The icy one commanded, "Shut up, Sammy." "Look, you're never going to be able to enjoy it. You know what I mean. You can't just walk up and hit the combination this way. You're dead men the minute you walk away from here. Get smart, hell man. I can steer you — "

The Beretta's silencer had steered itself right into Sammy Simonetti's hardworking mouth. He froze, then made a pleading sound around the new pacifier.

The big guy gave him a moment to get the feel and taste of oral death, then he withdrew the weapon and told the shaken courier, "Not another word."

Simonetti's eyes promised total silence and a moment later the other guy defeated the lock at his wrist.

The guy chuckled and told him, "Count your blessings, buddy. I was about ready to take arm and all."

The hard one placed the car keys in the courier's freed hand and told him, "Look in the trunk. But not right away. You wait awhile."

Simonetti nodded his head in thoroughly cowed silence and the two men in white turned their backs on him and walked around the building and out of sight.

He'd been on the ground less than a minute.

Who would ever believe this?

That slick and that easy, those guys had just clipped the combination for more than a hundred grand.

Nobody would believe that ... especially not Ben Lucasi!

The shaken messenger rattled the car keys in his hand, wondering vaguely what the guy had meant by, "Look in the trunk."

What would he find in there? The remains of Chicano and the Schoolteacher?

Simonetti shivered.

Nobody would believe this.

Then he became aware that something was mixed in with the keys in his hand — he'd thought it to be part of the key ring or something.

But it was definitely not a part of the key ring.

They didn't put marksman's medals on key rings.

A chill ran the entire length of Simonetti's spine and his guts began to quake.

Jesus!

They'd believe it, all right.

Goddammed right they'd believe it!

The San Diego territory had long been considered a tenderloin area for La Cosa Nostra. This "key" territory — bounded on one side by one of the world's ten greatest natural harbors and on another by the Mexican border — until recently had functioned as an "arm" of the DiGeorge Family, the Los Angeles mob which had already tasted the Executioner's war effort.

With DiGeorge's death and the dissolution of that "family," the national ruling council, La Com-missione, stepped in to administer the syndicate's interests in that area.

Ben Lucasi had been a DiGeorge underboss. He and "Deej" had been longtime friends. He'd hated to see Deej have to go that way ... but in his secret moments, Lucasi would admit that even the darkest cloud usually carried a silver lining.

Under the new setup, Big Ben was practically autonomous — reporting directly to the Commission of Capo's at the national level of government.

San Diego was no longer an "arm" of anything or anybody. San Diego now belonged to Big Ben Lucasi, period. And, yeah, Big Ben (who measured 5'4" even in elevator shoes and weighed-in soaking wet at 120 pounds) liked things a hell of a lot better that way.

He was not, of course, a full-fledged Capo. Not yet. But that honor would come, just like all the other good things had come. The whole California territory was reorganizing itself around San Diego.

One of these days the boys all around the country would be referring to this arm as The Lucasi Family. And why not? Where the money was, that's where the power was — and now that he was no longer getting a lot of jealous bullshit from L.A., Ben Lucasi was mining the San Diego gold like it hadn't been mined since the forty-niners.

What with Agua Caliente a few minutes south and with Las Vegas just a hop over the mountains by plane — hell, a guy would have to have his mind in his balls not to make a goldmine out of that happy circumstance. And the whole goddam fuck-in' U. S. Navy sitting out here at his right hand, running back and forth to the Orient — what kind of a lamebrain wouldn't turn a thing like that to his profit?

Some of the locals were starting to snicker about his "seagoing Mafia." Which was okay. Let them make jokes. Lucasi owned also a "khaki Mafia." Let 'em laugh — that was okay. As long as everybody was laughing there'd be no worry. Meanwhile San Diego was fast becoming the underground capital of the western world, and Ben Lucasi was becoming the most powerful non-Capo anywhere.

The Lucasi home was an unpretentious but modern split-level situated in one of the new neighborhoods near Mission Bay Park. He lived there with his third wife, Dorothy — a 23-year-old ex-showgirl from Las Vegas. Lucasi was 56. He had a daughter, 35, and a son, 32, from his first marriage. The son worked in a casino in Nassau; the daughter, at last report, was somewhere in Europe "with another lousy gigolo."

The first Mrs. Lucasi had died under mysterious circumstances while the children were still quite young, during that era when Bennie was scrambling everywhere for the buck. His criminal record from those early days reveals arrests for pandering, rape, felonious assault, theft, gambling, arson, extortion, intimidation, black-marketeering, manslaughter, and murder. The official FBI report on this very busy criminal enumerated 52 specific charges… with but 2 convictions and 2 suspended sentences.

He had spent a combined total of 66 days behind bars.

His last arrest had occurred in 1944, on a black-marketing charge.

Lucasi had come west at the end of the war, settling first in Reno, Nevada for a few years, then on to Las Vegas when the boom began there. In the late fifties he relocated to San Francisco, later gravitating to Los Angeles for a lieutenancy under Julian DiGeorge, who eventually sent him on to San Diego to boss that arm of the family.

So, sure. Except for a few nervous moments here and there, the world was looking rosy indeed for this late-blooming syndicate boss. The nervous moments came from increased anti-crime activity at the federal level — the damned Strike Forces — and a growing awareness among local citizens regarding the interconnections between the straight and the kinky communities.

And, of course, there was that Bolan bastard.

Bolan had almost torn things for good when he went on the warpath against Deej. The repercussions from that conflict had been felt clear down into San Diego ... and to points beyond. Lucasi himself had been enroute to Palm Springs when Bolan finally lowered the boom on DiGeorge there. And he'd seen, at first hand, the aftermath of a Mack Bolan hit. Yeah, he still had nightmares sometimes over what he'd seen at Palm Springs.

Goddamn how relieved Bennie had been when Bolan started churning up the turf back east.

Lucasi had thought he was rid of the bastard.

The son of a bitch had been everywhere. He'd hit Miami. He'd hit, for Christ's sake, even over in France and England — and for damn sure Bennie had thought the guy would stay over there somewhere and lay low.

Like hell he did. He hit the five family area, New York, like some crazy avenging angel, and just tore the living shit out of that place. All five families!

Ben had thought, then, well okay. Go ahead, you crazy bastard. Keep living like that and you won't survive to head west again.

Lucasi had been wrong about that, too.

He'd almost prayed that the guy would try Chicago. Yeah, hit Chi now ... try your luck on a real town.

And the son of a bitch did it. And the "real town" folded just like all the others.

Lucasi had begun to feel that this Bolan had some sort of special decree from God or something. No guy — not no guy who is one hundred percent mortal — could get away with that kind of shit forever.