13

The Tattle Tail was in the heart of D.C.'s black section.

It had been a long time since the open racial hostilities of the late sixties and early seventies, but faces along the sidewalks and tenement steps turned hostile, cautious, at the sight of a white.

Bolan had shed Big Thunder, packing the mini-howitzer away for the time being in its leather beneath the front seat of the rental car when he parked the vehicle half a block away.

He wore the Beretta 93-R shoulder-bolstered beneath his jacket.

The inner-city pavement was crowded because of the warm spell, even though it was well past 1:00 a.m.

The street was alive.

Bright colors and the latest fashions paraded by to the throaty roar of powerful exhausts and the calls of young men to foxy ladies.

The tall man with peculiarly icy eyes ignored the stares and entered the bar that was advertised by a lone Pabst sign in the window.

The joint was busy with an after-hours crowd. The walls, hidden somewhere beyond a swirling haze of cigarette smoke, throbbed to pulsating funk music from a jukebox and the constant din of raised voices.

The conversation dropped when Bolan appeared.

Suddenly there was no sound except for the music.

Dozens of eyes watched the stranger from a sea of black faces.

Then the conversation and din of a barful of people resumed, a notch lower, but more guarded than before.

Bolan walked to the bar and took the end stool where the bar met the wall. There were no patrons back here except for the gaudy hooker two empty stools down.

The whore wobbled onto her high heels and started toward Bolan, but when she got close enough to read his eyes, she changed her mind and went back to her stool and her beer.

The bartender was a squat, round-faced man who came over and regarded the stranger with a careful appraisal that gave away nothing.

"What can I get you?"

The tall man issued a single icy command.

"Grover Jones."

"Uh, what's that, sir?"

The tall man with the icy eyes repeated, "Grover Jones. Calls himself Damu Abdul Ali."

The bartender's expression tightened into a strange mixture of apprehension and hope.

"You a cop?"

"I'm not his friend."

"Yeah, the punk hangs out here," the barman confided in a lowered voice. "I own this place. Name's Ike. This joint used to be called Mr. Ike's, used to be a nice family place.''

Bolan looked around at the noisy hookers and pimps and ghetto nightlife.

"What happened?"

"Eight months ago this Ali bastard came around and said he likes my place and wants it as sort of his headquarters. Wants his own private rooms and his people to get cut-rate bar prices. I told him no, so he hired neighborhood gang kids to hassle my customers. They roughed me up. Said they'd do things to my wife and kid. My little girl, she's only fourteen. They changed the name of the place, everything."

"I can do something about that," said Bolan.

The black proprietor regarded him for a moment.

"I'll damn well bet you can."

"Where do I find Jones?"

"The rooms in back. There's a door to the alley, so I don't know if he's there or not, but some of his boys'll be. Be careful man. Them mothers kill people."

"So do I," growled Bolan. "Thanks, Ike."

The Executioner left the bar. He skirted the bar scene and passed through the archway Ike had indicated. Off to his left were the restrooms. Another short corridor on his right led to a corner. He moved to the corner and around it. At the end of the hallway was an exit sign above a metal door with a push bar handle. There was another door to Bolan's left between him and the alley exit. The sounds from out front were a dull rumble back here. Bolan heard the soft, distinctive click of billiard balls from behind the door to his left.

He walked over and kicked open the door.

There were five people in the room, all black, all dressed in the latest fashions. Three guys were holding pool cues, one of them lining up his next shot on the green baize of the pool table. Two women sat at a private bar across the room, wearing the unmistakable attire of hookers.

Bolan came down three steps into what was decorated like a private club room. He walked over to the pool table. The two other men with cues stood at either end of the table. Bolan faced the guy who was about to make his shot.

"Ooh my, look what just walked in," said one of the whores.

Bolan addressed the guy across from him.

"I want Grover Jones."

The punk's shoulders hunched slightly. He did not look up. A cool one.

"Looks like we got a smartass honkey cop what wants his ass carved, boys."

The two men to either side of Bolan dropped their cues to the pool table.

Bolan allowed them to reach into back pockets and pull out six-inch blades that appeared with expert wrist snaps, learned only on the streets of the ghetto.

"That's how it is?" Bolan asked quietly.

The punk in front of him looked up and flashed Bolan a gold-toothed smile that was all hate and anger.

"That's how it is, motherfucker."

"Good," said Bolan.

Bolan felt himself going into an icy rage.

These were the cannibals who fed on their own — street bums who terrorized decent people too civilized and afraid to fight back. And Konzaki was dead.

Bolan picked up the pool cue set down by the punk to his right. He moved too fast for any of them to register a reaction short of startled grunts. He held the cue with two hands and lunged sideways so hard and fast the pointed end pierced the eye and brain of the guy on his right. Bolan yanked the stick out of the man's head and whipped it backward in a continuous motion with both hands. Bolan threw his weight behind the move hard enough to impact the second punk's forehead with death-dealing force. Both men collapsed on either side of the table, dead.

One of the whores screamed.

The guy across from Bolan lost his cool and his cue. He fished for concealed hardware, coming out with a .38 Saturday Night Special, tracking on Bolan real fast, fading back from the table.

Bolan feinted the guy like a fencer and flicked the stick.

The solid end of the cue clipped the pistol from the punk's hand before the guy could fall back far enough. Then Bolan cracked the thick end of the cue hard across the man's skull, knocking him to the floor.

The two hookers fled the room.

Bolan came around the table and grabbed the punk by his shirtfront. He yanked the creep to his feet. He bent the guy backward across the elevated lip of the pool table.

The punk retained consciousness but almost lost it when Bolan rammed the man's head down onto the felt with a thump. The Stony chief leaned onto the cue that now held the black pinned across the throat.

"Where's Jones?"

Beads of sweat popped out like pearls on the punk's frightened face.

He cried out an address.

Bolan shifted his hold on the stick closer to the sides of the man's neck. He gave a mighty push on the cue, snapping the neck of the punk.

He stepped back and let the limp corpse sag to the floor to join the other two.

The Executioner's fury was abating.

They'll pay, Konzaki. Starting with these cannibals.

He tossed down the pool stick and walked out of the game room. He left the club via the alley exit.

No one tried to stop the tall man with the icy eyes as he disappeared into the night.