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used to do some modeling — a lot of those rugged outdoor-type print ads. I did a lot for one cigarette company.”
    The chief nodded. “Yeah, that was probably it.” But as the car swung away and the cop hurried through the private entrance into the police department’s top-brass area, he knew he had not seen the man’s face in an ad. It was on a Wanted poster. And the guy wore the same black suit. It would come back to him. Damn, he wished he could remember.
    He went down the short hall to the chiefs’ men’s room with its lockers and showers. He undressed before anyone else came in, stuffed the bloody clothes into a plastic bag and then showered off the blood. He had never seen so much blood in a shower before. Wrong. That bathtub suicide when the drain plugged.
    Half an hour later the chief was dressed and heading for the motel in the passenger side of an unmarked car. When he and his driver arrived he took command of the investigation. As he pushed through the crowd behind the police tape he remembered who the man was who had saved him — Mack Bolan, the Executioner, the one who was at war with the Mafia and wanted by the FBI and in dozens of states!

5
    After Mack Bolan dropped off Assistant Chief Jansen, he stopped at a phone booth that had a directory in it and found the address of a small printing firm. He located one close by but passed it up when he saw a one-man operation down the street.
    Inside, the place had the musty, slightly alkaline odor of paper stock mixed with the acid tang of the printer’s inks.
    A short, bald, middle-aged man with half glasses came from behind a rotary press that was hissing with every turn.
    “Morning!” he said, smiling. “What can I do for you today?”
    “I need a business card. On the front I want a name and a phone number, and on the back the nearest thing we can find that resembles a five-dollar gold piece.”
    “Easy. And you need it in five minutes.”
    “No, that’s the easy part. I don’t want it for two hours.”
    “Should be a snap. Cost you as much as five hundred of them would.”
    “I’ll give you fifty dollars.”
    “Good, that’s what five hundred costs.”
    Bolan wrote out the name and the number, and the little man pawed through one box after another. He turned, holding a piece of plastic that had something engraved on it.
    “Found something I can use. I’ll set the type and burn a plate and we should be in business.”
    “Brown ink on the front and gold ink on the back, right?”
    “Cost you another thirteen dollars for cleanup on the press, if you want a good job.”
    Bolan gave him a fifty-dollar bill and a twenty, and said he would be back.
    His next stop was a phone booth, where he consulted a list of numbers that Nino had given him. He found the Baltimore godfather’s number at the top of the list. He had to go through three men before he got the Baltimore capo on the phone. Bolan had heard Augie Bonestra from Brooklyn testify on TV a few months back. Now he imitated his voice.
    “Yeah, this is Augie up in Boston. Hear you got Bolan down there.”
    “Right, Augie.”
    “I sent a man down early this morning. Want him to watch how you handle the Bolan thing, case he ever comes my way. Guy’s name Lonnie Giardello. Can handle himself. Sent him down and then forgot to call. Should be there in an hour or two. Let him see what’s going on, Carlo.”
    “Sure, Augie, no problem. I hope he brought a card.”
    “He’s got one of mine. Good talking, Carlo. I got to get moving.”
    They said goodbye and Bolan hung up. He grinned. He was not sure how close Augie and Carlo were, but there had been no hesitation about accepting the voice as genuine.
    Now for the rest of his outfit.
    Bolan went back to his small hotel and changed clothes. He wore a brown pin-striped suit, a red tie and a brown snap-brim hat that he’d bought in a men’s store. He looked like your average hoodlum soldier. Or maybe a little conservative. He could pass.
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