four Black Crappie and put them back, then he turned the boat and headed back to the houseboat.
As he got on deck, he saw Scott hosing down his IF truck. He waved and Scott waved back. He went into the kitchen.
Freda nodded.
'It's all right. There's nothing for us to worry about. He's dropped it.'
Johnny drew in a slow deep breath.
'You're sure?'
'I'm sure.'
A little after 11.15 an air-taxi landed at the New Symara airport and from it came Toni Cappelo.
Ten minutes later a taxi dropped him outside the Waterfront Bar. He regarded the outside of the building and was surprised. This joint, he decided, had a lot of style. Situated opposite the yacht basin, the swank district of New Symara, the Waterfront Bar was the haunt of the rich. Tables, shaded by gaily coloured umbrellas, stood before the building which was painted white with sky-blue wooden shutters. There was a red carpet leading into the bar over which was a blueand-white, barrel-shaped canopy. The tables were crowded with fat, rich-looking people off their yachts.
Toni felt a little shabby as he walked into the bar, carrying his suitcase. He was aware people were staring at him and he now wished his clothes matched theirs.
An Italian in a white jacket and blood-red trousers, intercepted him.
'You want something?' The contempt in the man's voice gave Toni a rush of blood to his head.
'Luigi, you punk,' he snarled, 'and hurry it up!'
The waiter's eyes bulged.
'Signore Moro is busy.'
'Tell him Massino,' Toni said. 'He's expecting me!'
The waiter's contempt went away. He pointed.
'Excuse me. Please go ahead. First door behind the bar.'
Toni found Luigi Moro behind a desk as big as a billiard table. He was scribbling figures on a scratch pad and as Toni walked in, he leaned back in his chair and nodded.
Luigi Moro was around sixty-five years of age, enormously fat, his nose slightly flattened—a gift from a tough cop when he had been young—his dark, shifty eyes as animated as the eyes of a dead fish.
'Sit down . . . have a cigar.' He waved to a chair and pushed a silver box containing Havanas in Toni's direction.
Toni wasn't a cigar smoker. He sat down on the edge of the chair. He had heard about Luigi Moro, one of the Mafia's favourites: a man people had to respect or there was trouble.
Moro lit a cigar, taking his time, looking thoughtfully at Toni.
'I've heard about you: you're good with a gun.' Toni nodded.
'How's Joe?'
'He's okay.'
'A big steal.' Moro laughed. 'I bet he's flipping his lid.'
Toni didn't say anything.
'We got this tip,' Moro said. 'We've got over a hundred tips but this one looks good. I've got all my men out checking other tips so suppose you go out to Little Creek and take a gander? It could be negative and I don't want to pull my boys off the work they're doing. You take a gander and if it's straight up, call me and we'll go out there and get him.'
Toni felt a chill go up his spine.
'Don't you send anyone with me?'
Moro stared at him.
'I told you . . . the boys are busy.' He flicked ash into the big,
silver ash-tray on his desk. 'You're Massino's top gunman, aren't you?'
'Yeah.'
'Fine. You can handle this.' He pressed a button on his desk and a minute or so later the door opened and a young long-haired Italian came in. 'Take this guy to Little Creek, Leo, wise him up. Introduce him to Salvadore. Tell the old buzzard my compliments.'
The young man stared at Toni, then jerked his head to the door. Toni followed him out into the passage, hating him: a possible homo : very lean, white-faced, glittering eyes, could be on pot.
In silence they walked out of the building by the back exit to a shabby Lincoln.
Leo slid under the wheel and Toni got in the passenger's seat.
Leo turned and stared at Toni.
'I heard about you . . . a trigger man.' He grinned, showing good white teeth. 'Rather you than me.'
