"I guess you ain't changed a lot, Franky," Marasco said. "You're still lookin' like a young frisky colt."

Bolan did not miss the reproachful glance tossed at Marasco by Julian DiGeorge. He grinned. "Naw . . . I'm changing, too," he said. "Take the present situation, now. Look at me, all tired and beat. Over a simple little everyday hit. Five years ago I could've rubbed six boys like that and stopped off for a few pieces o' tail on the way home. Now all I'm doing is dragging my tail."

Marasco laughed loudly. DiGeorge turned to him with a frown and Marasco promptly shut it off.

Victor Poppy said, "I heard about that, Franky. Everybody in the place is talking it up. I'd like to go out there and see that."

"Shuddup!" DiGeorge growled.

The effect of Bolan's braggadocio was already evident on the face of DiGeorge's "gift turkey," however. The small man was staring at Bolan with haunted eyes, nervously twisting his hands together. "It's good to see ya again, Frank," he chirped.

"Waitaminnit waitaminnit," DiGeorge yelled. He pointed an accusing finger at Tony Avina. "You was telling me not ten minutes ago that this Frank Lambretta went off to war and got hisself killed! Now what, huh?"

"Jeez, I dunno, Mr. DiGeorge," Avina quavered.

"Lay off 'im, huh Deej?" Bolan said softly. "Can't you see he's sick?"

"Where do you get off telling me to lay off?" DiGeorge shouted. "Just who the hell do you think you are, Mr. Franky Lucky Phoney!"

"Who do you think I am, Deej?" Bolan asked quietly.

DiGeorge stared at him in speechless rage. Every movement, every word, every gesture of Franky Lucky since he entered that door had served to increase DiGeorge's irritability. Now this! Talking back, acting like a Capo, just like that first damn day with Andrea, just like . . . A cold knot began to form in DiGeorge's belly, clamping off the line of thought. The rage dissolved instantly. "Okay," he said, now in perfect control, "you asked the question, Big Shot. Now you answer it."

Bolan's gaze shifted to Tony Avina. "Answer it, Tony," he said. "Tell Mr. Julian DiGeorge I who am. Tell him the damn truth."

"Jeez, I don't know who you are, Franky," Avina shot back.

Bolan became convulsed with laughter. Phil Marasco joined in, and then Victor Poppy. DiGeorge's chin trembled, then he began laughing also. Bolan got up and pounded on the wall with one hand, clutching at his stomach with the other, in a very convincing demonstration of rampant humor.

"Jeez, I don't know who I am either!" Bolan yelled and fell back into the chair gasping for breath and holding himself with both hands.

"Get this goddam turkey outta here!" DiGeorge roared between snorting guffaws. "First thing comes up, I won't even know who I am!"

"Just a minute," Marasco said, sobering suddenly. "I guess I have to tell you, Deej. After all these years together, I got to tell you."

"Tell me what?" DiGeorge asked.

"Okay, Franky?" Marasco asked of Bolan.

Bolan, still chuckling, gave him the nod.

"About Franky Lucky. He's in the family."

"What family?" DiGeorge said, sobering and craning about to glare at Marasco.

"Vittorini," Bolan said quietly.

All chuckling and sniggering ceased as total quiet descended. DiGeorge slowly turned about to inspect "his boy" Franky Lucky whom he wanted to sponsor into his family and turn over the reins to some day. "I don't get you," he said thickly.

"I belong to the Vittorini Family," Bolan explained.

"He belongs to Pat and Mike," Marasco explained further.

DiGeorge opened his mouth and then snapped it shut. He looked from Bolan to Marasco and back to Bolan again. "What is this?" he asked quietly. "Tell me what this is, Philip Honey."

"You know what this is, Deej," Bolan said.

"No I guess I don't." DeGeorge had heaved to his feet and was walking warily toward his desk.

"You know what I want, Phil," Bolan stated softly.

Marasco beat DiGeorge to the desk and leaned against it. His hand went inside his jacket and stayed there.

"Hey what the hell is this?" DiGeorge asked, his voice shaking.

"You want me to take Deej out for some air, Franky?" Marasco said.

"He looks like he needs some," Bolan replied. He relaxed further into his chair. "Yeah. He needs some air, Phil."

"You can't pull this shit!" DiGeorge yelled.

"I'm not pulling nothing, Deej," Bolan said. He smiled at Victor Poppy. "Hey, Victor, take your friend and go on back to Florida. Stay awhile. Get some sun. Tony looks like he could use some. And you . . ."

"Where d'you get off telling my boys when to go and where to go?" DiGeorge screamed.

"Is that guy still here?" Bolan asked, still looking at Victor Poppy. "I thought Phil was taking him out for an airing. Huh? Is he still here?"

Victor Poppy was moving for the door, pushing Avina ahead of him. "What guy?" Victor Poppy asked nervously. "I don't see nobody but you me and Tony, Franky."

"That's what I thought," Bolan said contentedly.

"You can't pull this shit!" DiGeorge screamed.

"The hell I can't," said Franky Lucky Bolan.

Victor Poppy and Tony Avina almost ran over someone in the corridor. Bolan could hear them apologizing. The .32 was in his hand and muzzling for the door when Andrea D'Agosta stepped through. In her hand was the little nickel-plated .22 Bolan had taken from her some days earlier.

She sized up ,the situation in a quick circular glance, then stared soberly at Bolan's weapon. Her nose quivering, she said, "I want my Poppa."

"Someone else already has him," Bolan told her.

"I take everything back," she said. "I want him."

"Andrea, get outta here," DiGeorge growled.

"I've been listening," she said. "I know what's going on here." Her eyes flared pure hatred at Mack Bolan. "You're worse than any of them," she spat. "I didn't want to believe the stories I've been hearing today but they're true. You're a kill-crazy hood and now you think you're going to kill my Poppa."

"Aw hey, bambina," DiGeorge pleaded. "Go on outta here and let us men handle our business. You got it all wrong."

"She has it all right, Deej," Bolan said.

"Well, for God's sakes ain't you got no sense of . . ."

DiGeorge's protest was cut short by the capgun plaap of the tiny revolver. A vase shattered behind Bolan. He grinned and said, "She's got the drop on us, Phil."

"I'll drop you, too," Andrea angrily told him. "Don't think I can't handle a gun."

"I don't think that," Bolan replied, still grinning.

"Come on, Poppa," Andrea said.

"For God's sake, Andrea, this guy is playing with you. He can shoot both your eyes out before you know he's moving. Get on outta here."

"I said . . ."

"Go on, Deej," Bolan said, cutting Andrea off. "I'm not gunfighting your kid."

DiGeorge said, "That means you get off easy. You get me to running and all you have to do is sit back and laugh and send out your boys to shoot Deej in the back. On some streetcorner. In a car somewheres. I ain't going. We settle this here."

"Don't argue with him, Deej," Marasco pleaded.

Andrea elevated her pistol to shoulder level at full arm-extension, sighting on Bolan. "We leave right now, together, or I start shooting," she warned.

Bolan's .32 was still in his hand. He casually angled it toward DiGeorge. "When I go, Poppa goes," he said simply.

"Deej, get outta here," Marasco urged him.

"I ain't forgetting you, Mr. Philip Honey full of stingers. I ain't forgetting,"

"Just go," Bolan said.

DiGeorge went. Andrea went out behind him, the little gun still trained on Bolan. She closed the door and Marasco said, "Well."

"There's still the contract," Bolan philosophized.