From a distance of less than a hundred yards, the watchers were being watched. A tall man in a shiny rental car was focusing his binoculars with considerable interest upon the men who were pacing about the service apron outside the flying service, studying the faces, memorizing them, with particular attention going to the heavyset man who had accepted the package from the pilot. He grinned at the look of consternation that swept the thick man’s face as the tiny box was opened, then he laid the binoculars in the seat and awaited the next move. A small crease across his forehead was the only evidence remaining of the leather thong which had adorned that head only minutes earlier; a small blue “tattoo” mark showed faintly on the chin where a hasty cleansing had not quite removed all traces of the color pencil.
He tensed in the seat of the rented car and quickly started the engine as the service vehicle suddenly wheeled about and lurched to another stop in the parking area beside the flying service. He watched as the thick man transferred to a dark Lincoln, waving his arms in some signal to the other men congregated there. Then a small cavern, led by the Lincoln, pulled onto the service road and sped off toward the perimeter highway.
Inside the private terminal, a charter pilot was ruefully relating his “weird experience” to the flying service manager. “…and chartered me to Miami, see. Then ten minutes out of New Orleans, he decides he wants to go to Jax until he makes this phone call, and then he gives me this precise schedule to Miami, see. I got to come in at a such and such time … well, hell, I guess it’s okay, I picked up an extra hundred for my trouble, plus the deadleg fee … but did you see that guy who picked up the package? Brrr, there’s a Murder Incorporated type if I ever heard of one. I’m wondering what the hell I got myself into, see, and I’m wondering if a hundred bucks is worth it, but I …”
On a parapet overlooking the fast-awakening international airport, a pair of disgruntled “photographers” were hastily packing up their gear and preparing to depart. Down below, anxious-eyed men in hand-tailored suits were spreading energetically throughout the facility, inspecting rest rooms and lounges and waiting rooms in a final, almost frantic search for an illusive quarry.
In an airporter bus just then clearing the terminal area, the members of an obscure rock music group, bound for a music festival in a Miami suburb, were discussing their “adventure” in solemn and dignified elation.
A round-eyed girl, still a bit breathless with suppressed tension, said, “We should’ve, you know, found out who he was and why he was hiding. I mean, wow, he could be anybody. I mean it was groovy, sure, but wow! He could be anybody.”
“Sometime you just have to go on instincts,” their bearded leader observed. “Like with chicks, you know. You just have to like the look in their eyes and like take it from there. I mean I just looked in those eyes, dig?—and I said, ‘sure, man—I’ll let you carry my guitar.’ And the cat fit, didn’t he? I mean, he was a real cool Aquarian, wasn’t he?”
The real cool Aquarian was, at that moment, pacing along at a discreet distance, following a Mafia motorcade to Miami Beach. For The Executioner, it had been a highly successful soft sweep.
Chapter Four
SANDBAGGED
Mack Bolan did not regard himself as a superman. He knew who and what he was. But he had learned, in the school of life-and-death, that knowledge coupled with action and wedded to total commitment would elevate any ordinary man into the ranks of the extraordinary. Superman, no; extraordinary weapon of war, yes—this was Mack Bolan. Sgt. Bolan was a craftsman. His craft was warfare; a particular type of warfare in which a man became either extraordinary or dead. The sergeant remained alive. He had learned his lessons well in the do-or-die theaters of Southeast Asia—and he had brought his diploma home to ply his craft in the untidy junglelands of America.
He did not think of himself as a crusader, nor even a patriot. He felt no grand exaltation in his self-appointed role as nemesis of the American underworld, and he did not have time or inclination to wonder if his sacrifice would have any meaning in the ultimate outcome of this highly personal war of his.
In speaking of Bolan and his pre-Mafia days, friends invariably described him as a friendly, thoughtful, and kindly man. Aside from his programmed forays against the enemy in Southeast Asia, there exists no evidence whatever to indicate that he possessed a violent nature; even in Vietnam the record reveals again and again that he was respectful of the Vietnamese people, responsive to the suffering of the children of that war-torn land, that he inspired lasting friendships and fierce loyalty from his comrades.
Bolan would not alibi his Vietnam “specialty” to anyone, newsmen and war historians included. He would, and did, tell them simply that he had not chosen this war; it had chosen him. He had not requested permission to kill the enemy; he had been trained to do so. He did not war against men but for ideals.
And now he did not alibi his American specialty to himself. The conditions were the same. A different place, a new enemy, but the same rotten situation and the very same call to duty.
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 sniperscope.
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 do do about this Bolan.”
Portocci followed Balderone’s gaze to the snapping tees. He said, in a suddenly soft tone, “Look, Vinnie … Ciro didn’t see what this guy left behind him at Palm Springs. I saw. 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 side-wise 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,” Hannon explained. He swung about and cast an oblique gaze toward the pool. “Who’s the other victim?”
“One of the owners of the hotel.” Wilson followed the captain to the other body, adding, “His name was Vincent Anthony Balderone, age 56, single, kept an apartment here. That’s about the only info we have at this point.”
The captain stood behind the medical examiner, gazing down at the lifeless form. “I can add something to your make,” he said musingly. “So can you, if you’ll think about it a moment. Does the sound of Miami Vino ring any bells for you?”
The younger detective had moved to the other side of the body. He caught his breath and murmured, “Sure, sure, that’s the guy the Crime Commission was investigating last … wasn’t it just last year?”
“Yeah. And the year before that, and the year before that, and just keep going back. We have a file on this guy a foot thick. He’s had his finger in every illegal operation in the state for the past few years … a la Cosa Nostra, Lieutenant. Big man in the Mafia’s Florida territory. Before that, he’d beaten eleven murder raps in three states, all of them gangland rub-outs in which he was either directly or indirectly involved. Nol-pros in each case, lack of evidence. Yeah, we’ve got a file.”
“You can close it now for sure,” the medical examiner commented, rising with a sigh from his examination. “An inch of his jugular vein is missing, along with assorted other bits and pieces. Dead before he hit the water, I’d say.”
“Guess he ran out of nol-pros’s” Wilson said soberly.
“You bet he did,” the captain replied. He nodded to the M.E. and led the Lieutenant a short distance away to speak to him privately. “The Dade Force is taking over this case, Bob,” he said in a quiet voice. “There’s much more involved here than simple homicide.”
Wilson started to say something then checked himself and grunted a, “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Looks as though we have The Executioner in our town.”
“Aw, hell. You serious?”
Hannon said, “Entirely. Portocci’s Phoenix headquarters was shot up last night, bunch of his gang killed.”
The Lieutenant whistled softly. “Then he’s moving pretty fast. Is there anything to definitely place him here?”
The captain shook his head. “No hard items, if that’s what you mean. But this is the jet age, you know. A pilot flew a private charter down here from Phoenix last night. Left shortly after the hit on Portocci’s place. His passenger got off in Jacksonville, but instructed the pilot to continue on to Miami and to deliver a package to a man who would meet him at the airport. He was met by not one man but about twenty. The pilot got suspicious and reported the incident befo
re he departed on his return trip. I came upon the report by the merest chance. The package, Bob, was addressed to our friend Portocci there … and the description of the man who claimed it matches our late buddy Balderone.”
The Lieutenant’s brow was furrowed with thought. “But I don’t see … I mean … how does that connect with Mack Bolan? If Balderone was there to pick up a package, and …”
“Bolan outsmarted them, way I read it. They got word of the hit in Phoenix, learned of the chartered flight following closely on Portocci’s heels, and were waiting here for Bolan to show his face at the airport. But he foxed them. He got off at Jacksonville instead, hopped another plane down, maybe even got here ahead of the other flight and tailed Balderone from the airport. Then blaam. Here lie two Cosa Nostra bigwigs dead at our feet. It’s just too perfect for coincidence … it’s Bolan’s way.”
“The package, then, was just a diversion … or a grandstand play.”
“More than likely,” Hannon replied, “a clever ploy. He had it timed to get here ahead of the chartered plane. He was expecting a welcoming committee, so he sent them something to welcome, then lay back somewhere out of play where he could make an identification. The rest was a simple tail job.”
“Sounds pretty thin to me,” Wilson argued.
“It’s thick enough to activate the Dade Force,” the captain said heavily. “I’m here to tell you, in fact, that we’re taking over. You can make your routine reports to Homicide, Lieutenant, but you see that I get it first. Understood?”
Wilson frowned and said, “Yessir, that’s understood.”
“All right, so wipe the frown away. The metropolitan police have one large-sized problem on their hands, Lieutenant, and it involves a helluva lot more than solving a couple of murders. How many more would you say are on The Executioner’s list? Who and where are they? Our winter season is just gearing up. Thousands of people arriving daily in this city. Hotels filling up, the beach teeming, a music festival just about to get underway, the Caribbean traffic in high hypo … you know the scene. Now, who among those many thousands are marked for execution? How do we isolate them, and how do we find a phantom executioner before open warfare breaks upon our tourist season?”
Miami Massacre Page 4