Miami Massacre

your dignity any, Ciro.'

'Dignity is a thing you get buried with,' Lavangetta replied. 'The Taliferos can dig at me anytime they want to, so long as they're not burying me. I just want them to bury that Bolan. I'd put up with anything to see that.'

'You better get your eyes rested, then, 'cause you're going to be seeing it pretty soon.'

Lavangetta laughed nervously, lit a cigar, and excused himself. He wanted some fresh air. He wanted to sit by some pure water and sip some fine wine and maybe even feel up some wild women. The day had been a nightmare. He hoped that the night would prove to be of a far better quality. In fact, it would not.

Within 30 minutes after the Taliferos had been 'activated' by the Commission, and long before the completion of the skull sessions with Lavangetta and Milano, a 'ring of steel' had gone into place to protect the 'Miami Convention' from further Bolan raids. Under Talifero direction, the dispersal rule for visiting Mafiosi had been reversed, and three 'centers' had been established wherein the Families would dwell, in strength, throughout the remainder of the summit conference.

The council meetings were to be held in a different center each day, with the location to be decided by the brothers in each instance and at the last moment. This decision created quite a problem in logistics. Two beachfront hotels, wholly owned by Mafia interests, were selected as the major strongholds. A phoney 'strike' by employees of those establishments would be engineered as a pretext to cancel reservations and to empty those accomodations already retained by the 'straight' public. Handpicked 'employees,' hastily recruited through underworld contacts, would be retained to serve the special guests who were already arriving.

The third 'center' was a large cruise boat, also Mafia-owned and crewed, the MV Merry Drew— infrequently used as a party yacht, more often as a gambling casino and floating pleasure palace, and occasionally as a contraband carrier to and from Latin American ports.

These arrangments were more aesthetically pleasing to the visiting Families than the earlier plan. A convention was a place for business, certainly, but it was also a time for renewing old friendships and relaxing with large numbers of one's own kind. Even with the Bolan menace in town, it was regarded as natural and right that a Family reunion be a thing of good-natured celebration and cheer. The general consensus among the visitors was that Mack Bolan was not going to spoil their holiday. The Talifero boys would take care of Bolan. Probably before the next dawn Bolan's head would be in a Talifero basket. It was even beginning to seem, in some minds, that a kindly fate had maneuvered The Bastard into this confrontation with the reality of La Cosa Nostra. Maybe even Bolan's head would serve as a new chalice to restore the confidence of the faltering brotherhood. There had been too many reverses lately, too many successful challenges to the omnipotence of the organization.

Yes, Bolan had been sent to them, C.O.D. The Taliferos would do the collecting, Bolan would do the paying, and La Cosa Nostra, this consecrated thing of theirs, would reap the profits of this most productive convention in their history. Or so the feeling went among certain of the rank and file.

One or two bosses, though, were not so certain of the 'profits' to be realized from this enclave. There was a territory to be deeded, a most lucrative property, and hungrily eyed by the feudal kings of the adjoining estates. What businessman would not gamble a small piece of his soul for an opportunity to double his fortunes overnight? Bolan's presence in Miami, and especially during this convention, seemed to represent an unknown value to the disposition of these lands, at least to one or two among the visiting royalty. Somehow, went this feeling, the Bolan presence could be used to powerful advantage, and for a more specific form of profit. But how? As the Talifero brothers stepped into high gear and the rest of the convention appeared to relax and take comfort, this question was uppermost in a line of thought which replaced 'this thing of ours' with 'this thing of mine.'

Even in La Cosa Nostra, it seems, there existed competitive kings.

Chapter Twelve The soldados

Bolan had bathed away an accumulation of Atlantic salt, sweat, and dust. The clothing remained a problem; he had elected to stick with the swim trunks. During the meal, quietly supplied by Margarita, Toro advised Bolan that his personal effects at the Tidewater Plaza had been 'sent for,' and were being delivered to the camp in Bolan's rented car.

Bolan thought about that for a moment, then replied, 'I guess you considered the possibility of a police stake-out.'

'Si. This is not for concern. There was no search of unoccupied rooms.' He smiled and produced a watersogged registration card from the hotel. 'As you see, there is no record of a Senor Blanski at the Plaza.'

Bolan grinned. 'You're pretty sharp, Toro. And I envy your intelligence network.'

'It is in our good interests to have the knowledge, senor,'

Bolan accepted that without further question. He finished the simple meal and declined a cigar from his host. Margarita eased into a chair next to Bolan and offered him an odd-looking cigarette from an unfamiliar package. He accepted it. The dark tobacco grains were rolled in leaf instead of paper. The girl watched his face as she lit the cigarette. He did not disappoint her, grimacing under the impact of the harsh smoke.

She laughed delightedly and said, 'Gringo no fum-' then cut it off and gazed guiltily into the disapproving eyes of Toro.

'Margarita does not speak the English well,' he told Bolan. 'I teach her but she does not apply the lessons. I tell her she must speak the English with El Matador.'

Bolan took a long drag on the cigarette and wafted the smoke over the girl's head. He smiled at her and told Toro, 'Anyone who looks that good, amigo, doesn't need to be worried about diction.'

Toro laughed and translated the compliment to Margarita. It embarassed her. She hastily left the chair and began busily clearing the table.

Bolan watched the girl and idly asked, 'How's your strike force, Toro?'

The Cuban sighed, puffed at his cigar, then replied, 'We grow daily.'

'I don't mean size, I'm thinking about effectiveness. How good are you?'

Toro shrugged. 'Good enough to every now and then step upon El Culebra de Cuba. We are-'

'I didn't get that,' Bolan protested, grinning.

'Sorry — the snake. Is it not the snake who beguiles the innocents and then perverts them? And so this Culebra de Cuba, yes — he is the betrayer of my country, my Cuba. And we walk upon him with each opportunity.'

'You launch your raids from this base? Against Cuba?'

Toro smiled. 'Did I say that?'

Bolan grinned back. 'No, I didn't hear you say that, Toro. How are your weapons? Modern?'

The stocky Cuban again shrugged his shoulders. 'The very best our modest funds can acquire, senor.'

'Money is your big problem, huh?'

'Si, is this not always the case? We work the jobs, any-'

'That reminds me,' Bolan interrupted. 'As a bellman you spoke almost perfect English. Ever since we left the hotel, you've gotten more and more Cuban. If it gets any worse, amigo, we're going to need an interpreter.'

'I am sorry, sir. Is this better?'

Bolan grinned. 'No, I guess I like you better the other way.'

Toro smiled and explained, 'To speak the English properly, one must think in English. Comprende? To think in Spanish is to speak the English with the accent. As a bellman, I do not mind this thinking in the English. But, amigo, Toro is Cuban — not English.'