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 I want ’im! Not dead, either, but alive enough to kick and scream awhile! 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.
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 e
yes, 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 behicle. “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 awhile, 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 radio.
Several men in business suits immediately came out of the service hangar and quickly approached the Cessna. Balderone headed over to intercept the pilot just as five other men filed out of the flying service office and hurried toward the plane. The pilot glanced at Balderone, then halted and watched his approach with an expectant half-smile.
The Mafioso growled, “Where’s your passenger?”
“He got off at Jax,” the pilot replied, his smile fading. “Are you Mr. Portocci?”
The unexpected query threw Balderone momentarily off balance. He said, thickly, “He got off at Jacksonville? How come he—didn’t he charter you through to Miami?”
The pilot repeated, “Are you Mr. Portocci?”
“I represent him,” the confused Balderone snapped. A sudden thought crashed through his racing mind and he swung the tiny radio into position and barked, “Hey, h
e must’ve switched to that Eastern plane at Jacksonville. We missed the bastard somehow … fan around, fan around up there good and goddammit let’s at least get a smell!”
The pilot was staring at him curiously. He had opened the mapcase and was fishing out a small package, giftwrapped in colorful paper and topped with a satin bow. “My charter said someone would be on hand to meet me here,” he said. “Listen … if there’s something illegal going on here, I don’t know a thing about it. The man asked me to deliver the package—now if it’s …”
Balderone was glaring at the man with undisguised irritation. He took the package and said, “Now what the hell is this supposed to be?”
“The name is on the tag,” the pilot snapped, his own tone matching the other’s irritation. “It’s addressed, if you can read, to John J. Portocci, and that’s all I know about it.” He glanced over his shoulder, noting the men swarming over his small plane. “Look, I fly airplanes,” he added dismally. “For a salary plus expenses. I didn’t know this guy was—”
“No no, you got the wrong idea,” Balderone said hastily. “We just can’t figger out why he ain’t here hisself, but don’t you give it another thought, there ain’t nothing illegal.” He spun away, waved to the men around the plane, and marched back to his vehicle, tossing the small package from hand to hand as though it were too hot to handle.
“Instincts,” he muttered as he settled into the vehicle.
“What’s in the package?” the driver asked.
“Too small for a bomb,” Balderone replied, sighing. “But I got a feeling it’s just as bad. It’s addressed to Johnny. Imagine that?” A new thought crossed his mind, and his face reflected the new hope. “Hey, you think I should open it? Maybe we been wrong all the way, about this plane, I mean. Maybe this is some of Johnny’s business. Something he forgot, maybe, at Phoenix. You think maybe…?”
The driver shrugged his shoulders. “There’s only one way to find out real quick.”
“Yeah,” the big Mafioso growled. He eyed the little package for another deliberative moment, then sighed and carefully removed the ribbon, folded back the paper, and opened the top of the small oblong box. Inside and resting on a velvet pad was a U.S. Army marksman’s medal. Balderone’s face blanched, and he whispered, “Oh geez.”
Miami Massacre Page 3