Payback. Don Pendleton

them before that, but they definitely used them on Tuesday.”

      Rigello licked his lips again and gave a little shake of his head. “Don’t sound familiar.”

      “Sometimes it’s hard to remember back that far,” Bolan said. “Do you mind if we take a quick look at your books?”

      The rear door suddenly opened and a larger, younger version of the man behind the counter came storming in. His face was thinner, but he had the same aquiline nose. This guy’s beard was jet-black, and his hair was pulled back in a similar looking ponytail style. He was also wearing a Glock in a pancake holster.

      “Yeah, we do mind,” the new guy said. “Unless you got a warrant.”

      He turned to Joe Rigello and said, “What did I tell you about keeping your trap shut?”

      Bolan studied the man. From his remarks, it was obvious he had been both watching and listening to the conversation from the next room.

      “I’m Special Agent Matthew Cooper, Justice Department,” Bolan said. “This is my partn—”

      “I don’t give a shit who you are,” the man said. “We don’t got to show you nothing concerning our business ’less you got a warrant.” He thumped his chest with his fist. “I know the law.”

      “No need to get hostile, pal.” Grimaldi strolled over with an ingratiating grin stretched across his face. “Me and your brother here were just talking about helicopters when you interrupted. Uh, at least I’m assuming that you and Joe are related.”

      “That’s my brother, Dean,” Joe blurted.

      Dean Rigello shot him another look of disdain. “Shut up.”

      He turned the look toward Bolan. “Get outta here and don’t come back unless you got a warrant.”

      “We’ll look into getting one,” Bolan said, then turned to exit the building, followed by Grimaldi.

      “You do that. We run a respectable business here and got nothing to hide.”

      “Then what are you afraid of?” Grimaldi asked.

      Dean’s head swiveled toward him. “Nothing. I ain’t afraid of nothing.”

      “Is that so?” the pilot said.

      “Yeah.” Rigello’s lips twisted into a sneer. “I just don’t like cops, is all. I’m a civil libertarian.”

      “You know—” Grimaldi looked at Bolan, then back to Rigello “—that reminds me of that old saying, two weeks ago I couldn’t even spell civil libertarian, and now I are one.”

      The sneer deepened on Dean Rigello’s hawkish face.

      Back in the Escalade, Grimaldi made a clucking sound and said, “That went really well.”

      “I don’t know, you and Joe seemed to be getting on, one chopper enthusiast to another.”

      “Yeah, but it looks like our boy Dean’s running things.” The pilot directed the air vent toward himself again. “Got any bright ideas about our next move?”

      “Maybe,” Bolan said, glancing at his watch. It was 1:54 p.m. He considered their options and decided that time was definitely not on their side. They had to go into accelerated information-gathering mode, and that meant stretching the rules a bit, as needed. He put the Escalade in gear and drove away slowly. “I think perhaps a little heart-to-heart talk with our boy Dean is in order.”

      “Especially since he holds the law and his libertarian principles in such high regard.” Grimaldi smiled. “So what do you think? Hard or soft?”

      Bolan considered the question, and then said, “Well, we’re pressed for time. I was thinking perhaps the deep blue goodbye.”

      Grimaldi nodded. “Good choice.”

      * * *

      AFTER SLIPPING a clear plastic covering over the license plates of the Escalade, changing the numerals, they spent half an hour finding an old, suitable, sleazy no-tell motel in a semisecluded spot along the stretch of highway. It was only a quarter-mile drive from the Rigello Transport and Tours establishment. The motel, aptly named the Desert Shadows Motel, was laid out in a T-shape, with a dilapidated, but high wooden fence surrounding the rear portion. The fence was obviously intended to shield vehicles from the view of the highway. Wearing his sunglasses and a baseball cap, Grimaldi went in and rented a room for “a four-hour nap,” with a possible extension. He asked for and got one of the rooms on the fenced-in side.

      “I’d like to inspect the room before I rent it,” he said.

      The clerk stared at him through the heavy sheet of smudged Plexiglas that separated his booth from the customer portion of the front counter, and then shoved a key with a plastic tag attached through the slot at the bottom. “Be my guest.” The guy looked like a human version of a Gila monster—no neck, just a massive head set on top of a pair of narrow shoulders. He moved with a lizardlike precision, too. “Just give me your ID until you bring the key back, and pay.”

      Grimaldi pulled out an authentic-looking driver’s license for one Irving Grim out of Los Angeles, California, and tossed it into the slotted portion. He then walked briskly out of the office and went through a small passageway that separated the motel office from the rooms. The tag on the key had a 9 emblazoned on it, although the white lettering was virtually worn off.

      The pilot opened the door and surveyed the interior. A dilapidated double bed took up most of one side. A beat-up wooden table with a phone sat off to the left, and at the foot of the bed was another table with an old-fashioned television on top. An odd-looking box was attached to the side of the set, with a coin slot on the top. A hand-printed sign taped to the box read: Adult Movies for Rent. 25 Cents for Three Minutes. Quarters Available in Office.