Yeah. What a pity. What a hell of a rotten waste of a truly superior human being. Be careful. Those were not the right words, were they. Hell no. Be hard. Be hard,

Hal, do your duty, and go gun down a very superior human being.

He would, of course. Because he had to. He and[ Bolan were two of a kind.

They simply did what they had to do.

Joseph Earl Stanno had not fallen off a bed since he was six years old. Of course, it had been a hell of a bad day all the way around. One thing after another — the hit on the hill, the heist, eating shit from the Taliferis' plates, trying to run bastard Bolan to ground, the embarrassment at the Duster when the bastard rousted Vito — right under Joe's nose, then that Godawful hit at McCarran, the ordeal with Vito screaming and pleading for his hie all during that long, hot desert ride… yeah, and it had been a rotten day all the way along, and without any sleep even. For thirty-six hours no damn sleep. No wonder he fell off the damn bed, he was probably having nightmares in his sleep as bad as they bad been all day with his eyes wide open.

All this passed through his mind as he was struggling to get his swollen eyes opened, and he was thinking that, hell, he might never see again. Then he saw the pair of legs walking away from him, and he remembered where he was, and something swam up from his subconscious to make him realize that he hadn't fallen off — some bastard had drug him off.

Stanno rolled to his side and explored his face with probing fingers. The nose burned and it was throbbing some. He pulled his fingers away wet and warm and he knew that he was bleeding a little from his nose. What bastard had drug him off onto his nose?

He groaned and sat up, swaying drunkenly and wondering if he really was awake, after all. The guy perched there on the edge of the desk didn't look like anybody he knew personal, except for the expensive silk threads that a hundred guys he knew wore all the time.

Instinctively Joe's hand moved beneath his coat and came out empty. What bastard had relieved him of his hardware?

The guy at the desk was looking away from him, toward the wall, just sitting there and swinging his foot and staring off no where.

"Who the hell're you?" Stanno said in a raspy voice. "What the hell is coming off?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stanno, I shouldn't be talking to you," the guy said.

What the hell did he mean by that, why couldn't he talk to him? Shit, it was too hard to think about. His goddam head was throbbing and he had that sick feeling in his gut, that hungry grabby feeling of not eating anything all night and all day.

Stanno struggled back to the couch. He pulled himself up and sat on the edge with his head in his hands.

The guy wasn't saying nothing.

Stanno looked up and asked him, "Where's that guy?"

He just swung his foot and didn't say nothing.

"Didn't you hear me, you creep?" Joe the Monster yelled. "Where's that guy, that smart-ass? Did he turkey out?"

Very quietly, the guy told him, "That's old history, Mr. Stanno. Look, you understand — nothing personal, I mean — but I can't afford to get heard talking to you."

"What the hell d'you mean? What not talk to me? What old history?" The bewildered man lurched to his feet. "Where's my rod?" he growled.

"Pardon me, but do you always wake up this hard?" the guy asked him. He slid off the desk and walked past, then returned and said, "You look like hell, Mr. Stanno."

And then the bastard threw a glass of cold water in Joe Stanno's face. It jerked him upright, though, and the red film in front of his eyes started going away, and his mind slipped into focus. And he knew with a terrible swiftness what the guy had been talking about.

"You don't wanta talk to me?" he asked, unable to accept the finality of that message.

"No sir, I'm sorry."

"What the hell is going on?"

"You know, Mr. Stanno," the guy told him.

Yeah, Stanno knew, how well he knew. How many times had he gone through this very same routine? How many times, and never ever believing that it would some day be coming back at him.

But… why? For God's sake, why? Shut up, Stanno, for God's bleating sake, shut up. You don't go out begging and screaming like Vito, hell no.

"They want to see you, Mr. Stanno," the silksuit said.

"Oh is that right? And where are they?"

"Well you should know."

"Don't get assy with me, boy."

"No sir, I wouldn't."

The kid was real polite. At least it was going to be dignified.

"I, uh, Christ I don't remember what's been going on, I guess. I mean I'm not woke up good yet. I was up thirty-six hours."

"Yes sir."

The guy came over and opened Joe's coat and, dropped a rod into the leather. Quietly, almost sorrowfully, he said, "I wouldn't send nobody out there naked, Mr. Stanno. Not my worst enemy."

"Is that fuckin' thing loaded?"

"Of course it's loaded, Mr. Stanno."

"Well what — I mean…"

"You got a right."

"Thanks. I know you, don't I?"

"Not very well," the guy said. He was holding a big black rod in his own paw now, a silenced rod. "Goodbye, Mr. Stanno."

He shoved him toward the door. Actually shoved Joe Stanno.

The big man staggered into the wall and turned crazed eyes to the smirking silksuited polite bastard. He swiped at his bleeding nose with the back of his hand and growled, "Where'd you say they were, tough?"

"Same place," the guy said. "You'd better get going."

The guy popped the desk buzzer and the door swung open.

Stanno lurched through the doorway and down the short hall to Max Keno's station. He bent low to whisper, "What the hell is going on, Max?"

"I'd rather not say, Mr. Stanno," Max replied.

A cold sweat broke out above Stanno's eyes. It was one thing to get the leper treatment from a stranger… Max was something else again. He recoiled from the masked pity in those eyes, then he jerked himself erect and found a handkerchief to hold against the nosebleed.

He took three steps down the stairway before being struck by the eerie silence.

His head jerked around and he gawked across the railing at the deserted tables and the utter desolation of a casino without people. It seemed to Joe the Monster like a Vegas version of the last-man-on-earth.

He snapped back to Max Keno and said, "God's sake, Max, what's going on?"

"I guess you better just keep on going, Mr. Stanno," was all Max would say to him.

The red film settled back over his eyes again and Joe Stanno descended into the pits of Mafia hell.

Behind him, faintly, he heard Max calling out, "It's eight forty, Mr. Vinton."

Bolan-Vinton strode past Max Keno and said, "Okay, Max. On me." He started down the stairway and saw Joe the Monster in his side vision, prowling about the deserted casino.

Bolan kept his eyes front and went on down.

Max fell in behind him.

From behind the partition was coming the muted sounds of a happy party in the adjoining dining room. That was great. Bolan grinned to himself; the house was living it up, and keeping most of the action where Bolan wanted it.

It was going by the numbers now.

Almost. Just as he reached the casino floor, four men swept in through the lobby entrance.

One of them yelled, "Hey there!"

Bolan swung around to confront the foursome.

The Talifero brothers, Pat and Mike.

Two tagmen flanking them, running on the quarters like a couple of destroyers in escort of capital vessels.

They were cruising toward Bolan, and they had reached about the midpoint between the door and the stairs. One step around the corner and Bolan would be out of it… very briefly.

He took a step in their direction, then swung his arm up in a dramatic sweep from the shoulder to point out Joe Stanno, moving like a sleepwalker along a row of gaming tables.