Vegas Vendetta

by Don Pendleton

  Next had come actual death, for Castiglione himself, in England. Bolan, sure—who else?

  What had followed was Family history, and not very pleasant stuff either, with Arnie’s heirs jockeying for position in the new family line-up.

  Lavagni had never seriously regarded himself as a candidate for Arnie Farmer’s vacant throne. A wishful thought or two, sure, any guy would think about a thing like that. But Quick Tony had been not quite so quick to reach for those heady reins of power. For one thing, he was convalescing from that close scrape with death in France. Also, there were a couple others clearly above him in the line of succession, very capable others whom Lavagni did not really wish to cross. He preferred to play it cool, and almost surely he would be moved into an underboss spot regardless of who eventually succeeded to Arnie’s crown. Tony was content to leave the scrambling to Weeney Scarbo and Big Gus Riappi, the major contenders.

  But then, before the Commissione had time to pick the successor, another round of attrition started. Weeney had been in New York, politicking with the big city bosses, when Bolan made his hit up there… and Weeney had got hisself caught in that horror out at the Long Island joint… not killed, no, but enough of his brains were removed so he’d probably never be up and walking around again—hell, Weeney would probably never even feed himself again.

  That left only Big Gus, and Tony was next in rank below him.

  Lavagni had been in Miami, fully recovered now from that mess in France but content to lie about in the Florida sun for awhile longer, when the call came down from the top.

  “The Talifero brothers lost it at Vegas,” was the message, which could mean they were dead or anything. “We’ve got Bolan made, though. He’s calling himself Frankie Vinton, and right now he’s on a run to the Caribbean in one of our planes. We want you to get up a party and meet him at Glass Bay.”

  “Okay, sure, I’ll be glad to,” Lavagni had replied without hesitation.

  “We knew you would. Something else you should know, Tony. We haven’t made up our minds yet about the new head of the Atlantic Seaboard Company. You make a good show at Glass Bay and… well, what else do we have to say, Tony?”

  The thinly veiled promise had struck Lavagni momentarily dumb. When his voice returned he simply replied, “Yessir, I understand. How much time do I have to get there?”

  “We’re slowing him all we can without actually showing our hand. But you have, at the very most, six hours. You’ll have to move fast.”

  “What if I don’t beat him there?” Tony had wanted to know.

  “Then he’ll get met by Vince Triesta.”

  “Oh, well, I guess I sure better move fast,” he’d replied soberly.

  “We’re making all the arrangements for your transportation, Tony. Just get a party together and get in touch with Jake Schuman for the rest. You’re jetting to San Juan direct, helicopters on into Glass Bay. Jake will handle your financing and all of your materials requirements. You know. Recruit as many hunters as you can round up, keeping in mind the time problem. They’ll be paid in advance as they board the plane.”

  Freelancers. Quick Tony had again gotten stuck with a bunch of goddam freelance streetcorner rodmen. So okay, fuck it. He’d known that Charlie Dragone was in town, also probably two or three other experienced hands were around, enough to build a force on.

  “I’ll want an open ticket,” he’d told the commissioner. “I want authority to tap any boy around here that I like. And I want it clearly understood with Vince Triesta who’ll be running the show at Glass Bay.”

  “Don’t worry, Tony, we’re putting out the word. He’s all yours, baby.”

  Yeah. All Tony’s. As quick as that. And Quick Tony had left Miami less than two hours later, and with a pretty good force after all, considering the sudden notice plus the fact that he was a long way from home turf. And it was not until he had settled into the cushions of the chartered jetliner that the full implications of the thing crashed into his mind.

  God, he could come out of this contract wearing the crown of the Lower Atlantic Seaboard, boss of all that moved and breathed between Jersey and Jacksonville. Arnie Farmer’s crown was still floating around, awaiting a suitable head to descend upon. And Quick Tony Lavagni had suddenly decided that his very own head was both suitable and deserving. And why not? He had been a loyal and hard working family man for going onto a quarter of a century now. His only serious failure had been that business in France… and, hell, Bolan had disgraced better triggermen than Tony Lavagni.

  Maybe, he’d decided, this was the Commissione’s reasoning: give Tony another shot at the bastard, let him redeem himself. Yeh. And surely the guy who could come up with Bolan’s skull would be worthy of something extra special for his own head. Something like, say, the Lower Atlantic Seaboard. Yeh. And Quick Tony had begun to dream of empire.

  So what the hell, the thing had started going sour right at the start. No time for the setup at Glass Bay, and Bolan’s goddam grandstand play, the bastard. So what kind of a nut should believe that Bolan would be a pushover? The guy hadn’t won anything yet… the thing had only started, not ended… and Quick Tony was now satisfied that he had found the place where his quarry had come ashore.

  He was kneeling in the finely packed sand near the waterline and running a visual triangulation between the house, which was about a half a mile downshore, and the encroachment of jungle flora, less than twenty feet away. The shoreline jogged slightly at that point, creating a shallow indentation which would be invisible from the house.

  Sure, it all fit. “This is where, all right,” Lavagni announced to chief gunner Charlie Dragone. He lifted an arm and sighted across the bay. “Yeah, and it was a hell of a long swim, nearly a mile I’d say. He could’ve cut that in half, but he was looking for cover, not comfort. And looka here.…” The Mafia chieftain was running the palm of his hand along the sand. “Still wet right here. We can’t be more than a few minutes behind him. I bet that goddam guy swum underwater the whole way. Now… that can only mean.…”

  The voice trailed away and Lavagni stared speculatively across the small width of beach.

  Dragone rose nervously to his feet, standing in a half-crouch with both hands on his hips and gazed back toward the house. Smoke was still pouring out back there. Now and then a tongue of flame would lick clear of the smoke, a reminder that all was not over down there, either.

  “You figure maybe he’s circling back to the joint?” the crewchief mused.

  “Naw.” Lavagni stood up and spat into the water. Somewhere he’d heard that it was supposed to bring good luck. “After a swim like that he’s probably all worn out. Probably laying low, somewheres in that jungle there, just getting his breath. What’d Grimaldi have to say about his hardware?”

  “He only saw one gun. Said it was an automatic with a silencer.”

  Lavagni snorted. “That Beretta, probably. That’s his hotsy, but it ain’t going to be hot enough this time.”

  Dragone looked worried. He said, “Well the longer we wait.…”

  “Let ’im run awhile,” Lavagni said casually. “Who’s got the walky-talky?”

  “Latigo.”

  “Awright. You tell Latigo to get those plugs in place. Just the way we laid it out. And tell him not to screw around with this guy, he’s bad news all the way. Don’t give ’im an inch, not a damn inch.”

  “Okay.” Dragone took a step forward, then froze and whirled about as one of his gunners moved quickly onto the beach and hoarsely whispered, “Boss! We found something!”

  Both men hurried across the sand to inspect a soggy package of cigarettes and a paper matchbook bearing the imprint of a Las Vegas casino. The gunner was explaining, “We found it in the bushes back here, just off the beach.”

  “Where’s Tilly?” Dragone asked quickly.

  “He’s in there, looking for tracks.”

  Lavagni hissed, “Tracks hell! Get that guy outta there!” He took his crewchief by the arm and whispered, “G
et Latigo moving. Then get all your boys down here and lined up. No more’n ten foot intervals. Put the center of your line right here. But we don’t start the sweep until Latigo says the plugs are all in. You got that?”

  “I got it,” the crewchief acknowledged. As he moved away, he added, “Don’t worry, Tony. The guy doesn’t have a prayer.”

  Lavagni, however, was taking no bets yet. He fidgeted for a moment, then stepped off in pursuit of the gun soldier who had found the evidence of Bolan’s passage. He wondered, just for the hell of it, if Bolan had meant for that stuff to get found. For a guy who was usually so damn careful, it seemed like a dumb mistake. But, why would he plant the stuff?

  The Mafia veteran paused for a quick scan of the bay, then he shook his head and went on. The guy wouldn’t come ashore, plant a false trail, then shove right back off into the water again. Not after a mile swim, hell no.

  Lavagni found himself stepping into sudden darkness—compared to the fierce brightness out there on that beach. The thick overhead foliage of the tropical forest blocked the direct thrust of the sun, allowing the penetration of only a scattering of weak rays at infrequent intervals, and creating a sort of twilight effect.

  Small living things could be heard scampering about in the dense undergrowth. Here and there in the distance the disturbed squawking of a bird rose above the ceaseless din created by hordes of twittering, but invisible, insects.

  Lavagni shivered and moved on deeper, his eyes seeking an adjustment to the sudden change of lighting. Then he spotted the hired gunner.

  The guy was frozen in an oddly off-balance stance, and he was staring at a man who seemed to be leaning lazily against a tree trunk.

  The Caporegime fiercely whispered, “Come on, you boys get it outta here! We don’t want to—”

  Tony’s jungle vision was improving, and the look on the gunner’s face cut him short. He moved closer, then lunged suddenly toward the leaning man in an involuntary reaction to what he saw there.

  “What the hell…?” he grunted.

  “It’s Tilly,” the gunner croaked.

  Yes, Quick Tony could see clearly now, it was indeed Tilly. With eyes bugging and mouth thrown open in a silent cry. And he was not lounging against that tree. Hell no, he was tied to it, at the throat, a tough jungle vine almost buried in the soft flesh and wrapped tightly around the treetrunk and holding the dead gunner rooted to the spot where death had descended.

  The disturbed condition of the jungle floor at Tilly’s feet told the story in stark terms. In his mind’s eye, Lavagni saw the entire thing re-enacted: a swiftly moving jungle shadow, striking without being seen even, or heard—and Tilly being whirled about and garroted to that tree with his throat clamped shut before a breath of air or an outcry could pass. Yes, Tony could see it all.

  He could see something else, also. A wet suit of clothes was plastered to that tree, behind Tilly’s dead body.

  Lavagni reached past the corpse to finger the wet fabric.

  “Let that be a lesson,” he muttered, casting nervous glances into the trees surrounding them. “This guy is mean as hell. Now get outta here, and tell Charlie the guy is no doubt wearing his black suit now—or else he’s running around nekkid, and I can’t hardly see that.”

  The gunner had not moved a muscle, nor did he seem to have heard Lavagni’s instructions.

  “Well whatta you waiting for?” the boss hissed. “Get going, for Christ sakes!”

  “I don’t see Tilly’s hardware,” the other man replied dispiritedly.

  “What was he packing?”

  “A chopper.”

  Lavagni groaned and hurried his shaken freelancer out of there.

  Yeh. The bastard had planted the goddam matches, all right. And he was armed with more than a lousy handgun now, too.

  The thing was looking more sour by the minute. Yeh. And for Quick Tony Lavagni, the contract at Glass Bay was becoming more and more a crown of thorns.

  Nobody who’d never gone against Bolan could really appreciate that.

  Nobody.

  3: HOME AND THE DEAD

  A living shadow quietly watched as the two Mafiosi hurried from the presence of sudden death, and a mental mug-file review clicked to a decisive halt against the name of Quick Tony Lavagni.

  Bolan knew, now, the identity of his chief opponent at Glass Bay, and the revelation gave no cause for a celebration. The crafty old Washington triggerman had built an impressive box for the Executioner on the French Riviera, and it had been as much luck as anything that had seen Bolan out of that trap. Lavagni was nobody’s damn fool. He operated like a meat-grinder with radar control, quietly and efficiently bringing in all the corners of a battleground and wrapping them around a guy.

  At least, though, Bolan had a fair idea of what to expect now, and he could respond accordingly.

  Lavagni would be bringing his boats in to stand just offshore, appropriately spaced along the beach. He would send flankers around to cover the open ground at all sides of the small jungle area. Then he would mount a massive frontal movement, sieving in from the bay, and then… well, it would be the meat-grinder routine once again.

  In France there had been a friendly black face in the enemy camp and the soft hand of providence in the person of a dazzling French movie actress to spell the difference for Bolan. Even in Vietnam there had always been the hope of making it back into home territory, or of making contact with a friendly force.

  Where was home territory now? And where in all the world was a friendly force?

  Bolan knew better than to even ask the question. “Home” was wherever he could find space to breathe. “Friendly forces” were the ones whom he could make dead.

  So at least he knew where he stood. He was in the center of Lavagni’s meat-grinder, somewhere between home and the dead. The Thompson submachine gun which he had appropriated from his latest “friend” would make little difference in any pitched battle with the forces at Glass Bay. There could be but one final result. Someone would walk away with Bolan’s head in a sack.

  The Executioner’s combat-conditioned mind began quickly searching for a higher rationale to the situation. First, what was the enemy thinking?

  They were thinking, probably, that Bolan had sniffed the trap at the last minute, and was intent only upon escape. They had him outnumbered, with the odds at about 100 to 1, and with one of their best field marshals leading the chase. And the field of play was very limited. They could afford to play the meat-grinder game, continually closing the sides of the box until they had him completely contained.

  Secondly, what about Lavagni himself? Bolan knew enough about syndicate operations to be almost certain that Quick Tony was not the resident triggerman at Glass Bay. He had been hurried in from the states to arrange the reception and… yes, he would have brought his own force with him. Which meant a hasty recruiting job, probably among free-lance rodmen swept up from the street and jails of some American city.

  Uh huh, so here was that larger rationale. The mob was expecting Bolan to spend his blood in an isolated jungle of America’s back yard, against a ragtag army of mercenaries, while their prized little playground carousel continued merrily and unthreatened along its profitable course.

  That, Bolan decided, was not the name of his game. He had come south to harass the syndicate and end their Caribbean operation if he could. If he had wanted to simply confront them and quickly spend his blood, he could have done so at any point along that escape route from Vegas.

  The problem now, the immediate objective for Bolan, was to break out of that trap at Glass Bay. And to do so in such a way as to advance him toward the long range objective, the busting of the Caribbean Carousel—the kill.

  Okay. Lavagni would be moving in his screen any moment now. It was time for a bit of psychological warfare… something to jar the enemy, to slow them, to take away their iniative.

  Bolan slung the Thompson across his chest and affixed the silencer to his Beretta Belle.

 
Right.

  It was time to take the offensive.

  Field Marshal Lavagni had his troops in place, and he was impatiently awaiting word that the plug crews were on station. A crude, hand-drawn map of the bay area lay on the sand in front of him, and this he was studying intently.

  “How long d’you figure it’d take a guy on foot to cross this patch of jungle, Charlie?” he asked his chief gunner.

  Dragone shrugged his shoulders. “Depend on the guy, I guess. It’s probably slow going in there, though.”

  “Probably take me half a day,” Lavagni admitted. “A guy who knew his way around, though.…”

  “You figure he’s making for the back side?”

  “Yeh. That’s what I’d do.” The Mafia boss tapped the map with a thick finger. “I’d head straight for this sugar farm here. I’d buy or steal me some wheels, and I’d high-tail it for San Juan.”

  “That’s what he’s doing,” Dragone agreed. “He needs to make some connections. I’d say San Juan, yeah.” The crewchief scratched absently at his forehead. “One thing though, Tony. I doubt if this boy know where the hell he really is. I mean, without a map.…”

  “He come in by plane, remember,” Lavagni said, sighing. “Don’t worry, this boy always knows where he’s at. Did you tell Vince what I told you?”

  “Yeh. I told him you want a complete rundown on all the civilians living in the area. He’s sending a boy over, a native I guess, to talk to you. Soon as he can find him. Things are pretty tore up over there, Tony.”

  “They got things about under control?”

  “Yeh, pretty much. But it’s a mess. What the fire didn’t get, the water did.”

  “Tell Latigo to send a couple of boys to the farm, this sugar farm here.”