"Ah..." His tone was noncommittal.

Bolan glanced around the office, sizing up the man.

"The AG seems to think you've got a problem," Bolan said.

The captain frowned.

"We've got our finger on it," he replied.

"Oh? You have fingers on Larry Liguori? Spinoza? Johnny Cats?"

A ruddy color seeped into the captain's cheeks.

"I know the names. We keep an eye on all of them." His frown became a scowl. "You're pointing fingers at a bunch of citizens, and damned important ones at that. Their money talks around this town."

"Who does the listening?" Bolan asked him.

Reese bristled.

"Back off, La Motta."

"That's LaMancha."

"Whatever. I admit we have a problem but we're working on it. What we don't need in Las Vegas is a pack of hungry federales getting in our way with all that green felt jungle bullshit..."

Bolan allowed himself a narrow smile.

"I guess you're working on Minotte, too," he said. "You don't waste any time."

"I can't afford to."

Bolan crossed the room to stand before a wall map bristling with multicolored stickpins. A shiny blood-red pin protruded from the near vicinity of the Minotte stud farm.

"You've got a gang war on your hands," he offered without turning around.

"Says who?"

"Says common sense. You think Minotte's Eastern visitors were wise men following a star?"

"There anything you don't know?"

"Plenty," Bolan told him frankly. "Like where Seiji Kuwahara and the Yakuza fit in."

There was a momentary silence, and when Reese responded his tone was less hostile.

"We're working on it. Kuwahara runs a restaurant on Paradise — the Lotus Garden. We know he's connected, but that's where it ends. No wants or warrants out of Tokyo, nothing."

"What about the hit team?"

"Zip, so far. If we turn anything at all I'm betting on illegals."