flipped onto his back and idled northward with his guide who, incidentally, Bolan was now certain was something more than a hotel bellman. Just how much more, Bolan was equally certain that he would soon learn. For the moment, he was only grateful for the strange twist of destiny that had placed him in the hands of Toro, the Spanish bull. He hoped that they would continue to be friendly hands. He liked the little Cuban; more, he respected him. Also, in some dark instinctive corner of his mind, he feared him. Bolan paddled on, watching the luxury hotels slipping slowly past, and found the entire scene suddenly incredible. He had just slain a dozen men. And now he was lolling in the warm Miami currents, lazily making his way "northward," guided by an unknown entity and to an unimaginable destination.
Yes, it was incredible. Very well. Bolan accepted the incredible. His entire life, since returning from Vietnam, had been woven of same threads.
He smiled and caught Toro's eye. "By the way, thanks," he said.
"My pleasure,
senor,
to work with a man of your accomplishments."
Bolan said, "I had a flanker like you once," in his own mind paying the man a huge tribute. "He died in a place called Balboa."
"Si,
I read of that tragedy."
"You seem to know a lot more about me than I know about you," Bolan observed.
"In time," Toro replied, smiling, "that will not be so. For now, know this. When
this
flanker dies, he hopes it to be in a place called
Cuba.
"
Bolan said nothing. He was beginning to understand the new friendship. Impossible causes, he was thinking, had a way of branding their champions — brands which made brothers of the bearers, regardless of their other differences. Their eyes met and the unspoken understanding passed between them. "It must be very lonely to be an exile," Bolan murmured.
"Can you not answer that for yourself,
senor?"
Toro replied quietly.
"Yes, I suppose I can." Bolan turned his face toward the line of hotels, and the two exiles paddled on northward.
Chapter Ten
El Matador
John Harmon stood broodingly in the doorway of the manager's office at the Tidewater Plaza, watching the approach of the Homicide lieutenant. Wilson's face showed no evidence of impending good news. Hannon dug into a pocket for his pipe, clamped it between his teeth, and waited the report.
Wilson shook his head and said, "I don't know, cap'n. This place is like a small city. Over 500 rooms, barber shops, clothiers, restaurants, bars, the whole bit."
"You're saying we're not going to find him," Hannon snapped.
"No sir, it's too soon to say that. I just want you to know that it's going to take a while for a thorough shake. We're still finding victims. The count is now up to ten."
"How about the young women? They have anything to offer?"
The detective grinned. "Yes sir, but not while I'm on duty."
"Cut it out," Hannon growled. "I'm in no mood for wisecracks."
Wilson sobbered. "Uh, every one of them gave a different description of the assailant. They can't even agree on how many. You know how numbing it can be when hell explodes right out of the blue. One of the girls is under sedation. The others are still shaking. I believe we'll get better accounts after they've settled down some."
"In the meantime," the captain fumed, "we're getting no closer at all to Bolan."
"One very stark picture does emerge," Wilson thoughtfully pointed out. "Bolan hits fast and hard. He comes in like a lightning bolt and leaves in a clap of thunder — and when it's over, those left alive are sitting around wondering just what the hell happened."
Hannon nodded and started to comment, then checked himself as a telephone rang behind him. He stepped into the office, conversed briefly on the phone, then returned to the doorway. "Another stiff," he told Wilson, sighing. "Room 342. Better get up there and look it over. Wait . . . I'll go with you." He caught the attention of a uniformed officer and called him over. "Watch the phone," Hannon ordered.
Yes, it was incredible. Very well. Bolan accepted the incredible. His entire life, since returning from Vietnam, had been woven of same threads.
He smiled and caught Toro's eye. "By the way, thanks," he said.
"My pleasure,
senor,
to work with a man of your accomplishments."
Bolan said, "I had a flanker like you once," in his own mind paying the man a huge tribute. "He died in a place called Balboa."
"Si,
I read of that tragedy."
"You seem to know a lot more about me than I know about you," Bolan observed.
"In time," Toro replied, smiling, "that will not be so. For now, know this. When
this
flanker dies, he hopes it to be in a place called
Cuba.
"
Bolan said nothing. He was beginning to understand the new friendship. Impossible causes, he was thinking, had a way of branding their champions — brands which made brothers of the bearers, regardless of their other differences. Their eyes met and the unspoken understanding passed between them. "It must be very lonely to be an exile," Bolan murmured.
"Can you not answer that for yourself,
senor?"
Toro replied quietly.
"Yes, I suppose I can." Bolan turned his face toward the line of hotels, and the two exiles paddled on northward.
Chapter Ten
El Matador
John Harmon stood broodingly in the doorway of the manager's office at the Tidewater Plaza, watching the approach of the Homicide lieutenant. Wilson's face showed no evidence of impending good news. Hannon dug into a pocket for his pipe, clamped it between his teeth, and waited the report.
Wilson shook his head and said, "I don't know, cap'n. This place is like a small city. Over 500 rooms, barber shops, clothiers, restaurants, bars, the whole bit."
"You're saying we're not going to find him," Hannon snapped.
"No sir, it's too soon to say that. I just want you to know that it's going to take a while for a thorough shake. We're still finding victims. The count is now up to ten."
"How about the young women? They have anything to offer?"
The detective grinned. "Yes sir, but not while I'm on duty."
"Cut it out," Hannon growled. "I'm in no mood for wisecracks."
Wilson sobbered. "Uh, every one of them gave a different description of the assailant. They can't even agree on how many. You know how numbing it can be when hell explodes right out of the blue. One of the girls is under sedation. The others are still shaking. I believe we'll get better accounts after they've settled down some."
"In the meantime," the captain fumed, "we're getting no closer at all to Bolan."
"One very stark picture does emerge," Wilson thoughtfully pointed out. "Bolan hits fast and hard. He comes in like a lightning bolt and leaves in a clap of thunder — and when it's over, those left alive are sitting around wondering just what the hell happened."
Hannon nodded and started to comment, then checked himself as a telephone rang behind him. He stepped into the office, conversed briefly on the phone, then returned to the doorway. "Another stiff," he told Wilson, sighing. "Room 342. Better get up there and look it over. Wait . . . I'll go with you." He caught the attention of a uniformed officer and called him over. "Watch the phone," Hannon ordered.
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