Crisis Nation. Don Pendleton

on the back of his hand between his right thumb and forefinger. He looked Bolan up and down and leaned in close. “Hey, gringo, why don’t you finish your beer and fuck off?”

      Bolan finished his beer and ignored the invitation. “I mean, is he some kind of tough son of a bitch or something?”

      The bartender elaborately washed his hands in the sink and muttered, “You dig your own grave” under his breath in Spanish.

      “All the way to China, baby,” agreed Bolan. He pushed his empty mug forward for another.

      Strangely enough the bartender began refilling Bolan’s glass. He smiled without an ounce of warmth. “Did you say…baby?”

      “You bet your ass,” Bolan agreed.

      “You should be careful of using that word in this place. Bebito Jesus might be listening.”

      Bolan took the bait and the refilled mug. “We all have a friend in little baby Jesus.”

      “No.” The bartender kept on smiling. “Not you, my friend.”

      There was no mirror behind the bar. Bolan had been aware of people in the dark booths in the back, and he had heard someone walking up behind him. He was somewhat surprised to find himself suddenly in shadow as if there were a solar eclipse in the barroom. Bolan swiveled his bar stool and behind him was Bebito Jesus.

      There was nothing little nor Christlike about the behemoth looming over him. The man had to have topped six-foot ten, and his frame was sheathed in sumo-wrestler-sized rolls of fat. He looked like a cartoon character, but there was nothing funny about the look in his eye or the bass rumble of his voice. “Fuck you.”

      Bolan blew the froth off the top of his mug, and it slopped onto the giant’s sandaled feet. He raised his mug in toast. “And your mother.”

      Bebito blinked. It was perhaps the first time anyone had said that to him in his life. Bolan didn’t underestimate his opponent, but the Puerto Rican, on the other hand, seemed to be fatally underestimating Bolan. He slowly reached out with one spatulate hand and gathered up the front of the big American’s shirt in his fist and began lifting him out of his seat. Bolan rose and snapped the stacked leather heel of his dress shoe down into his adversary’s left big toe. Bebito’s shoulders cringed and his eyes went blank with the sudden shock. Bolan took the opportunity to stomp down again and break his other big toe. Bebito gasped and stooped toward his pain. This brought his face on par with Bolan’s. The Executioner snapped his forehead forward and shattered Bebito’s cheekbone. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head.

      The behemoth toppled backward. Bolan sat back down at the bar. He hadn’t spilled a drop of beer. “So, what were we talking about? Oh, yeah, well, you know? They call this Yotuel guy the Lion but he sounds like a real pussy to me.”

      “Mister…” The bartender stared at Bolan in almost total incomprehension. “You’d better leave.”

      “Yeah.” Bolan put down his beer mug and dropped a twenty on the bar. “Tell this Lion freak I’ll be back tomorrow, same time.”

      Bolan walked out into the street. Constante still leaned against the front fender of his black, unmarked Crown Victoria police car. This was one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in San Juan and the lanky inspector ate a Cuban sandwich and drank a Budweiser tall boy from a six-pack sitting on the hood like he owned the place. “Did you speak to Yotuel?”

      “No, but I stepped on a few of the right toes,” Bolan answered.

      “I heard a crash. I almost came in.”

      “I ran into Bebito.”

      Constante started in surprise. He clearly knew the giant. “Bebito Jesus? What happened?”

      Bolan shrugged. “That was the crash.”

      The inspector was impressed. “He assaulted you?”

      “It didn’t get that far.”

      The inspector looked sidelong at Bolan. “Is he dead?”

      “No, but he needs to go see his podiatrist.”

      “Ah, well, it begins.” Constante sighed happily.

      BOLAN AND THE INSPECTOR drove through the night. The violent street protests of the day had given way to candlelit vigils in the plazas. Puerto Rican rock bands and rappers played freedom benefits. Professors and students made dramatic oratory. The guitar playing, speech making and talk over megaphones of a greater Puerto Rico were counterpointed by the darkened and looted storefronts and the smoldering and burning cars on the streets. The inspector had driven to a number of bars and spoken to informants. Bolan had not been privy to the conversations nor had he inquired. Right now it was Constante’s play.

      “Well, amigo, I will tell you.” The inspector turned to him now. “It appears that Yotuel is very angry with you.”

      “So I would imagine,” Bolan admitted.

      “He is also aware that I was standing outside the bar while you impugned his reputation and destroyed his enforcer in insulting fashion.” The inspector paused and then said, “I gather you are armed?”

      Bolan had full war loads at the DOJ building, three safe-houses and every military base on the island. He tapped the Smith & Wesson Centennial revolver in a cross-draw holster beneath his shirt. A lightweight titanium model of the same gun rode in an ankle holster. He simply said, “I have a gun.”

      “Well, I think it is going to be a bad night in old San Juan, amigo. Would you like to get a bigger gun? I think I would like a bigger gun myself.”

      “I’m your humble servant in all things,” Bolan said.

      Constante spit the stub of his cigarette out the window and punched the cigarette lighter on the console. “I suspect the opposite it true.” He took the car back toward the capital police building and pulled into the underground parking lot. Men in uniform and plain clothes nodded at Constante as they went through a series of basement catacombs and finally came to a room with a counter guarded by thick bulletproof glass. The man behind the glass looked like an accountant except that the forearms revealed by his rolled-up sleeves were built like bowling pins and his fingernails were blackened by accumulated gun grease that would take industrial solvents to clean away.

      “Mono!” The inspector grinned at the armorer. “I need guns!”

      Mono turned a measuring eye on Bolan and then sighed in amusement at Constante. “Flaco Ordones was here. He already checked out the BAR. He said it was on your authorization.” Flaco was Spanish slang for skinny. BAR was the U.S. military acronym for Browning Automatic Rifle. It seemed the inspector was serious about getting bigger guns.

      Mono shook his head. “You know, Inspector, strictly speaking, only the SWAT team can check out weapons without clearance from above.”

      The inspector lit another cigarette and one for Mono as well. He sighed and blew smoke into the ceiling light. “You know something, Cooper? There was a time when a Puerto Rican cop could get anything he needed just by asking. Of course, there was always very little to be had…but you could get it.”

      Bolan nodded sympathetically. Inspector Constante was an old-school Puerto Rican cop. He came from a lineage that kicked doors, cracked heads and squeezed suspects. As Puerto Rico modernized, his day was swiftly coming to a close.

      Constante warmed to his subject. “Now it is all forms, subcommittees, review boards, and, Heavenly Father help us, after-action reports.” He turned on the armorer. “Are you going to make me fill out forms in triplicate, Mono? Do I need to form a subcommittee to recommend my course of action?”

      Mono regarded Constante drily. “Might I inquire as to what your course of action may be?”

      “Oh, is that all?” Constante nodded toward Bolan. “Me and the gringo are going to clean up Puerto Rico. He already started with the Taino bar. Apparently he used Bebito as a mop.”