After he talked with Nino Tattaglia, Mack Bolan looked up the pool hall on Grand, then dialed. He talked to two flunkies before he got Wally “The Beast” Franconi on the line.

“Is this Wally Franconi?”

“Yeah. Who’s asking?”

“Recent acquaintance of yours. Remember the guy who broke your arm last night?”

Bolan waited until Franconi stopped screaming. Eventually, the flood of words and insults tapered off. When the Executioner could interrupt, he spoke sharply.

“Franconi, you’re not very well adjusted. Are you still there?”

“I’m here, you fucking bastard!”

“Good. We should get together. I figure I proved to you that you need a guy like me around.”

“Hell, no! I... hey... whaddaya mean?”

“Protection. Those goons who were with you didn’t help you much. You ain’t all that big without your rod, and like I thought, you sure as hell need some help.”

“Man, I gotta say you got guts. But even if I agree to a meet, why wouldn’t I show up with six guys bigger than you and bust both your goddamned arms?”

“You’re smart, that’s why. And so am I. Busting me up ain’t gonna make you no money. Staying alive and healthy so you can use your equipment makes you a money man. I can help you stay in action and turning the coin. Just figures.”

“I got protection. Who you with before?”

“West Coast. Got a little hot out there. Boss said take off a year. I don’t need the money. But I work for six hundred a week.”

“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe we should have a meet and talk. No promises.”

“Hey, none needed. I’m nuts about racing. Know that little one-eighth-mile dirt track just north of town by Parkville?”

“I can find it.”

“Just to talk. About noon.”

“I don’t know. Damn arm still hurts.”