“Okay,” Wilson replied quietly. “So it’s a job for the Dade Force. I want to stay on it, though. Can you swing it?”
Hannon grinned. “I already did. You’re my Homicide Liaison. So let’s get to work. Haven’t you come up with any leads as to where those shots were fired from?”
The young lieutenant pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest. He crooked a finger at the captain and returned to the chaise lounge. “Let’s run through it once,” he said thoughtfully. “Our only eyewitness is a hysterical girl. She was apparently right here at the scene, in that folding chair there. Portocci was on the lounge. Balderone standing here somewhere, talking to Portocci. The girl says that Portocci was stretched out just about the way he is now, but sort of twisted to the side and staring at the girl. She said he reached toward her at the moment he was hit. Then he fell back to the lounge, present position. Doc says he got it right through the upper lip. The bullet tore through directly beneath the nose, took out the roof of the mouth, the palate, on through the throat and emerged at the base of the neck, severing the spinal cord. That’s a superficial and might be changed some by a full pathology. Now, figuring that angle of entry and the fact that Portocci was lying back and turned toward the girl, we figure it came from up the beach … lord knows how far up … and from a considerable height. I have a small army up the beach now, canvassing for witnesses to the gunfire—but god, do you know how many buildings they have to cover?”
“How do these conclusions check with the hit on Balderone? Can’t you come up with a triangulation?”
“There’s the rub,” Wilson replied, smiling ruefully. “The girl didn’t even know that Balderone was shot until his body was found in the pool. She doesn’t remember what his actions were when Portocci was hit. So we don’t know where he was when he caught his, not precisely. We can guess that he was running for cover, toward the building there. If so, he lost the race by about two steps. We found blood at the corner of the pool, on the flagstones, so we assume that he went into the water at that point.”
Hannon was strolling toward the bloodstains at the pool’s edge. He stood just off of them and looked back toward the lounge, then swivelled about to peer up the beach. “Yes, that sounds solid,” he said, sighing. “And I can see your problem.”
“A man is on his way over with a theodolite. In the meantime, I’ve arbitrarily ruled out the first three buildings. That still leaves about four within firing range—or, wait a minute! If Bolan is our man, I’d better scale that up some. Let’s say there are six possibles. I’ll get some men over to those other two buildings.” He spun on his heel and trotted quickly across the patio.
“Any way you look at it,” the captain said to no one at all, gazing down at the bloodstained flagstones, “we’ve got a large-sized problem on our hands.”
Lt. Wilson hurried through the lobby and into the front parking area where a number of police cruisers were congregated. Several uniformed patrolmen moved forward to meet him. They conversed rapidly in low tones, then the patrolmen went to their vehicles and made a quiet departure.
Wilson lit a cigarette, flipped the spent match into air, murmured beneath his exhalation, “The Executioner, well, well …” and went back inside.
Across the street, leaning against a palm tree and conversing easily with another interested onlooker, a tall man in a denim casual suit and dark sunglasses watched the detective reenter the hotel. “Well,” he remarked, “I guess it’s all over. The cops seem to be leaving.”
The other man laughed nervously and replied, “I wish they’d let us in. I don’t know … call it morbid, there’s something about a shooting … I mean, wouldn’t you like to get in there and see it?”
“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. Ciro 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 I wasn’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.
“No, hell, I didn’t say that, Georgie. I said the boy got off at Jacksonville, and we weren’t covered up there. But the plane came on down here, see and—”
“So what you got working, Ciro? An empty plane?”
Thoroughly confused now, Lavangetta fumed, “I’m trying to tell you, this Bolan is no punk. I mean, I know that. You wanta see something classy?” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a small oblong box and placed it on the table. “This thing came all gift wrapped and addressed to Johnny, ribbons and all. The pilot of this plane had it, so we know the boy was on that plane.”
“That’s brilliant,” Aggravante said. “What’s in th’ box?”
Marinello was already reaching for the box. He removed the cover, stared inside for a long moment, then withdrew the contents and held it up for all to see. “It’s this boy’s calling card,” he announced. “A marksman’s medal.”
“Yeah, that’s classy, all right,” Aggravante softly commented.
Another New York boss said, “You could almost admire this boy, you know?”
“But not from the grave,” Marinello added. “Okay, Ciro. This seems to be your apple and I guess you got a right to eat it. Just don’t get no stomach ache from it. But if this Bolan has served notice that he’s making our convention, I guess we might all have to take a bite. You better tell us what you got going.”
“I got everything covered,” Lavangetta quickly replied. “Airports, bus and train stations, everything. And I got a thousand pictures of this Bolan in circulation around town. I got all the drops, all the kicks, all the—”
“Pictures, where’d you get pictures?” Aggravante growled.
“Sketches,” Lavangetta amended. “We got one of those artists like the cops use. You know, these composite pictures.” He saw a chance to make a point, and quickly seized it. “Remember, my boys were the first into Palm Springs after this guy left his mess there. Somebody had to pick up the pieces. We picked up also a trail, that’s why so much action in Arizona here lately. We been right on this boy’s tail all the way.”
“Yeah, you got some piece o’ tail all right,” Aggravante observed sourly. “Looks like it swung you all the way to Miami.”
Speaking between tight lips, Lavangetta said, “Look, I come to council, just like you. Now I don’t wanta be disrespectful, Mr. Aggravante, but you got your ass showing a mile. You better tuck it back in, ’cause I’m not in any mood for—”
Marinello hurried into the heated exchange with, “Ay ay, fratelli, fratelli.” He thoughtfully rubbed his chin and said, “Ciro’s right, Georgie. You been diggin’ him pretty good, and he’s got enough on his mind without that. What happened in Arizona could have happened to any of us at a time like this. Now we came here to discuss our problems. This Bolan boy is one of ’em. I think we better start establishing priorities and I think may-be we should start right here, with Bolan.”
“The big mistake,” Aggravante said pleasantly, as though no rebuke had been uttered, “is that we been sitting around waiting for someone else to fix the problem for us. Bolan, I mean. We hope the cops will get him. We hope some freelancer will cash in on that open contract. We hope, we hope, and we don’t do anything.”
“Speak for yourself,” Lavangetta muttered. “I gotta bury about a dozen boys when I get back home.”
“I’m speaking for all of us,” the old man replied. “You’re talking about priorities, Augie.” He reached over and picked up the marksman’s medal. “There’s number one. Anyone thinks otherwise is sciocco—a fool. This Bolan is a fox that chases hounds, no?”
“Look, you’re crying about nothing!” Lavangetta declared emotionally. “I’m telling you I’m on top of it! You watch what happens to this fox when he gets to Miami, eh? You watch!”
A man at the other side of the table spoke into the sudden silence. “Don’t nobody forget where this Bolan
got started,” he said. “Anybody thinks Sergio was an old lady had better step outside and fight me right now. This Bolan is a one-man army, never mind about foxes and hounds. And if he’s in Miami, I’m telling you right now we better move our convention somewheres else.”
The speaker was Frank Milano, successor to the late Sergio Frenchi, the first Mafia boss to bite The Executioner’s dust. Noting, with some surprise, that he still held the floor, Milano added, “That is, if we expect to get any business done. I mean.…”
“We know what you mean, Frank,” Marinello said quietly. “And you’re right. Sergio was a man among men, nobody won’t ever say otherwise.”
Aggravante was staring at his hands. He said, “Tell Father Sergio, Frankie, that Ciro Lavangetta guards his grave.”
“Look, I wasn’t meaning to cut anybody down,” Lavangetta said, his tone clearly apologetic. “I just want everybody here to know that I’m on top of this Bolan thing. If he gets within 50 miles of this room, he’s a dead man. I just want you all to know that. And we can get on with our business. We got important things to discuss. Right, Augie?”
Marinello started to say something in reply but checked himself as the door cracked open and a roving eye caught his attention. He flashed a glance at Lavangetta and said, “I think one of your boys wants you, Ciro.”
Lavangetta quickly left his chair and went to the door for a whispered consultation. When he returned to the table his face was ashen and his hands shook as he lit a cigar. The other members were staring at him curiously, none speaking. When he’d gotten the cigar going, Marinello quietly asked, “Bad news, Ciro?”
Miami Massacre Page 5
