At least that’s what the waitress at the bistro told Bolan when he stopped in for a cup of coffee to go. While many restaurants were reputed for excellent food and service, only a few were esteemed for their ability to keep secrets. “If you want to talk about taking over the world, you go to Mosca’s,” she said, handing him his coffee.

      While Bolan had no interest in taking over the world, a restaurant with that kind of reputation would certainly be online. He’d returned to his hotel room, locked the door and booted up his computer on the tiny desk that was as scarred as he was. Using a secure log-on, Bolan was able to find Mosca’s website, several other mentions online, and, with a little clever manipulation learned from the Farm’s computer genius Aaron Kurtzman, a back door into a set of FBI files on the Matranga Family itself.

      According to the files, the Matrangas had been operating in New Orleans since at least the 1880s, but had virtually disappeared since the death of Carlos Marcello in 1993. Marcello had used Mosca’s as the epicenter of his empire, having meets there for everything from personal meals to planning killings. Mosca’s reputation of good food, incredibly discreet service and no questions asked had outlasted even the Mafia.

      The location was far enough away from the hustle and bustle of New Orleans itself that it was possible to come and go without being seen by everyone. Bolan pulled up to the simple black-and-white building. It was fairly busy, and the parking lot was almost full. That suited him fine, and he parked on the far edge of the lot and rolled down his window. The smells coming from the restaurant were heavenly despite the heavy humidity in the air, and his stomach grumbled. He’d spent most of the afternoon reading the files he’d stolen from the FBI database and hadn’t taken the time for lunch.

      After watching for several minutes and seeing no signs of trouble, Bolan rolled up the window, got out of the car and locked it, then moved across the lot to the front door. He weaved his way through parked cars on the way there, as the lot didn’t boast marked spaces, but was little more than a graveled area where people parked as they wanted.

      He opened the door to a wave of smells and muted sounds. According to the file, Mosca’s had renovated after Hurricane Katrina, and one of the improvements had been the installation of cork in the panels surrounding the booths, as well as the floors, to further dampen the noise. It had worked well, since while it was obvious that people were talking, it was almost impossible to discern single words.

      There was an older man in a tuxedo shirt behind the bar, polishing glasses, and a middle-aged woman was standing near a podium. “Good evening, sir,” she said. “Welcome to Mosca’s.”

      “Thank you,” Bolan said. “I’m meeting someone.” He scanned the restaurant and spotted Smythe seated in a booth near the back. “There he is,” he added.

      “Oh,” she said. “Mr. Smythe. He’s expecting you.”

      “Thanks again,” he said, turning away from her and crossing the restaurant, while keeping his eyes open for trouble. He didn’t trust Smythe any further than he’d trust Lacroix. His suspicions about extensive corruption had been confirmed in the files he’d read, though nothing solid had been proved in recent years.

      Smythe was seated with a beautiful woman, and both of them were drinking large glasses of red wine, presumably waiting for him to show up. They spoke together in low, heated whispers. СКАЧАТЬ