While returning to the surface in the elevator, Bolan elicited the information that a guy could pick up some action in the rear of a barber shop just around the corner — anything from lottery to craps and horses — he could even get contact numbers for business girls, if Bolan was so inclined, but they would run from fifty to a hundred per wallop. Meyer also assured him that the place was secure against busts, a point which Bolan seemed very concerned with. Sure, the joint enjoyed the protection of one Freddie Gambella. Yes, Meyer had met Gambella once — big in the rackets, but a nice guy after all. No, Meyer had never supplied arms for Gambella. He understood that the mob had their own sources, legit ones — they couldn't be bothered with a small businessman like William Meyer.

Bolan could. There were times when Bolan simply had to believe in fate. The Executioner left the small businessman and went directly to the "protected" back room just around the comer.

He found quite an operation going there. The "back room" was four times larger than the shop itself. There were slots, card and crap tables, football pools galore, and bootleg lottery and offtrack racing stalls in direct competition with the State of New York. Bolan drifted through and counted more than a dozen obvious employees — how many not-so-obvious ones would be anybody's guess. He located the inevitable back-room-behind-the-back-room where all the goodies would be kept, the door to which was being protected by two guys in honest to God security-guard uniforms.

It was simply too much to pass up. Bolan had not dipped into the Mafia's wealth since Los Angeles, and the war chest was about flattened. He debated the advisability of pulling a soft recon first and returning later with a battle plan, then decided that he would probably do just as well to simply play it by ear and dive right in. The recent skirmish in the Bronx would no doubt have Gambella presently somewhat off balance, and Bolan would probably find no better time for a knockover than right now.

He ran a hand inside his jacket and fingered the outline of the shoulder wound. It felt fine. Okay Freddie, stand by for a ram.

Bolan composed his face into a scowl and marched right at the door to the goody chamber. One of the uniformed guards moved uncertainly to one side, no more than half a step but it was all Bolan had been looking for. He elbowed the guy and growled, "Come on, come on."

His hand was on the door and the guards were exchanging uneasy looks with each other when the one who had yielded came out with a confused challenge. "Who are — I don't seem to — you gotta have a ID to get in there."

"Aw shit," Bolan said, his voice dripping with disgust. "You fuckin' clowns better learn what's what or you'll have Freddie's ID stamp all over your ass." He fixed the worried one with a cold stare. "Are you gonna push that button or aren't you?"

The guard's eyes wavered and his hand fumbled to the wall behind him. In a very dry voice he said, "Mr. uh…"

Bolan snapped, "Mr. Lambretta, and you better never have to ask again."

"Yes sir, Mr. Lambretta, I'll remember that." The guard's finger found the button and punched out a code. Seconds later a buzzer sounded on the door and the guard pushed it open and held it wide for Bolan's entry. "Sorry about the foul-up, Mr. Lambretta, Go right in."

Bolan growled, "Forget it," and went right in.

It was a typical setup. A vault and several desks with adding machines and calculators behind a wire fence, a short counter with a mixed assortment of men and women, some old and some young, perched on stools counting money and feeding coins into roller machines. Two more uniformed guards, one at the door through which Bolan had just entered, another at a door to the rear — alleyway, Bolan guessed — holding burpguns, no less.

Typical but big — it was one hell of a big operation. Bolan read central stationall over the place. It was a clearing house and bank for street runners. This joint was not just being protectedby Gambella. Bolan was betting his life that it was owned lock, stock, and barrel by the mob. His eyes found the controller with no difficulty whatever — a harried-looking little man with white hair and gold-rimmed glasses.

Bolan slapped the front door guard on the rump as he strolled past and went directly to the wire cage and caught whitehair's eye and summoned him with a crooking finger. The little man came over and peered at Bolan through the wire mesh, the eyes inquisitive and wondering where he'd seen Bolan before.

Bolan did not give him much time to wonder. In a voice low-pitched and edged with urgency, he told whitehair, "Don't panic now. I'm Lambretta, Central Precinct. Don't worry. Freddie's on his way over."

The guy blinked his eyes and grunted, "Huh?"

"I said don't worry."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the controller told him, his breathing staggering a bit. "Why is Mr. Gambella coming over?"

"Didn't you get the… ? Well for Christ's sake!" Bolan's eyes rolled and he leaned closer to the wire mesh and dropped his voice even lower. "I thought Freddiewas going to… never mind. There's a raid called. Three o'clock. Feds and everybody, the full bit. You're supposed to be getting the stuff out of here. You telling me you haven't done anything yet?"

Whitehair's lips firmed up and he whirled about without a word and began moving quickly among his bookkeepers and clerks. Things began happening, quickly and quietly. Ledgers and tapes began disappearing into canvas pouches. A youngish man with a deformed spine spun the wheel in the vault, opened the door, and stepped inside. Bolan heard a woman clerk call the whitehaired one "Mr. Feldman" and a big brawny guy started tossing canvas satchels in a pile on the floor.

Feldman stepped back to the mesh fence and told Bolan, "Yes, we're taking care of it. What about out front?"

Bolan shook his head and turned a thumb toward the floor. "We're letting them have the front."

The controller nodded his head in understanding. His face fell into sorrowing lines and he confided to Bolan, "Ail these years with Mr. Gambella and this is my first bust."

"Well, there's a first time for everything," Bolan philosophized. "These goddam feds are running wild."

"It's a damn shame," Feldman said, and spun around and went into the vault.

Feldman had no idea, Bolan was thinking, how big a shame it was. The pace was picking up, clerks dashing about in excitement, slamming things about in an ever-rising noise level. The guards were beginning to fidget and obviously wonder what the hell was coming off. Bolan walked down to the one at the rear door and asked him, "Is the truck here?"

"What truck?" the guy asked, his eyebrows gathering into a perplexed scowl.

Bolan threw up his hands in a resigned gesture and he cried, "Well kiss my ass! Nobody sent for the truck?'

The guard shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he replied, "If you mean the armored car, it ain't due 'til five o'clock."

"I know when it's duel"Bolan yelled. "We gotta get this stuff outta here nowlYou get your ass out there and getsomething!"

The guard gawked at him with rising bewilderment, then he threw a pleading look toward the wire fence. Feldman, drawn by Bolan's yelling, was coming through the gate with a worried face. The guard asked him, "What's this guy talking about?"

"We have an emergency, Harry," the controller told him. "Have to move everything out, and quick. Get us some transportation. We'll need… oh hell, we'll need several cars or a fairsize van. You'd better see what you can do."

"Well how much time've I got?" the bewildered Harry wanted to know.

"You've got about ten damned minutes!" Bolan snarled. "You better get your ass in gear!"