"What old man?" asked a second voice from Giovanni's.

"I don't know, sir. That's just the way they mentioned him every time, just the old man. Anyway this other guy comes back with it's a good thing, 'cause the old man is about getting ready for an open war anyway. I get it right away these boys are talking up a street war, mixed up somehow with the Bolan thing."

"Is this all you heard?" Drago asked calmly.

"Naw, I also got it that this old man has got this hundred or so soldiers meeting at another joint somewheres around there. Let's see, Minnie's place or something I think."

"I never heard of no Minnie's place," declared the second voice.

"That's what it sounded like. Minnie's or something like that."

"How about Manny's?"

"Well, yeah, I guess it could've been that."

"God dammit," declared a totally new voice.

"How many boys did you say were meeting there?" asked the second.

Bolan/Phil-from-Jersey replied, "That's just how they said it, a hundred or so soldiers. Now I can't put this rest in no exact words, I mean you know how it is, a lot of grunting and hum-hawing around, and like you follow the drift but there really ain't that many words."

"Okay," Charles Drago put in. "What was this drift you got?"

"That these boys are gonna be loadin' up and comin' out to your place there, Giovanni's. And I heard something else just funny as hell."

"What's that?"

"One of 'em said something about police cars. I b'lieve they mean to make it look like a bust, you know?"

"God dammit," said the third voice.

"Wait, just wait," the second man drawled. "Let's sort this all out. Who is this giving us this story?"

"Phil from Jersey is all you got to know. I don't want to wind up in the middle of no local war. I'm just passing along what I heard. You'll have to take it from there."

"Are you one of us?" the man asked the "informant."

"Sure, I'm with — well, I'm familied-up in Jersey. That's all I want to say about that."

"Okay, we always got along good with our friends in Jersey. Now tell me, Phil — how did these boys think Bolan figured in all this?"

"Like I said, it sounded to me like he was mobbing up with them. Course, that sounds pretty far out. Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe they're just using the creep as a smokescreen. You know."

"Yeah I know, Phil. Okay. Listen, we won't forget this. When the dust settles, you look me up. Okay?"

"I guess I don't know who I'm talkin' to."

"You just ask around for Benny Rocco."

Bolan's eyebrows lifted. Rocco was an up and coming big man in the North Chicago territory. The Executioner told the up-and-comer, "Okay, Mr. Rocco, I'll sure look you up first chance I get. Uh, Mr. Drago — are you still there?"

"Sure, I'm here."

"Okay, I guess that's all I know. I can't remember this boy's name that put me on you. But he said you'd want to know, and I figured you had a right to."

"You did right, Phil. And you'll never regret it. Give our regards to our friends in Jersey, eh?"

Bolan said, "You bet," and hung up.

He dropped his cigarette into the snow and hurried back to the war-wagon. The night was beginning to shape up now. And he did not wish to miss a minute of it.

The "back office" at Giovanni's in any brief comparison's with Manny's Posh would present the latter as an outhouse on a baronial estate. Heavily carpeted floors and panelled walls, a magnificent built-in bar and stereophonic sound system, original oil paintings, long and graceful leather lounges and heavily padded chairs, and even an adjoining powder room; a one-way window covering an entire wall and allowing an unrestricted view of the main clubroom — these were but the most notable features of this fabulous "office."

Arturo (Don Gio) Giovanni would proudly display to the most casual visitor the quieter but equally sumptuous details of this boyhood dream come true — such as the massive teakwood desk, handcrafted and flown in from Singapore; door, window, and even drapery remote-controllers built into the fantastic executive chair which was also fully automated and wired for sound and vibration; the sun and sauna terrace and massage room; and many miscellaneous fine appointments which made this truly "an office fit for a king."

And, of course, Giovanni deserved this office — he was the King of Chicago and diverse points east, south, north, and west. The imperialistic stretch reached into such unlikely places as Texas and Arkansas, to Florida and into the Caribbean, to Europe and even to Hawaii. Certainly no king, of any time or place, enjoyed more raw power and accessible wealth than this former Neopolitan street urchin turned American at the age of eight, reform-school veteran at fourteen, bagman and bodyguard and torpedo during the rough and rowdy pre-Capone Chicago of the twenties — and now undisputed boss of an empire with an annual take in excess of two billion dollars.

This seemingly benign old gentleman, so proud of this lavishly ostentatious office in which he spent perhaps eight hours per year and a criminal record spanning nearly fifty years, with a list of arrests covering six closely-spaced typewritten pages and on every charge from intimidation to mugging and murder, conspiracy, bribery, rape, simple assault, assault with intent, bookmaking, counterfeiting, bootlegging, and everything that could be worked into a busy lifetime of crime. In appearances before various crime committees, Giovanni had taken refuge under the fifth amendment for a grand total of one hundred and thirty-seven times. With all of this, however, Don Gio had been convicted of but two crimes since his fourteenth year, and both of these convictions were later reversed by friendly appeals judges.

Talk had been going around lately that the capowas getting soft with age, that he spent too much time pampering himself in places like Nassau and Rio and Honolulu, that he had so many personal "legit" financial interests now that he wasn't too inclined toward the nitty-gritty of syndicate management — and most of this kind of talk had been coming out of the downtown territories ruled by Joliet Jake Vecci.

Apprised of this loose talk by concerned court attendants, Giovanni usually waved it off with a chuckle; he would point out that Nixon had his winter whitehouse, his western whitehouse, his summer and spring and fall whitehouses — why the hell shouldn't Don Gio have his places to get away from the pressures sometimes. As for personal financial interests, what the hell was he supposed to do with all his money, sit and look at it? Hell no, he put it out to work for itself, and with enough spreading around to give the tax boys crying fits, and these other Chicago boys could learn something from the Don'sexample if they'd listen more and cry less. Crimemight some day start listening to all the nasty things being said about it, and it might stop paying, after all.

And Don Gio would laugh and step into his gold-trimmed limousine or his private Boeing 727 and go off somewhere to forget the pressures and the damn FBI guys falling all over him everywhere he went and writing down what he ate and if he grunted or burped.

On this particular night, however, the Capowas not laughing. The time had come to face a pressure or two head-on.

First off, this Bolan punk. The kid had been allowed to run too high, wide and handsome for too damn long, and it was about time someone shoved a cold bar up his rear and lowered him slowly into one of those blast furnaces down at East Chicago.

Secondly, there was this matter of shameful insubordination and maybe even open rebellion within the family ranks. When high-ranking and responsible officers starting running around and assing it up like common street soldiers, then something was certainly going very sour with the organization. Gio would have to make an example of this latest trespass, even though things went way back between the Capoand this old buddy from the street days under Capone, this Pietro Lavallo whom Gio in the old days always called Golden Peterbecause he always had such luck with the girls. So now this little Golden Peter was the magnificent fuck-up, Pete the Hauler, and old times never paid the way for new ones. Pete Lavallo would have to pay his own way now; it was the price of manhood in a disciplined society.