Miami Massacre

'No, I don't like blood,' replied the denimed one.

The other man emitted another nervous laugh and began talking to an onlooker at his other side. The tall man moved away and returned to a parked vehicle. He lit a cigarette and continued the watch. A short while later the bodies were brought out and the ambulances quietly departed. Then the young plainclothes cop reappeared, talking soberly with a larger, older man. The detectives got into their cars and left. Onlookers began to drift away. The tall man quietly smoked and watched. Some twenty minutes later, a stunning young woman with an upswept hairdo came out and was escorted to a police cruiser. It was apparent, from the actions of her escort, that she was not under arrest. When the police vehicle moved into the stream of beachfront traffic, the tall man in the denim suit started his car and swung in a short distance behind. The Executioner was sniffing along another hot trail.

Chapter Six Council of kings

For the first time in many years, the 'invisible second government of the nation' was convened in full session. It was called the Commissione and consisted of the head of each of the thirteen U.S. Cosa Nostra families. La Cosa Nostra, literally 'this thing of ours,' was operated as a republic within a republic. Despite much official and public conjecture on the matter, there was no 'boss of all the bosses' who functioned as a sovereign head of the massive underground organization. The Commissione itself established interfamily policies and procedures, policed its members, and enforced the council's rulings.

Rebellions and power plays within the Commissione were rare and singularly unsuccessful. Though he was the undisputed lord of his own domain, a Capo generally saw the wisdom of submerging his own ego in a larger fealty to the majority view of the ruling council; those who did, prospered; those who did not were notable chiefly for their shortened life-expectancy.

Ciro Lavangetta privately thought of the Commissione as 'the council of kings,' though in this view Ciro himself was more in the nature of a crown prince. He was a boss, sure, but the youngest and among the newest of the lot, with the poorest kingdom represented in the council. He had been given all the rights and honors of a full-fledged Capo, but he had forever reigned in the shadow of Julian DiGeorge and had been greatly dependent upon that Southern California family from which Ciro had sprung. Now with DiGeorge dead and his family in a state of virtual dissolution, thanks to Mack The Bastard Bolan, Ciro regarded his position as definitely pivotal — perhaps even perilous. He had come to this 'council of kings' with the hopes of making a strong bid for a more substantial power base for his family; he hoped, in fact, to 'inherit' the DiGeorge empire and to consolidate it into his southwestern territory.

There was a fly in Lavangetta's ointment, however. The old man from San Francisco, George the Butcher Aggravante, had been casting lecherous glances toward the now open L.A. territory — and Aggravante had been the sole dissenter in the council which, some years earlier, had deeded the desert southwest to Lavangetta. George the Butcher would love to gobble up Southern California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas and thus give himself full sway over the Western U.S., Ciro was certain of this. Sure, now that Ciro had built up a thriving territory out of desert sand, the old man would gladly relieve him of it. Perhaps Ciro would be allowed to remain on as a 'paper Capo'of his original territory, or maybe as an underboss to the butcher. Well, no thanks. George the Butcher could just go to hell. Giro knew the L.A. territory better than anyone now living. If there was to be a division of DiGeorge's legacy, no man alive stood closer in the line of succession than Ciro Lavangetta. Ciro would give Aggravante the area from the San Fernando Valley north. But the rest belonged to Ciro. He had earned it. And the fantastic revenues from L.A. County alone would insure a strong base for this newest and youngest family, the Lavangettas. Ciro's own brother-in-law was the only ranking member of the DiGeorge family yet alive, 'Tony Danger' Cupaletto, a lightweight Caporegime based at San Diego. It didn't take a council of kings to recognize the fact that Tony Danger was far too light to bear DiGeorge's crown.

And that empty chair at the council table, DiGeorge's chair, was the paramount consideration in Ciro's mind as the first Miami session got underway. As an irritating symbol of the importance of this council to Lavangetta, that empty chair stood between the chairs of Ciro and George the Butcher.

Ciro nodded pleasantly to the grand old man from San Francisco and said, 'Hi, Georgie. How's the meat business?'

Aggravante tossed him a cold glance and replied, 'Couldn't be better, Ciro. How are things in Bolan's playground?'

Ciro colored angrily and choked back a hot retort. He quickly covered his anger with a light chuckle and said, 'I'll export 'im cheap, Georgie.'

Aggravante nodded his handsome king of the jungle head and said, 'You export 'im my way, Ciro, and I'll make weenies out of him quick.' He turned to the man on his other side and engaged him in pleasant conversation, shutting out the upstart from Arizona from further attention.

Lavangetta, darkly flushed, sipped at his wine and shot an angry glance about the table. The kings were feeling quiet today, he observed. Okay. Why not? Things were bad all over. Cops and feds busting everybody right and left, Congressional committees calling 'em in to testify against their own selves, talking to 'em like they were a bunch of cheap rodmen . . . and now this fancy bastard Bolan chewing up the territories and making everybody look stupid on top of everything else. Sure, why not quiet? This was to be a strategy council . . . but what strategy?

Ciro's unhappy train of thought was broken by a direct question from Augie Marinello, one of the New York bosses and a respected power in the council. The traditional toasts had been given, and the query from Marinello could only be regarded as an official end to the quiet period of personal greetings and exchanges which had followed. Marinello said, from across the table, 'Hey Ciro, what's this we hear about the trouble in Phoenix last night, eh?'

Lavangetta replied soberly, 'You know about as much as I do, Augie. Don't worry, I'm on top of it. I'll know pretty soon just what is what.'

Aggravante chimed in with, 'What is what is that all your Phoenix soldiers are dead, Ciro. If that's what you're on top of, I'd say somebody better start worrying.'

The flustered Arizona chieftain flashed back, 'Look, you let me . . . .' He sucked in his breath and left the balance of the statement unsaid, turning back to address Marinello in a calm tone. 'Like I was saying, Augie, I'm on top of it. This was Bolan, the crazy bastard, like everybody here knows already. I got a line on him, and we're chasing him down. Don't worry, this guy's luck is running out. He can't get away with this crap forever.'

Marinello held silent for another comment from Aggravante. The old Capo softly observed, 'You call it luck if you wanta play ostrich, Ciro. But this boy has knocked over already two families. Off hand, I'd say he's busy working on the third. You can't just wave it off as luck. That's this boy's secret weapon, this idea of everyone thinking he's just another punk and can be frowned into the grave. I say it again, Ciro — somebody better start worrying. And that somebody had better be from Arizona.'

Ciro was trying to think of a suitable reply, silently cursing himself for allowing the old man to lead him into that trap, making him brag and then get caught looking like a silly punk with no brains. He made a series of tight fists with both hands and said, 'I didn't mean Iwasn't worrying. I was saying for no one here to worry. Hell, I'm worried, sure. Hell, I got a hundred boys out after this guy.'

'Maybe that's not good enough,' Marinello stated gently. 'Not unless you've really got something working for you.'

'Yeah, I got something working,' Lavangetta replied quickly. 'Look, we made this boy hotting it out of Phoenix right after his hit last night, in one of these little private planes. We watched 'im all the way, we're thinking he is no doubt tracking Johnny Portocci down here and we got all the airports covered. Sure we got something working.'

Aggravante suggested, 'If you know the plane, there's ways of finding it.'

'Sure I know that, Georgie. We made the plane landing at Jacksonville. We made it landing at Miami. The guy had got off, at Jacksonville we figure, but I had boys all over that airport and-'

'You got 'im at Jacksonville then,' Aggravante purred.