Miami Massacre

Chapter Three

The soft sweep

The gray November dawn at Miami International revealed a scene of relative inactivity. Several airliners were loading, sleepy-eyed passengers moving quietly and unhurriedly along the ramps and into the planes. A small Caribe Airlines arrival was unloading in the customs area. An Eastern Airlines flight had just completed its landing roll and was turning onto a taxiway. At the far end of the airport, the low-slung building and hangars of the private flying service were just as quiet, with very little sign of activity.

Inside the terminal, 50 to 60 between-flight travelers slumped tiredly in lounge chairs or wandered restlessly about the quietened building; a lively breakfast trade in the restaurant provided the only signs of bustling activity, and even here the sounds were subdued and in keeping with the solemnity of sunrise.

On a parapet above the observation deck, outside the main terminal, two men continued a quiet vigil — surrounded by an impressive array of photographic equipment. Below them, leaning against the deck railing, a large man in a baby blue suit was peering onto the field through powerful binoculars. He lowered the glasses, allowing them to swing from a strap about his neck, and spoke into a small radio. 'How 'bout this big jet just landed?'

The reply came instantly. 'Eastern flight from New York. Made stops at Washington and Jacksonville. I just gave that to you.'

'Just checking.' The big man sighed and rubbed at his eyes, then again lifted the binoculars to follow the progress of the jetliner along the taxiway. A man in a porter's uniform stepped through the doorway and approached the man at the railing.

'Like some more coffee, sir?' the porter asked.

'Naw, we're floating now,' Balderone replied.

'Well . . . I'm going off duty now. I'll tell my relief to take good care of you. Hope you get some good pictures.'

Balderone dropped the binoculars to dig in his pockets. He found a bill and thrust it at the porter. 'Tell 'im to just sort of keep spectators out of our way, eh.'

The porter smiled and murmured his thanks and went back inside. Balderone was returning to the binoculars when his radio again crackled. 'That charter job out of Phoenix finally reported into the Miami control area. Don't understand the delay but he'll land in about . . . say . . . ten minutes . . . and go into the flying service terminal.'

'Okay. You hear that, Morry?'

'Yeah, I heard,' came a bored voice from another distant location.

'Okay, I'm gonna run down and check these people offa the Eastern flight. Then I'm coming over with you. One of these has got to be it, so let's everyone get fully woke up.'

A man on the parapet leaned forward to give Balderone a high sign. The big Mafioso waved back as he disappeared through the doorway. He went directly to the Eastern terminal area, carefully noting the positions of his screen men along the way, arriving just as the passengers were making their entrance. Instincts, Portocci had said. Ha! Vin Balderone would match his instincts against a pup like Johnny Portocci any day of the week. Johnny had come into the business when things were humming along and easy. Any old soldier, like Vin Balderone for example, who'd made it through those uncertain early days of the Maranzano era knew a thing or two about instincts.

He positioned himself in the narrow passageway so that each deplaning passenger would have to pass his close scrutiny. Then he scowled at one of his screen men farther back and unholstered an impressive looking press camera. The flashgun of the big camera would be the tip-off. Any passenger Vin 'flashed' would be further scrutinized and shaken-down in some remote reach of the terminal by screen men with forged customs office credentials. No fireworks right out here on the floor, hell no, and no obvious strong-arming either. The damn Miami terminal had already been a source of considerable embarassment to the family; the damn FBI had killed a perfect betting setup right there in that terminal. There was no telling even now how many secret spy-drops they had about the place.

The first group to pass was a party of young women, excitedly giggling and chattering over a projected holiday in Nassau. Balderone passed them on with hardly a flicker of interest. Next came two elderly couples, moving sprightly and with almost as much enthusiasm as the young women. The procession continued, with Balderone 'passing' young couples with babies, family groups, and assorted loners. About halfway through, a quiet group of weirdly-dressed youths appeared, about a dozen equally divided by sex. Most of the males sported shoulder-length hair and facial bush. The girls wore their hair in free-flowing cascades down their backs. Arm bands and ankle bracelets showed here and there. Some were barefoot, others wore high Indian boots or moccasins with buckskin leggings. Balderone experienced a surge of irritation mixed with apprehension. He quickly raised his camera and stepped into their path.

A bearded male moved quickly forward and placed a hand over the camera lens. 'Peace, man,' he said in a soft voice. 'Where does it say groovy group poses for pix at plane palace?'

The traffic had halted and there was some impatient pushing from the rear. Balderone covered his irritation with a forced smile as he looked the youth over. 'If you're not ashamed to look that way,' he replied amiably, 'you shouldn't mind someone taking a picture. You could wind up on the cover of Newsweek, eh?'

Another of the group stepped forward, a tall man in buckskins with a thin leather thong tightly crossing his forehead, from which dangled a tiny peace symbol. A black bandanna was knotted about his head, Arab style, and covered his shoulders. A small guitar hung upside-down on his chest. The face was smooth-shaven but tiny blue tattoo marks dotted the chin and each side of the nose. 'Let him shoot,' he suggested to the bearded one. 'Just get the name of the group right, that's all. It's Love's Family. Ed Sullivan introduced us as Lovers'—'

Balderone cut off the quiet statement with an impatient grunt. Other passengers had begun to push past and Balderone was greatly agitated over this. 'Yeah, yeah, wait for me out front, I'll shoot you,' he snapped, swinging quickly against the wall. 'We're blocking the passageway, go on, go on.'

The men shrugged and exchanged smiles and went on, the others following unhurriedly and eyeing Balderone with unconcealed interest. He was inwardly cursing himself for allowing his attention to be diverted by 'a hippie band' and anxiously screening the faces that were now hurrying by in the wake of the traffic jam. Moments later the final straggler had passed his scrutiny. He sent a signal to his nearest screen man which would put a search party aboard the plane, then he dashed outside to a waiting service vehicle. 'Let's go!' he commanded the driver. They dodged around a small train of baggage carts and sped along the service ramp, hitting the access road to the flying service terminal just as a sleek little red and white Cessna jet touched wheels to the runway far across the field.

'That's it,' advised a voice from Balderone's radio. 'The charter job. It'll take him about five minutes to get crossed over and down to the hangar area.'

'He's gotta be on there!' Balderone snapped back. 'Stay covered till I give the signal. And no gunplay unless you just gotta. Let's keep this as quiet as possible.'

The red and white Cessna seemed to be taking its time in approaching the service apron. It had paused twice on the taxiway and now stood with engines idling about 50 yards downrange from the private terminal. A man in white coveralls had emerged from the service hangar and stood by the fuel pumps, hands on hips, gazing curiously toward the plane. As he began walking slowly toward it, the Cessna lurched forward and taxied clear of the runway and onto the service apron.

Vin Balderone, seated in the service vehicle in the shadows of the terminal, quickly thumbed his transmitter and said, 'Hey Tommy, are you sure nobody jumped out during those stops?'

The voice from the man atop the main terminal came back reassuringly. 'Nobody got out, Vin. He just stopped and sat there a while, both places.'

Balderone growled something unintelligible and craned forward to study the aircraft. The man in coveralls was marking a spot for the plane to stop. It rolled to a halt and the engines immediately went dead. Balderone again thumbed the transmitter button. 'Get set but keep outta sight.'

A man with thinning blond hair swung down from the cabin of the Cessna, a mapcase under his arm, and said something to the service attendant. The attendant nodded his head and the pilot walked toward the terminal. Balderone said, 'What th' hell . . .' and hastily emerged from his vehicle. 'Check out that plane!' he snarled into the