Miami Massacre

It is doubtful, though, that any such contemplations occupied Bolan's mind on that pleasant Miami morning of November 5th. It is much more likely that his finely tuned and disciplined mind was occupied with such considerations as range, azimuth, wind-direction and velocity, trajectory-drop, and so forth. He lay prone on a balcony outside a tenth-floor beachside apartment, a high-powered rifle angling toward another patio several buildings removed and around a gentle curve of beachline, calmly studying a face which occupied the vision-field of his sniper scope.

He made a fine adjustment to the scope and intently watched the rangemarks climb into the crosshairs, then he sighed audibly and murmured, 'So there you are.' Bolan knew his target by reputation only. The name had been a household word at the DiGeorge palazzo in Palm Springs, a prime link in the chain of narcotics distribution from Mexico into the U.S. Bolan had no personal grudge with Johnny the Musician. Untold thousands of school kids, however, hooked on an insatiable appetite for expensive 'kicks,' had ample reason for begrudging the continued life and good health of the man in The Executioner's crosshairs.

He made a rough calculation on a note pad, then eased the long rifle into a slow scan of the target area. He did not want any innocent bystanders hovering in the sidelines, nor in the background. He scanned on, then returned quickly to a flag atop the diving platform for another check on the wind condition. Another quick calculation on the note pad and Bolan was ready. The rest was up to the fates.

Portocci was seated lazily on a chaise lounge at poolside, a frosted glass in one hand, the other hand idly toying with the thick hair of his chest, legs crossed at the ankles and the toes of one foot jerking to some inaudible rhythm. Directly across from him, perched tensely on an aluminum folding chair and paying nervous little attentions to an upswept hairdo, was a stunning young woman in a flowered bikini. Portocci was giving her no attention whatever, but was scowling at a large man who stood at the foot of the lounge.

'Now look, Johnny,' the large man was saying, 'I don't have to take no abuse from you, and what's more I ain't gonna. You don't like the way I handled the Bolan screen, then you get one of your own. But don't go telling me-'

'Ah, hell, forget it, Vinnie,' Portocci growled. He sighed and sipped at his drink. 'You ain't the first to flub on this boy.'

Balderone said, 'Well I can appreciate how you feel, I mean getting that little medal addressed to you and all that. But, hell, we still don't even know for sure the guy's here.'

'He's here,' Portocci assured his host. He nibbled on his knuckles for a moment, then asked, 'So what did Ciro have to say about it?'

Balderone studied the rhythmic snapping of Portocci's toes as though fascinated by the unvarying movements. 'I told you,' he said slowly. 'He wants you to stay put, right here at the Sandbank.'

'Relax and enjoy your vacation, he says. When he needs you, he'll let you know. Meanwhile, they're in session right now over what to do about this Bolan.'

Portocci followed Balderone's gaze to the snapping toes. He said, in a suddenly soft tone, 'Look, Vinnie . . . Ciro didn't see what this guy left behind him at Palm Springs. Isaw. Those old men sitting in session over there. . . they didn't see. You didn't see, and this stupid broad here didn't see. Johnny Portocci saw, Vinnie. And he isn't going to relax and enjoy any vacation with this guy's shooting medal hanging over his head. You go tell that to Ciro il Capo Lavangetta. You tell him that Johnny Portocci says Miami Beach stinks with the smell of Bolan, and it's about time this thing of ours put out the smell. . . eh? You tell him, Vinnie, that-'

'Hell, no, Johnny, I'm not telling Ciro nothing. You tell 'im for yourself.'

Portocci's nostrils flared and his hands quivered as he yelled, 'Then tell that stupid broad there to get rid of that stupid damn top! Tell 'er Johnny Portocci likes titties, and right now he couldn't even swear she's got any!'

The girl's head snapped up and her eyes glazed under an indefinable emotion — fear, or perhaps anger. Her hands dropped to her side and the glazed eyes sought the gaze of Vin Balderone. She knew, the eyes said, that Johnny was taking out his frustrations on her — and she was seeking help from the only possible source.

Weakly, Balderone said, 'F'Christ's sake, Johnny, this's a public pool. She can't go taking off her top here! God, don't go getting . . . hey, take her back to your room, f'Christ's sake. She'll show you her titties, f'God's sake, Johnny.'

'I'll do it myself!' Portocci snarled, his anger seemingly feeding on itself. He shifted his weight to one elbow and seemed ready to lunge toward the girl. He halted, however, in mid-lunge as something incomprehensible happened to his face. The snarl disappeared and became a distorted grimace around the suddenly enlarged mouth, the tip of the chiseled Roman nose caving in and becoming lost in the collapsing structure just below as bits of flesh and bone and teeth seemed to explode outward in a frothy red fountain. In that same electrifying instant, he was flung rigidly back to the cushions of the lounge with a bounce of rapidly relaxing muscles.

Balderone's stunned eyes swept the length of the still body and became riveted on the toes, as though he were wondering why their rhythmic motions had ceased. Only then did the distant cra-ack of a high-powered rifle pierce his consciousness.

The girl was screaming, crouched just off her chair and bent oddly off balance in a time-stopping inspection of the messy remains of Johnny the Musician Portocci.

Balderone took a confused step backwards, one hand clawing toward the hardware inside his jacket, instinctively reacting to the presence of sudden and violent death. In that micro-instant of understanding, a deeper instinct moved him and he began running for the cover of the building — sprinting with both hands pumping him on, the weapon forgotten. Perhaps, in that electric moment, he realized that no instinct could save him now.

And perhaps he remembered some of those many times in the past when Miami Vino had been on the opposite end of the gun, when others had been running just as he was now doing, with that last breath of life charging into the nostrils.

He leapt into the air suddenly as he reached the corner of the pool, twisting grotesquely in a sidewise and uncoordinated fling into the purified waters in which he proudly owned a 'solid half-int,' defiled now with his own geysering blood, and Miami Vino sank slowly to the bottom without hearing that second cra-ack of a distant sniper's special.

Chapter Five Case of prosecution

A deeply disturbed Captain of Detectives left his vehicle beneath the portico of the curving drive and entered the synthetic luxury of the motel lobby. He paused to get his bearings, then pushed on through the hushed atmosphere, beyond a line of potted palms, and through another doorway opening onto the pool-patio. Here uniformed officers stood in quiet consultations with guests and employees while men in civilian suits conversed among themselves and moved purposefully about the flag-stoned patio to point out specific features and to jot findings in small, identical notebooks. Two others stood beside a chaise lounge, bending to a close inspection of the still form of a man clad in bathing trunks. A few yards away a medical examiner knelt beside another corpse, this one fully clothed and obviously recently reclaimed from the waters of the pool.

A man at the chaise lounge looked up and noted the Captain's arrival then hurried over to greet him. 'Looks for sure like a sniper's work, Captain Hannon,' he announced. 'Doc says high velocity and big calibre steel jackets made this mess.'

The captain nodded curtly and proceeded on to the lounge. The other detective, Lt. Robert Wilson, kept him company. Hannon stared down at the corpse and said, 'So that was Johnny Portocci.'

Wilson nodded. 'Checked in late last night. What's your interest, Captain? Was he one of your VIPs?'

The Captain grunted and reached into his pocket for a cigarette, lit it, and let the smoke drift out slowly as he replied. 'No, but I've heard of him. Thought I'd better come down and check it out. Doesn't the name mean anything to you, Lieutenant?'

Wilson shook his head and stared at the mangled face. 'All I have is the make from the hotel register. John J. Portocci, Phoenix. That's all.'

'Big man in the rackets out there,' Harmon explained. He swung about and cast an oblique gaze toward