Miami Massacre

meet?'

'Sure!' Balderone scoffed. 'You don't think a little bust like that is going to put down Sam the-'

'So the Commissions is in full session. So now you tell me, Vin — is there any reason why the rest of us have to come down here and lay out in a crummy fleabag motel? I don't like this slinking around bit, Vin, and Ciro knows that. Listen. You get back inside there and give him a call. Tell Ciro that Johnny Portocci is going back to Phoenix. I got too much to lose back there to-'

'Hell no, I'm not doing that, Johnny,' Balderone protested. 'Don't drag me in the middle of you and Ciro.'

Portocci seemed to be pondering the idea. 'You think he wouldn't like it, eh?'

'You know damn well he wouldn't like it. All the other bosses got their administrations here with 'em. That would be embarassing to Ciro, if you up and took a walk on 'im.'

'Is that the way it would look, Vin? Like I was taking a walk?'

'That's the way it would look to me, Johnny. Ciro too. I know him and so do you.'

'What would you do, Vin, if some wild man had just shot up your palazzo?'

Balderone frowned and shrugged his shoulders. 'Like Ciro, I'd figure that wild man was long gone from Phoenix by now, Johnny. You can't use that as an excuse to go back. The bosses are already taking steps about Bolan, don't worry. They figure he maybe will track you here.'

Portocci screwed his face into a thoughtful scowl and quietly watched the approach of Salvatore Di Carlo, who was then descending the steps to the vehicle area. The other members of the party stood about in a strained silence.

Balderone tried again. 'Go on out to the Sandbank, Johnny. Ciro will get in touch with you there. That's instructions, Johnny — and, hell, you know not from me.'

'What're you going to be doing, Vin?' Portocci asked in a quiet drawl.

'I'm . . . we . . . the bosses want a screen at every airport. I'm in charge of this one.'

'You mean you got soldiers crawling all over this place, that's what you mean, huh. I spotted some, so don't tell me different. You've got something on this Bolan and you're just waiting for him to show, huh.'

Balderone licked his lips and studied Portocci with reproachful eyes. 'Don't you go telling Ciro I told you that,' he said angrily. 'He don't want you in this, Johnny. He wants you at the Sandbank.'

'That's what I figured,' Portocci said, his voice sullen. 'He wants me covered up in a fleabag while somebody else does my work. I don't like that, Vin. You know I don't like that at all. It turns my guts over.'

Di Carlo rejoined them at that moment. He asked, 'What turns your guts over? This Bolan? Hey, he hasn't made any tracks around my territory.'

'Course not,' Portocci growled. 'He's coming here. Everybody seems to know that but you and me, Sal.'

'Now look, Johnny,' Balderone put in anxiously. 'We're using all local talent for this job. The bosses don't want no tie-back to a national convention here. Anyway, we don't know he'll show up. We're just getting ready, just in case. Why should you spend the whole night just standing around here, huh? Hell, you're too big a man for stake-out jobs. These local boys ain't got nothing better to do than-'

'I don't know how good your local talent is, Vin,' Portocci said musingly. 'I mean, a lot of people come through this airport, right? How're they going to spot this Bolan, huh?'

'Hell, we got those sketches, Johnny. We all know what he looks like.'

'Naw, you don't, Vin, you don't know what this boy looks like. Nobody knows what this boy looks like for sure, 'cept maybe a bunch of dead men. It's got to be a thing of instinct, Vin, spotting this Bolan. And I'm not so sure of local instincts.'

'Look, you let us worry about that. And you worry about Ciro Lavangetta, or you better. He says you go to the Sandbank. I think you better be at the Sandbank when he calls, eh. You know what I mean, Johnny?'

'Don't get flip with me, Miami Vino.'

Balderone colored furiously. 'This ain't Miami Vino talking, Johnny. This is Ciro talking, and the words say that Mr. Portocci checks in at the Sandbank in Miami Beach. Now of course I can go back in there to a telephone and tell Mr. Lavangetta that Mr. Portocci says to go to-'

Johnny the Musician interrupted the angry speech with a loud laugh. He opened the door of the lead vehicle and gently shoved Di Carlo in ahead of him. 'Okay okay,' he said agreeably. 'We'll go to the damn Sandbag, but I just wish to god I was still in Phoenix. I'll bet there's not a ready broad in this whole damn town.'

'That's where you're wrong, Johnny,' Balderone replied, smirking. 'I got broads all over the Beach, the cream of the country, too. And I already sent some out to the Sandbank. That's bank, not bag. Don't go calling it no Sandbag. I got a half-int in that place, Johnny, and I'm telling you it's nothing but first class. The broads too.'

'Forget the baggy broads!' Portocci snarled, his anger resurfacing. 'You bring me Bolan! Hear? I got full int in that boy, and Iwant 'im! Not dead, either, but alive enough to kick and scream a while! You know what I mean, Vin? No quick'n easy bullet for this boy!' He stepped into the car and slammed the door.

Balderone's face was flushed as he leaned down to peer through the open window. 'From what I hear,' he said in a calm voice, 'you better be glad to get 'im any way we can bring 'im in. I ain't guaranteeing no condition on delivery.'

The other members of the Arizona delegation were scrambling into a line of cars to the rear. As the small caravan eased out of the terminal area, Balderone stepped quickly into the shadows of the terminal and whistled softly. A man in an airline uniform moved out to join him. Balderone breathed a relieved sigh and said, 'Okay, we got Mr. Tough out of the way, now let's get set. You got your boy up in the tower?'

The uniformed man nodded and tapped finger on a small device at his ear. 'He's up and I'm tuned in,' he reported.

'Okay, that's great.' The thickset Mafia veteran withdrew a small transistorized two-way radio from his pocket. He grinned, extended the antenna, and said, 'To hell with that guy. We got instincts and more. We got a sure thing, ain't that right.'

His companion smiled back. 'Yes, sir, I'd say so. That Cessna business jet out of Phoenix looks like the real article. According to his flight plan, he'll arrive just before dawn.'

Balderone soberly nodded his head. 'Okay, you take your station now. I'll be up on the observation deck. You give us a quick make on every plane landing. Don't you try to decide which ones are important. You let me decide.''

'Sure, Mr. Balderone.'

'Tell your boy upstairs the same thing. I ain't paying no five thou for decisions, I'm paying for solid info and I don't wanna see nothing dropped.'

'Sure thing. Uh, I hope you have some men at the flying service, sir. That's where these private charter jobs tie up.'

'Listen I even got boys on the damn gas trucks, don't you worry about that. You just keep . . .' His words trailed off as he turned an expectant gaze toward the awkward approach of two men burdened with equipment cases and other paraphernalia — apparently photographic equipment. 'You got all the stuff?' he asked.

One of the new arrivals grinned and extended an oblong leather case. 'If you mean this, yeah. It will drop a charging rhino, and you can see the man on the moon's pimples through that scope.'

Balderone smiled and patted the case, then slung it over his shoulder. 'I'll carry the tripod, too,' he offered. 'You boys ain't never gonna make it to the roof with all this. Hey, don't forget my press card.'

The man in the airline uniform was exhibiting a troubled frown. 'You aren't, uh, planning on doing any shooting from up there, are you?'

'Naw, we're not planning,' Balderone replied. 'This's just our little handy dandy screen patcher, just in case a hole develops. Instant reweaving, see, right on the spot.' He chuckled and walked away, the other two men following closely. The Miami screen was about to be lowered firmly into place.