"You couldn't have the merest notion of how I feel, Sam," the Capotold him. "Bolan just knocked over my Harlem bank."

Chianti sucked in his breath and his eyes began to grow. "Well that… ! How the hell did he do that!"

Gambella raised both palms, then turned them over and let them fall to the desk. "He just walks in, trades Feldman a marksman's medal for a bag worth twenty-five thou, and he just walks out."

Sam the Bomber's eyes were flitting rapidly from Freddie's eyes to Freddie's hands, big manicured hams trying to claw something off the desk that wasn't there.

He said, "Listen Freddie. You'n me have been friends for a long time, and I don't feel like I'm overstepping my place by mentioning that. The thing is, I wouldn't bullshit you. Not you, not ever. Everything I got in the world I owe you, and I realize that. Listen, this Bolan boy is pure poison. That boy is as dangerous as a bag of snakes with a rip in the side, and you know it the minute he comes up and looks at you. What I'm saying is this, don't hold it too tight against Feldman and those boys in Harlem. This Bolan has a way about him. Whatever he done to get that money, you can bet your ass he did it like a real pro. I mean, he — "

"I know what you mean, Sammy," Gambella broke in with a tired sigh. He was looking at the adhesives on Chianti's hands and face. "From the broken glass, eh?" he commented in a sympathetic tone.

Sam said, "Yeah, and I got off lucky. Oh and I — what I really came in to tell you is this — we dumped the car and all in Brooklyn, and I guess I'm clean on that. We left it where they'd be found, so I guess they can get a decent burial. Jesus I'm glad I didn't have to explain all that to a bunch of unfriendly cops." He touched the facial bandaids and added, "So I come out with just a few scratches. I figure I got off lucky."

"So did I," Gambella replied heavily. "He knocked me over for only twenty-five thou. He could have had a quarter mil just as easy, from what I hear. Had 'em all running around gathering it up for him. Even that dumbass guard out trying to steal a truck to haul it away with."

Sam shook his head and said, "Well I guess he just wanted to prove something. That's what I figured, over in the Bronx. He didn't come in after me. I guess he never meant to all the time."

"Yeah, he proved something," Gambella said thoughtfully. "Look — I'm not afraid of this boy, Sammy, but I'm worried about him. I mean, he's a damn pest and I want him out of my hair. We have this big thing coming up, and I don't want this guy roaring around town and lousing it up. You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know," Sam the Bomber replied. "You're right, the guy is a damn pest. He needs to get swatted, and good. I'm not afraid of him, either. I just wish I could get a long enough look at him to swat him. I didn't even see him out there today. Just suddenly wham, and all hell is breaking loose."

Sam shivered, then chuckled self-consciously. "I was lying. I'm scared of this boy, Freddie. Listen, there's no bullshitting between old friends. This boy scares the pee outta me. But that don't mean I'm going to turn tail and run from him. I'll swat that boy, Freddie, if I get just half a chance."

"I know you will, Sammy," the boss told him in a quiet voice.

"Tommy Doctor is one damned good engineer. If anybody can run a find on Bolan, it's him."

"College boys," Gambella sneered derisively.

"Well college boys ain't like they use to be, Sam. They got a lotta starch in their ass nowadays."

Gambella's eyes were focused on the window in a blank stare. Quietly, he said, "You know, I wish Bolan had waited just two months. If he louses up this big thing we got going…"

He sighed and gave his friend a tired smile. "You know it was no more'n a couple of weeks ago I voted to give Bolan this peace offer. I guess he spit on that. And now here he is in my town and raising hell here. I got to go to a special meeting tonight, over this very thing. The other four are nervouser than I am, and I guess with good reason. They got more tied up in it, I mean more at stake. Why didn't Bolan just wait a couple more months? Now he's come here looking for a war, and I guess we got to give him one. But I just wish…"

After a quiet moment, Chianri suggested, "Maybe he's just passing through, Freddie. Maybe he wanted that twenty-five thou to just blow with."

"Naw," Gambella replied, sighing. "He's starting out just like always. With that famous 1-2-3 of his. Just look at it, Sam. He hits you over in the Bronx at what? — one o'clock? — a quarter 'til? — then he pops up in Harlem at a little after two and knocks over my bank. So he'll be hitting again, pretty soon, just hold your breath and wait, it'll come. The number three punch, he may already be throwing it. I just wish I knew where."

"Tommy Doctor will — "

"Bw//shit Tommy Doctor!" the Capoyelled.

Chianti jumped and stiffened in his chair. Boy, this was getting under Freddie's skin in the worst…

"Don't tell me no more Tommy Doctor!" Gambella said coldly, regaining outward control, but the street language filtering back told Sam that the surface calm only thinly covered a seething storm just below. "Listen, Sam, what are friends for? Huh?"

Chianti fidgeted and puffed out his throat and said thickly, "No greater love has a man but he will put it down for his friend, Freddie. And that's me, you know that."

"Exactly," the Caposaid.

"Well, uh…"

"Just don't tell me no more Tommy Doctors. You get out on those streets, Sam. You put it on the pavement for me and thee."

Sam the Bomber came awkwardly out of the chair and stood there for a moment, his eyes flicking sickly from item to item on the Capo'sdesk. He muttered, "I been off the streets a long time, Freddie."

"Toolong," the Caposaid.

"Uh, yeah, I guess so. I guess I'm pretty rusty. I guess I better go see what I can do about that."

"I guess so, Sam."

Chianti whirled away and went back across the spongy floor, knowing now why he hated to come in there, knowing the spongy floor was actually a bed of quicksand, not thick carpeting; quicksand that drags a guy down to his choking, floundering doom, just like some friendshipscould.

He paused at the doorway and turned a pained face upon his friend the Capoand quietly told him, "See you, Fred."

"Give regards to Theresa."

"Yeah," Sam the Bomber murmured, and went back out to the streets where he had started. And where, he guessed, he would finish.

It was just past five o'clock, it was dark and a light snowfall was beginning, and Bolan's busy day was barely underway.

He had gone from Harlem to the East Village where he took on an entire new wardrobe, from buckskin trousers and vest to high moccasins and campaign hat. He also picked up a headband and numerous strings of beads, freak glasses with purple lenses, and a leather hip pouch. Then he took another tip from his invaluable little poop book and found a place in the old Jewish community of the lower East Side where a guy could buy wheels fully equipped with license and all the legalties, on a moment's notice and without red tape, provided he had the ready cash.

Bolan had the cash, and he drove away in a four year old VW micro-bus in excellent condition with daisies painted across the outer surfaces.

From there he proceeded directly to the midtown parcel service and picked up his shipment from William Meyer & Company, and now he was in the rush hour crush at the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. An airport bus from the East Side Terminal, jockeying for position into the tunnel approach, did its best to cancel out Bolan's proudest purchase of the day, but Bolan hit his brakes, skidded into an adjacent lane, stood a glistening Caddy on its nose there, and listened to a traffic cop yell at him for at least thirty seconds until the line lurched forward and he eased out of earshot. And then he was into the tube and wondering why any sane person would go through all this twice a day every day of his life. Bolan would take the battlefield, thanks, and leave the traffic ulcers to those who worked for them.