San Diego Siege Part 3

The pilot nodded. "You'll know where to find me."

"Right."

Simonetti was a "courier." He even looked like one, complete to the wrist-manacle attache case which was chained to his right hand.

Two men in airport service-white moved out of the lengthening shadows of the terminal building and intercepted him halfway between plane and car.

"Mr. Simonetti?" the thickset one pleasantly greeted him.

The messenger frowned, but broke stride and replied, "Yeah?"-his eyes flicking toward the waiting vehicle.

The tall man quietly informed him, "Trip ends right here, Sammy."

The ominously-tipped black Beretta showed itself, the muzzle staring up into the courier's eyes.

The other man reached inside of Simonetti's jacket, took his weapon, then nudged him on toward the LTD.

"You guys out of your minds or something?" he asked them in a choked voice. "You know who you're hitting?"

"We know," the tall one a.s.sured him. He opened a rear door and shoved the fl.u.s.tered man into the back seat.

The other guy was sliding in from the opposite doorway. He grabbed Simonetti's hand and went to work on the wrist-lock with a small tool.

The captive's eyes were showing panic. He groaned, "Hey, Jesus, don't do this to me. How'm I going to tell Mr. Lucasi about this? I can't go walking in there with a naked arm."

"You'll think of something," the pleasant one replied.

"Look, boys, no s.h.i.+t now. You want to make a score? I mean a real real score? Look, leave it alone. There's nothing in here to do you any good. I can steer you to a score? Look, leave it alone. There's nothing in here to do you any good. I can steer you to a real real score. I mean, millions maybe." score. I mean, millions maybe."

The icy one commanded, "Shut up, Sammy." "Look, you're never going to be able to enjoy it. You know what I mean. You can't just walk up and hit the combination this way. You're dead men the minute you walk away from here. Get smart, h.e.l.l man. I can steer you-"

The Beretta's silencer had steered itself right into Sammy Simonetti's hardworking mouth. He froze, then made a pleading sound around the new pacifier.

The big guy gave him a moment to get the feel and taste of oral death, then he withdrew the weapon and told the shaken courier, "Not another word."

Simonetti's eyes promised total silence and a moment later the other guy defeated the lock at his wrist.

The guy chuckled and told him, "Count your blessings, buddy. I was about ready to take arm and all."

The hard one placed the car keys in the courier's freed hand and told him, "Look in the trunk. But not right away. You wait awhile."

Simonetti nodded his head in thoroughly cowed silence and the two men in white turned their backs on him and walked around the building and out of sight.

He'd been on the ground less than a minute.

Who would ever believe this?

That slick and that easy, those guys had just clipped the combination for more than a hundred grand.

n.o.body would believe that ... especially not Ben Lucasi!

The shaken messenger rattled the car keys in his hand, wondering vaguely what the guy had meant by, "Look in the trunk."

What would he find in there? The remains of Chicano and the Schoolteacher?

Simonetti s.h.i.+vered.

n.o.body would believe this.

Then he became aware that something was mixed in with the keys in his hand-he'd thought it to be part of the key ring or something.

But it was definitely not a part of the key ring.

They didn't put marksman's medals on key rings.

A chill ran the entire length of Simonetti's spine and his guts began to quake.

Jesus!

They'd believe it, all right.

G.o.ddammed right they'd believe it!

4:

THE TRACK.

The San Diego territory had long been considered a tenderloin area for La Cosa Nostra. La Cosa Nostra. This "key" territory-bounded on one side by one of the world's ten greatest natural harbors and on another by the Mexican border-until recently had functioned as an "arm" of the DiGeorge Family, the Los Angeles mob which had already tasted the Executioner's war effort. This "key" territory-bounded on one side by one of the world's ten greatest natural harbors and on another by the Mexican border-until recently had functioned as an "arm" of the DiGeorge Family, the Los Angeles mob which had already tasted the Executioner's war effort.

With DiGeorge's death and the dissolution of that "family," the national ruling council, La Com-missione, La Com-missione, stepped in to administer the syndicate's interests in that area. stepped in to administer the syndicate's interests in that area.

Ben Lucasi had been a DiGeorge underboss. He and "Deej" had been longtime friends. He'd hated to see Deej have to go that way ... but in his secret moments, Lucasi would admit that even the darkest cloud usually carried a silver lining.

Under the new setup, Big Ben was practically autonomous-reporting directly to the Commission of Capo's at the national level of government.

San Diego was no longer an "arm" of anything or anybody. San Diego now belonged to Big Ben Lucasi, period. And, yeah, Big Ben (who measured 5'4" even in elevator shoes and weighed-in soaking wet at 120 pounds) liked things a h.e.l.l of a lot better that way.

He was not, of course, a full-fledged Capo. Capo. Not yet. But that honor would come, just like all the other good things had come. The whole California territory was reorganizing itself around San Diego. Not yet. But that honor would come, just like all the other good things had come. The whole California territory was reorganizing itself around San Diego.

One of these days the boys all around the country would be referring to this arm as The Lucasi Family. The Lucasi Family. And why not? Where the money was, that's where the power was-and now that he was no longer getting a lot of jealous bulls.h.i.+t from L.A., Ben Lucasi was mining the San Diego gold like it hadn't been mined since the forty-niners. And why not? Where the money was, that's where the power was-and now that he was no longer getting a lot of jealous bulls.h.i.+t from L.A., Ben Lucasi was mining the San Diego gold like it hadn't been mined since the forty-niners.

What with Agua Caliente Agua Caliente a few minutes south and with Las Vegas just a hop over the mountains by plane-h.e.l.l, a guy would have to have his mind in his b.a.l.l.s not to make a goldmine out of that happy circ.u.mstance. And the whole G.o.ddam f.u.c.k-in' U. S. Navy sitting out here at his right hand, running back and forth to the Orient-what kind of a lamebrain wouldn't turn a thing like that to his profit? a few minutes south and with Las Vegas just a hop over the mountains by plane-h.e.l.l, a guy would have to have his mind in his b.a.l.l.s not to make a goldmine out of that happy circ.u.mstance. And the whole G.o.ddam f.u.c.k-in' U. S. Navy sitting out here at his right hand, running back and forth to the Orient-what kind of a lamebrain wouldn't turn a thing like that to his profit?

Some of the locals were starting to snicker about his "seagoing Mafia." Which was okay. Let them make jokes. Lucasi owned also a "khaki Mafia." Let 'em laugh-that was okay. As long as everybody was laughing there'd be no worry. Meanwhile San Diego was fast becoming the underground capital of the western world, and Ben Lucasi was becoming the most powerful non-Capo anywhere.

The Lucasi home was an unpretentious but modern split-level situated in one of the new neighborhoods near Mission Bay Park. He lived there with his third wife, Dorothy-a 23-year-old ex-showgirl from Las Vegas. Lucasi was 56. He had a daughter, 35, and a son, 32, from his first marriage. The son worked in a casino in Na.s.sau; the daughter, at last report, was somewhere in Europe "with another lousy gigolo."

The first Mrs. Lucasi had died under mysterious circ.u.mstances while the children were still quite young, during that era when Bennie was scrambling everywhere for the buck. His criminal record from those early days reveals arrests for pandering, rape, felonious a.s.sault, theft, gambling, arson, extortion, intimidation, black-marketeering, manslaughter, and murder. The official FBI report on this very busy criminal enumerated 52 specific charges... with but 2 convictions and 2 suspended sentences.

He had spent a combined total of 66 days behind bars.

His last arrest had occurred in 1944, on a black-marketing charge.

Lucasi had come west at the end of the war, settling first in Reno, Nevada for a few years, then on to Las Vegas when the boom began there. In the late fifties he relocated to San Francisco, later gravitating to Los Angeles for a lieutenancy under Julian DiGeorge, who eventually sent him on to San Diego to boss that arm of the family.

So, sure. Except for a few nervous moments here and there, the world was looking rosy indeed for this late-blooming syndicate boss. The nervous moments came from increased anti-crime activity at the federal level-the d.a.m.ned Strike Forces- and a growing awareness among local citizens regarding the interconnections between the straight and the kinky communities.

And, of course, there was that Bolan b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Bolan had almost torn things for good when he went on the warpath against Deej. The repercussions from that conflict had been felt clear down into San Diego ... and to points beyond. Lucasi himself had been enroute to Palm Springs when Bolan finally lowered the boom on DiGeorge there. And he'd seen, at first hand, the aftermath of a Mack Bolan hit. Yeah, he still had nightmares sometimes over what he'd seen at Palm Springs.

G.o.dd.a.m.n how relieved Bennie had been when Bolan started churning up the turf back east. how relieved Bennie had been when Bolan started churning up the turf back east.

Lucasi had thought he was rid of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

The son of a b.i.t.c.h had been everywhere. He'd hit Miami. He'd hit, for Christ's sake, even over in France and England-and for d.a.m.n sure Bennie had thought the guy would stay over there somewhere and lay low.

Like h.e.l.l he did. He hit the five family area, New York, like some crazy avenging angel, and just tore the living s.h.i.+t out of that place. All five families! All five families!

Ben had thought, then, well okay. Go ahead, you crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Keep living like that and you won't survive to head west again.

Lucasi had been wrong about that, too.

He'd almost prayed that the guy would try Chicago. Yeah, hit Chi now ... try your luck on a real real town. town.

And the son of a b.i.t.c.h did it. And the "real town" folded just like all the others.

Lucasi had begun to feel that this Bolan had some sort of special decree from G.o.d or something. No guy-not no no guy who is one hundred percent mortal-could get away with that kind of s.h.i.+t forever. guy who is one hundred percent mortal-could get away with that kind of s.h.i.+t forever.

So then the guy went into Lucasi's old home base, the town the whole mob loved-Vegas-and Christ, what monkeys he'd made of them all in Vegas.

So, sure. There had to be something eerie about the guy.

Worst of all, the big b.a.s.t.a.r.d in Executioner black was west again ... and Lucasi doubled his palace guard and went nowhere without a heavy escort of bodyguards.

Then the guy bobs up down in Puerto Rico ... of all the d.a.m.ned places ... but before Lucasi could start breathing naturally again, there the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was up in Frisco and tearing h.e.l.l out of California again.

It was too much.

Lucasi took a quick vacation to Honolulu.

When he returned, Bolan was back east again, romping through Boston first and then tearing through Was.h.i.+ngton.

No guy should get away with that much.

No one hundred percent mortal. mortal.

If somebody didn't stop him pretty soon, he'd be chewing up San Diego one of these days.

And, sure, Bennie Lucasi had a lot of nervous moments.

How did you stop someone like that?

Lucasi had taken to reading up on black magic, ESP, mind control ... all that. He dipped briefly into Yoga-trying to find Bolan's secret.

He even went to confession at that little mission down on the coast.

The poor hayseed priest had thought Lucasi was bulls.h.i.+tting him. Bawled him out good for playing games with the confession box.

Lucasi lit a candle at that mission, just the same.

That c.o.c.k Bolan would be trying San Diego sooner or later ... no doubt about that.

Lucasi had to be ready for him. He had to- somewhere, somehow-find the edge that would equalize Bolan.

He'd been trying. G.o.d, he'd tried everything.

And now it seemed that his preparation time had run out.

Sammy Simonetti was standing right there in his living room and handing him the most feared symbol which Ben Lucasi ever expected to see.

A f.u.c.kin' marksman's medal.

In a strangely quiet voice, he asked Sammy, "You bringing me this instead of my hundred thou?"

Simonetti was sweating, overly-defensive. "I swear to h.e.l.l, Mr. Lucasi, the guy just-"

"Where'd you say he hit you?" the chieftain interrupted in that same deadened voice. "Vegas?"

"No sir, right out here on this end, at the airport."

"Where the h.e.l.l is my black milk, Sammy?"

"Jesus, I told you. He He took it." took it."

"You still got both arms, I see."

"Yessir, they didn't hardly put a mark on me. That's what I can't understand. They didn't hurt Chicano and Schoolteacher either. Just locked 'em in the trunk of the car."

"They who?" Lucasi muttered.

"Bolan and his triggerman."