alive, you know how his feelings get hurt if we don't show no sideboys."
Then he picked up the binoculars and took a closer look.
Hell, that wasn't Tony Danger.
Too tall, too big all over. Too much of everything.
But the guy was sure headed for Danger's
Folly,
no doubt about that. And he sure looked like the real article. That briefcase was chained to his wrist.
Tarantini put down the binoculars and swung into the cockpit of the big cruiser. He pulled a .38 revolver from the chart case, checked it, spun the cylinder, and replaced it.
"Watch it," he growled down to the two men who were just then emerging from the cabin. "Something's not exactly kosher here."
Bolan had picked up the outfit at the Mission Bay "Mariner's Shop" — and he suspected that Tony Danger had bought his seagoing togs at the same place; there'd been no difficulty whatever in duplicating the outfit, right down to the fancy sunglasses with little anchors at the posts.
He spotted the guy watching him through binoculars from the cruiser and knew that he was being closely scrutinized.
It was a beautiful hunk of seagoing mahogany, definitely in the yacht class. Powerful, sleek. Must have cost a bundle.
By the time he reached the gangway, two more guys in spotless T-shirts and white ducks were standing at the rail in a sort of self-conscious parade-rest stance. Each wore a navy-style white hat, rakishly cocked over the eyes, the sidebands flaring out in the center like wings.
Bolan stepped aboard and gave the sailors an impatient toss of his head. "We're late," he growled. "Cast off, haul that gangway in."
A voice from above him snarled, "I give the fucking orders aboard here, sir."
Bolan angled his gaze toward the flying bridge and told the little guy up there, "You'll be giving orders up your ass if you don't get this tub moving."
The guy grinned at him and, in a much milder tone, asked, "Where's Mr. Danger?"
Bolan did not return the smile. His voice was softer, though, in the reply. "Something's rumbling. There might be trouble. Tony's sitting this one out with th' boss. He shook the briefcase. "Do we go or don't we?"
The man on the bridge raised a bos'n's pipe to his lips and tootled a shrieking command through it.
Bolan grinned on that one and watched the crewmen scramble expertly through the casting-off exercises. A moment later the cruiser was moving smoothly through the smallcraft harbor and heading for open water.
He went up and joined the man at the conn, watched him in silence for a moment, then told him, "I'm Frankie Lambretta. Who're you?"
The guy gave him a dazzling smile and replied, "I'm Gene Tarantini. Mr. Danger started calling me "Turtle" — now everybody does. You may as well, too."
"Okay." Bolan ran his hands along Tarantini's body in a quick frisk, then growled, "Hey, I told you there might be trouble. Where the hell's your hardware?"
The guy glanced toward the chart case and said, "In there."
Bolan commanded, "Wear it!"
"Yessir."
"Do your boys have hardware?"
"Yessir, we keep it down in the quarters."
"I can handle the wheel for a minute," Bolan said. "You go tell those boys to get dressed."
Tarantini flashed another big smile, turned the wheel over to his passenger and descended quickly to the main deck. He was back seconds later, reaching into the chart case and tucking a revolver into the waistband of his trousers. He said, almost shyly, "You're a real torpedo, aren't you."
Bolan relinquished the conn and growled, "Yeh."
"I knew it the minute I saw you. I ain't seen a dude like you since Manhattan. You don't take no orders from Mr. Danger, do you?"
Bolan made a derisive sound.
"I thought not. You're class, Mr. Lambretta ... real class."
"Thanks," Bolan said. He was silent for a moment, then he told the impressionable
Mafioso,
"Listen, Turtle, I might be sliding into something very uncomfortable. You know?"
"Yessir. I already figured that."
"I'll appreciate some close support from you and your boys, if
Then he picked up the binoculars and took a closer look.
Hell, that wasn't Tony Danger.
Too tall, too big all over. Too much of everything.
But the guy was sure headed for Danger's
Folly,
no doubt about that. And he sure looked like the real article. That briefcase was chained to his wrist.
Tarantini put down the binoculars and swung into the cockpit of the big cruiser. He pulled a .38 revolver from the chart case, checked it, spun the cylinder, and replaced it.
"Watch it," he growled down to the two men who were just then emerging from the cabin. "Something's not exactly kosher here."
Bolan had picked up the outfit at the Mission Bay "Mariner's Shop" — and he suspected that Tony Danger had bought his seagoing togs at the same place; there'd been no difficulty whatever in duplicating the outfit, right down to the fancy sunglasses with little anchors at the posts.
He spotted the guy watching him through binoculars from the cruiser and knew that he was being closely scrutinized.
It was a beautiful hunk of seagoing mahogany, definitely in the yacht class. Powerful, sleek. Must have cost a bundle.
By the time he reached the gangway, two more guys in spotless T-shirts and white ducks were standing at the rail in a sort of self-conscious parade-rest stance. Each wore a navy-style white hat, rakishly cocked over the eyes, the sidebands flaring out in the center like wings.
Bolan stepped aboard and gave the sailors an impatient toss of his head. "We're late," he growled. "Cast off, haul that gangway in."
A voice from above him snarled, "I give the fucking orders aboard here, sir."
Bolan angled his gaze toward the flying bridge and told the little guy up there, "You'll be giving orders up your ass if you don't get this tub moving."
The guy grinned at him and, in a much milder tone, asked, "Where's Mr. Danger?"
Bolan did not return the smile. His voice was softer, though, in the reply. "Something's rumbling. There might be trouble. Tony's sitting this one out with th' boss. He shook the briefcase. "Do we go or don't we?"
The man on the bridge raised a bos'n's pipe to his lips and tootled a shrieking command through it.
Bolan grinned on that one and watched the crewmen scramble expertly through the casting-off exercises. A moment later the cruiser was moving smoothly through the smallcraft harbor and heading for open water.
He went up and joined the man at the conn, watched him in silence for a moment, then told him, "I'm Frankie Lambretta. Who're you?"
The guy gave him a dazzling smile and replied, "I'm Gene Tarantini. Mr. Danger started calling me "Turtle" — now everybody does. You may as well, too."
"Okay." Bolan ran his hands along Tarantini's body in a quick frisk, then growled, "Hey, I told you there might be trouble. Where the hell's your hardware?"
The guy glanced toward the chart case and said, "In there."
Bolan commanded, "Wear it!"
"Yessir."
"Do your boys have hardware?"
"Yessir, we keep it down in the quarters."
"I can handle the wheel for a minute," Bolan said. "You go tell those boys to get dressed."
Tarantini flashed another big smile, turned the wheel over to his passenger and descended quickly to the main deck. He was back seconds later, reaching into the chart case and tucking a revolver into the waistband of his trousers. He said, almost shyly, "You're a real torpedo, aren't you."
Bolan relinquished the conn and growled, "Yeh."
"I knew it the minute I saw you. I ain't seen a dude like you since Manhattan. You don't take no orders from Mr. Danger, do you?"
Bolan made a derisive sound.
"I thought not. You're class, Mr. Lambretta ... real class."
"Thanks," Bolan said. He was silent for a moment, then he told the impressionable
Mafioso,
"Listen, Turtle, I might be sliding into something very uncomfortable. You know?"
"Yessir. I already figured that."
"I'll appreciate some close support from you and your boys, if
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