"Hell I wouldn't..."

"Yes you would. Give it to them just exactly the way it happened, and don't worry about fingering me. I'm already on the books as a mass murderer. A couple more won't make any difference. In fact, you'd better be the one to report the deaths, Anders. As soon as you give me what I..."

Bolan stopped talking abruptly and wheeled about in response to a commotion behind him, the Beretta out and swinging into the line-up.

Four of the prettiest intruders he'd ever slapped leather on were frozen there in the open doorway, gaping at the black blaster greeting them from Bolan's fist.

Anders quickly announced, "It's okay, girls. Get in here and shut that door."

A wide-eyed blonde at the rear of the group shoved the others forward and quietly closed the door. All four had that dazzling, twenty-karat look that reminds a guy of his manhood, and Bolan was certainly not immune to that sort of thing. But he disciplined his eyes and put away the Beretta as the girls edged on into the room.

There was a hair color for every taste, but the major differences ended right there. They were dressed alike, in peekaboo hotpants and plunging see-through tops which, altogether, revealed seemingly infinite legs and an extra dimension or two in divines developments elsewhere, and Bolan found himself wondering if they needed some sort of license to walk about in public like that.

He showed them his back and growled to Anders, "Let's get out of here."

The blonde had come forward and he could feel her eyes measuring him at close range. "Better not," she said in a pleasantly modulated voice. "We just came through the lobby and it's like instant panic back there."

"I'm not surprised," Bolan quietly commented, visualizing that flaming foursome leaving a mind-blown wake wherever they passed.

"They girls are okay, Bo... Frankie," Anders said.

"That's the idea," Bolan told him. "They don't need to get involved in this."

"We're already involved." The report came from a warm-eyed brunette who joined the crowd at the bar. Her hip bumped against Bolan's and remained there. She smiled at Anders and said, "I'm glad you took my advice and got a bodyguard, Tommy."

"Some bodyguard," the blonde commented. She pulled the dark glasses away from Bolan's face and smiled solemnly at him. "The panic in the lobby is a fuzzbuzz, cuz. Do you want to hear the rest of it?"

Bolan took back his glasses and dropped them into a pocket. "Okay," he said. "Let's have it."

"Introductions first," the blonde replied, smiling. "Who's the Greek-God-with-gun, Tommy?"

Anders was staring at Bolan with question marks in his eyes.

"She knows," Bolan growled.

The blonde laughed softly and said, "Yes, she knows. The Man from Mad, Mr. My Gun Is Quicker, and you picked a lousy spot for an execution. There's a blood-splattered hallway just outside Tommy's dressing room, two dead goons just down the way, and fuzz buzzing all over the place." She fingered the lapels of Bolan's jacket, adding, "The deputies are looking for a tall man in a pale blue suit who checked in with casino security credentials."

"Is that right?" Bolan growled.

"That's right. Those are pretty, blue bloodstains you're wearing, Mr. Grouch."

Anders chuckled nervously and said, "Lay off, Toby. The guy saved my life." To Bolan, he said, "Mack, meet Toby Ranger, Mother Nature's answer to Women's Lib. And don't try to get ahead of her, it's impossible."

Bolan's face relaxed somewhat and he took the girl's hand. "Truce," he suggested.

"Shortest war since Adam and Eve," she replied, then completed the introductions.

The brunette at Bolan's hip was Georgette Chebleu, French-Canadian, a mischievous-eyed swinger who obviously liked body contact and made no bones about it. The auburn-haired one was a sober-puss with rosepetal skin and eyes that tended to brood; she met Bolan with a frown. She was identified as Smiley Dublin and said nothing to dispute the introduction. The fourth girl was Sally Palmer, a soft brunette with babydoll eyes and that open, ingenuous look of the small-town girl.

All four were tall, sleek, beautiful, and Bolan didn't have to catch their act to know they were good. There was a showbiz aura about them — in their movements, their actions, the way they held themselves — they had the mystique of the showbiz pro who had come and conquered.

"We don't usually run around town dressed this way," Sally Palmer was explaining, as though it were very important that she do so. "We just — this is our first Vegas date," she finished weakly. "We want to… be noticed."

"Never fear," Bolan said. He told Anders, "Give.me some other names and I'll be on my way."

"What names?" the blonde asked, before Anders could open his mouth.

"Buzz off, beautiful," Bolan said, without looking at her. He was glaring at Anders and thinking how easy it would be to act human with these girls — and how nice it would be. "Names, Anders," he snapped.

"Shortest truce since Bonnie and Clyde," Toby declared. 'Don't tell him a damn thing, Tommy."

"Hell God, you two cut it out," the comedian growled. He extracted a folded sheet of note paper from his wallet and passed it over the bar to Bolan. "You'll find it all right here," he told him. "My last will and monologue. Keep it, I got copies everywhere."

Bolan briefly studied the hand-scrawled sheet, grunted, and thrust it into his pocket. "Okay," he said. "Now make that call."

"What call?" the blonde wanted to know.

"He wants me to report the… uh… killings," Anders told her.

"Its a little late for that," she huffed.

"Better still," Bolan said, ignoring the girl, "don't call. Go to the lobby and collar a cop. You're excited, shook-up. I pulled you out of the casino at gunpoint, took you to the parking lot, questioned you, then let you go. Other than eyeballing the killings, that's all you know."

"Yeah, that's all I know," Anders muttered. He finished his drink and moved around the end of the bar.

Toby stopped him there. "Hold it," she said. "That takes care of you, but what about Captain Puff here?" Her eyes raked Bolan in a quick inspection. "Do you also turn invisible?"

"Almost," Bolan replied, showing her a tight grin. "Don't worry, I'm leaving."

"Almost isn't good enough," she told him. "You haven't been listening to me. This place is crawling with police. I heard them talking. They have the entire place sealed off. And they're starting a room-to-room search. And they know whom they're looking for."

He briefly chewed the information, then asked her, "So what do you suggest?"

She flashed him a smile and announced, "It's a quick-change time, girls. Break out the bikinis, the fishnets." To Bolan, she said, "Strip."

He told her, "I do not turn invisible."

She said, "No, but you sure turn red. Don't worry, we're just going for a swim."

Two minutes later, four bewitching and giggling young women appeared on the patio — wearing, for all practical purposes, nothing. A dozen or so late hangers-on sat at poolside tables, talking quietly and sipping drinks. Heads turned and lounge chairs creaked in acknowledgement of the new quality added to nighttime bathing, and a middle-aged man sitting alone stood up to get a better view.

Two of the girls mounted the diving platform and went into a wild go-go routine under the floodlight there, while the other two gyrated at the water's edge just below.

A uniformed deputy sheriff moved into view across the way, arms crossed and head tilted to the diving platform.

And no one noticed the tall, lithe man in jockey shorts who strode from the shadows of a bungalow, quickly crossed the few yards of flagstones, and quietly entered the waters of the pool. None noticed, that is, except the four young women. They joined him then, diving in with playful shrieks and clustering about himin the water.