Little was left of the gambling room. One wall had been blown into the hallway. The roof sagged. The furnishings were a jumble of twisted metal and scorched upholstery. The remains of the poker table were visible as matchstick-size splinters all over the room.

Nino marveled that Bolan had bluffed his way into the inner sanctum of the back room. He was good.

Jo Jo arrived, looked at the wreckage, swore for five minutes, told Nino to get it fixed, then left. Carlo Nazarione arrived as the police were leaving; he stayed in his car and asked Nino for a complete report.

“Looks like those two rooms upstairs will be closed for a month. A team of carpenters is coming in tomorrow morning at eight. I suppose the city engineers will want to see if the building is structurally damaged. That could mean big problems.”

“Goddammit! How did the bastard get in there? Who we got on the doors? Talk to them. If they took cash to let him in, you fry their butts good. Make it so they never work for us or the other families again.”

He shook his head. “Damn Bolan. First time he’s hit us. Why is he concentrating on us, Nino?”

“I don’t know, Carlo. Maybe you’re getting famous or running such an efficient operation here that he heard of you.”

“Yeah, yeah, that must be it. Flattery — I guess that’s it.” He frowned. “Hell, you have the place fixed up fast. We need the income. Pick a new floor man carefully — no more dummies — and move somebody up as a hardman inside.”

“You can count on me, Carlo.”

Nino stepped back. Nazarione powered up the window of his crew wagon and the Caddy lumbered down the street.

As Nino turned toward the club half a block away, someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“Nino!”

Tattaglia jumped. He would know that voice anywhere. He turned and saw Mack Bolan standing in the darkened doorway of a closed jewelry store.