Miami Massacre (6 page)

Aggravante said, "You don't hear any objections and neither do I." He got to his feet and went to the door, swung it open, and leaned into the open doorway to speak to the guard stationed there. "Tell the Talifero brothers that they're wanted in here."

Ciro Lavangetta wet his lips and nervously rolled the cigar between them. He'd tried, he was telling himself. And he'd done no worse than any other boss had done since that blacksuited bastard had started hitting them. So now it was to be Pat and Mike. Lavangetta shivered inwardly. He was glad they were to be sicced onto Bolan instead of onto Ciro Lavangetta. The
Commissione's
own lord high enforcers, activated only by unanimous consent of the high council, with their own elite Gestapo — this was the Talifero brothers — remorseless human missiles with a one-way switch and with the power of life and death over even a
Capo.
Yes, classy Bolan with the fancy medals, just wait you smart bastard until Pat and Mike get your scent. You're going to die, Bolan the Bastard, you're going to
die screaming!
In the council of kings, it was preordained.

He was in a modest residential area of Miami Beach. The neighborhood was clean and the neat rows of stucco homes in glaring white contrast to the green lawns and tropical shrubs. He noted the house number where the police car was stopped and went on by and took his time circling the block. When he came around the second time, the squad car was gone. Again he passed the house and pulled in to the curb several doors beyond, angled his rearview mirror for a casual surveillance, lit a cigarette, and settled in for a patient wait. Five minutes passed. Two little boys came around the side of the house just opposite his position, looked him over in that frank display of youthful curiosity, and one of them waved to him. He grinned and waved back. The tots looked at each other and giggled, then ran back out of sight.

Bolan lit another cigarette and returned his attention to the mirror. When he'd finished the smoke, he carefully crushed it in the ashtray, got out of the car, and walked briskly to the stucco bungalow which had been occupying his attention. A hooked screen door offered the only discouragement to an uninvited caller. He ran the blade of his penknife through the flimsy wire screen, opened the door, and went in.

He found the girl lying across the bed in bra and panties, face down, the rise of ample rump presiding majestically over other interesting topographical features. She raised her head in a mute inspection of the intruder. Her makeup was smudged from persistent tears, but this offered no contradiction of Bolan's earlier assessment of her beauty. The enormous dark eyes were wide with undisguised fear, but she met his level gaze and said, "Wh-who are you? What do you want?"

Bolan removed his sunglasses and dropped them into his pocket. "We nearly met this morning," he told her, "but at a distance of about 500 meters."

"Wh-what?"

"You didn't see me," he assured her. "But I saw you. In the crosshairs of my scope. And I could have punched a hole through that lovely head just as nasty as the other two." He smiled. "But I didn't, you see."

She lay very still, staring at him with growing apprehension. She whispered, "I don't even know why you killed them, or anything about you. You have no reason to kill me."

"Maybe you're right. What do you know about Portocci?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. I never saw him before this morning."

"What's your name?"

"J-Jean. Kirkpatrick. I'm a model."

"What were you modeling this morning?"

"I . . . I . . ." Her eyes dropped in embarrassment and confusion.

"What?"

"Sometimes . . . when I don't have any modeling assignments . . . Mr. Balderone hires me to . . . as a companion for . . . his friends."

"Who is Balderone?"

"You k-killed him, and you don't even know him?"

"How would I go about getting a date with you, Jean?"

"Huh? You mean . . .?"

"Yes, that's what I mean. If I'd never met you, and knew nothing about you, how would I go about getting an introduction?"

"You, uh, you don't understand."

"I'll listen while you give me an understanding."

She had decided that Bolan was not going to murder her. She said, "Can I get up?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. Let's get this understanding first."

"I'm not a prostitute, if that's what you're thinking. I mean, there's a difference, a very important difference."

"All right, there's a difference. Tell me about it."

"I work for Mr. Balderone. He pays me himself. Between me and his friends it was just like fun, like a party . . . you know. I mean, no money passed. No business arrangements. You know what I mean?"

"Were all of Mr. Balderone's friends Italians?"

Her eyes blinked rapidly. "Not all the time."

"Look, kid, let's get something straight. How you make your living is your business. I'm not interested in that. I just want some live information, and I want it straight and quick. Are you reading me?"

The girl had begun to cry. Bolan was feeling miserable for her, but his face kept the secret. "You're mixed up with the Mafia," he told her.

"The what?"

"Portocci was the junior boss of a western family. Now I want to know . . . who was Balderone? What was his connection to Portocci?"

The girl shook her head. The tears were rapidly drying up. Bolan snared a box of Kleenex from a dressing table and tossed it on the bed. She rose to hands and knees, rocked back in a kneeling position, grabbed a tissue, and dabbed at her eyes and nose. Bolan understood the maneuver. She was giving him a good look at the object of his abuse.

He let her know that he was looking and not buying. He pressed on. "You ever hear the name Ciro Lavangetta?"

"Yes. He's a . . . he was in business with Mr. Balderone."

"That's a good answer," Bolan murmured. "Okay. How many other girls are on Balderone's payroll?"

"Quite a few. Sometimes there are —
were
big parties."

"Always at the same place? That same hotel?"

She sighed and shook her head. "No. Different places. Sometimes on a boat, a yacht, the
Merry Drew.
"

"How are the bookings right now?"

"Uh . . ." Her eyes dropped from his intent gaze. "Things are booming."

"Tell me about it."

"A lot of his friends are in town. Some sort of convention, I believe. They're all over the beach, though, here and there. Too many, really. He had to bring some girls in from the Gulf Coast."

"Okay, get a pencil and paper."

"What for?"

"I want a list. Every place Balderone has girls booked for this week."

"That's crazy. I don't know all that. Are you a cop? You can't use any of-"

"Shut up!" Bolan snarled.

She blinked and recoiled, as though expecting physical violence. "So you're not a cop," she said breathlessly. "I'm sorry, I don't know all the places."

"But you do know a few."

"Well, yes. I know a few."

"Then get to writing."

"I believe you're getting me into a lot of trouble, mister."

Bolan shook his head. "You're already there, kid. I didn't put you there. I
found
you there."

The tearworks went back into operation. Bolan pulled out his notebook and placed it in her hand, then gave her his pen. "Start writing," he said coldly. "And keep it straight. I wouldn't want to see that beautiful head in my crosshairs again."

"I didn't know they were M-Mafia," she blubbered.

"You know it now."

She sprawled out across the bed, pen and pad in hand, and began the list. She paused to dab at her eyes and to shoot a reproachful look at Bolan. "I'll bet I know who you are, too," she announced.

"Yeah? Just write, kid."

"Yeah," she said, imitating his voice. "I know
what
you are, too. And
they
know it. I heard them talking about you. I didn't understand it then, but now it all makes sense. You're in more trouble than
I
am, Mack Bolan. I wouldn't change places with you for all the money in Miami. You think you're their judge and jury. You're as wrong as they are."

"It takes one to know one," Bolan replied curtly.

"And it takes a killer to kill," the girl fired back. She seemed more in command of herself now, and not at all frightened of Bolan. She finished the list and returned his notebook and pen. "There's your information. Go on out and drown yourself in other people's blood."

Bolan said, "Thanks." He pocketed the book. "If you mention any of this to
them,
you know you're as good as dead. And not from
my
hand. I'll keep the secret if you will."

"I guess I've been dead a long time already," she said, falling back to the pillow. "How much deader can you get?"

Bolan smiled. "I'd like to discuss that with you some time."

"Sure."

"Seriously. I'll be checking back — and not on business."

She showed him a frown, then dropped her eyes. "Just for the record, I didn't do it very often. You'd never believe it if I told you what a rotten jungle this modeling business is. A girl sort of loses her . . . sense of value."

Bolan bent over the bed and lightly kissed her lips. "Thanks for the information," he said.

"You threaten me and then thank me," she said, sighing. "Goodbye, killer."

"Executioner," he corrected her. "There
is
a difference."

"Sure, your difference is like my difference. But I'm just as ruined and you're just as bloody, difference or no."

Bolan patted her leg, replied, "I'd still like to discuss that with you some time," and then he went out of there. The "party" list in his pocket held portents of a party the likes of which Miami Beach had never hosted. He reminded himself that there was nothing personal in his war with the Mafia. He was a soldier doing a soldier's job. The chief difference between this war and the one in which he had learned his craft was a simple matter of geography. Miami was the new battleground, but his mission remained the same. Kill. Decimate the enemy. Fight the war of attrition until one side is down and out.

That word "difference" kept surfacing in his mind. The encounter with Jean Kirkpatrick had raised troublesome ghosts. As he cranked the engine of his car, the two little boys reappeared briefly and took imaginary shots at him, using fingers for guns. Bolan gazed at them for a moment then kicked the car into gear and put the scene behind him.

"Sure I'm wrong," he told his rearview mirror. "The
difference,
Miss Kirkpatrick, is that I'm not quite as wrong as they are." A wan smile played briefly upon his lips. The girl had been correct, of course. It takes a killer to kill. The difference, as Bolan tried to see it, lay in
motive.
What motivated Mack Bolan to kill? His smile disappeared and was replaced by a brooding frown. Wasn't that question asked repeatedly by every soldier who'd ever found himself in a combat situation?
What am I here for?

He lit a cigarette, set his course for the beach drive, then pulled out his party list for a quick inspection. Bolan knew damn well why he was in Miami. He'd come to crash a party. From the looks of the list, his task was mushrooming. How many parties could he "crash" before one of them rolled over atop him? He sighed. It was the same old story. The rules of warfare for an inferior force would always remain the same. Kill
quicker
than the other side. Hit and fade. Find another weak spot and
kill again,
then quickly withdraw. Maintain mobility and audacity and
the will to kill.
Forget philosophies, moralisms, and the accusing eyes of a frightened young woman.

Bolan's lips were clamped grimly upon the cigarette. A long ash fell into his lap. He brushed it away and, in that same motion, the girl also. Bolan had not come to Miami to examine his soul. He had come to
dispatch
a number of others. And the dispatcher had a busy schedule. Miami Beach was about to become a battleground. He had to hit again, and quickly, and keep hitting until they were falling apart and breaking ranks and fleeing into their sanctuaries — and The Executioner observed no rules of sanction, there would be no sanctuaries for the mob in Miami.

Captain John Hannon had wasted no time in gearing the police machinery to the emergency. Queries had gone to every section of the nation which had experienced the private war of Mack Bolan, and every law office contacted to the effect of acquiring all available information which could be used to avert a Miami explosion. For several years the veteran policeman had headed a special unit which was designed to cope with the extraordinary situations in the Miami area, such as security for vacationing and transiting VIPs, providing intelligence for civil unrest and disturbance cases, and various other problems not usually associated with normal police routines. Referred to officially as "the Dade Force," the special unit was staffed by members of various police agencies in Dade County and held jurisdiction which crossed all law agencies in that area.

Robert Wilson, Lieutenant, Homicide, had worked on infrequent occasions with the special force. As investigating officer in the Sandbank incident, he had been assigned as direct liaison officer between the Dade Force and the metropolitan homicide division.

Assigned as a special advisor to the group was Stewart Dunlap of the U.S. Justice Department's Racketeering Investigative Branch, Miami Field Office. Dunlap was a regular member of the Dade Force, but on a standby basis only. He was known to have a strong interest in the Bolan case.

These three officers were sifting through the accumulation of joint data which had been developed during the short few hours of the Miami chapter of the Bolan story. Dunlap rubbed his chin reflectively and said, "I believe you have a bad situation here, John. Bolan is very obviously in town, and it just doesn't seem to be his way to go chasing specific targets around the country. He is just as obviously on the offensive . . . not running, I mean. I'd have to say that he's here for something big."

Hannon was studying an intelligence report from the metropolitan vice division. "You're probably right," he murmured. "According to the dossier on Balderone, he was Ciro Lavangetta's field man for the Miami area. If I could just tie this all together . . ."

Lt. Wilson commented, "I thought Lavangetta was Portocci's boss back in Arizona."

"That's true," Dunlap said. "But the
Cosa Nostra
isn't all that geographically oriented. Each family has a territory, right. But major resort centers have traditionally been regarded as open to all the families. Las Vegas, for instance,
and
Miami Beach. Some of the families are quite active in Miami, others have no interest whatever in the action here. It depends on their ties. Apparently the Arizona faction has very strong ties in this area." He smiled. "As a matter of fact, Justice has been watching them with great interest, and for some time."

"Just what was Balderone's function?" Wilson asked.

"Sort of ambassadorial," the federal man replied. "You might think of him as Chief of the Arizona Embassy in Miami. He made business contacts, arranged deals, kept the trade lanes open to the Caribbean and South America."

"What sort of trade lanes?"

"Just name it, you've hit it. Narcotics, illegal booze, hot money, gambling, any channel where the bucks run fast. He also, incidentally, had quite a reputation as a dealer in women."

"White slavery?"

Dunlap smiled and shook his head. "Not that we're aware of. No, that was part of his public relations routine. He wined, dined, and bedded his visiting royalty in a truly regal manner, and he had quite a discerning eye for feminine beauty. According to a couple of phone conversations we tapped into last year, he was quite proud of his hostly image. Liked to brag that he had the hottest stable in the country."

"The young woman, Jean Kirkpatrick," Wilson mused, ". . . chances are pretty good, then, that she was part of Balderone's girl operation, right?"

"Your report states that she was there to model swimwear," Hannon said, looking up quickly. "Did you check that out thoroughly?"

Wilson nodded. "Yes, sir, I did. The boutique shop in the lobby confirmed her story. She was wearing one of their suits when the shooting occurred. But it's starting to smell. With Balderone straddling both worlds . . ." He sighed. "Such a beautiful kid. Dammit. I guess I better question her again."

"It can keep," the captain said. "Right now we'd better start trying to get a line on this Bolan character. And half of the Dade Force is tied down on that music festival out at the raceway."

"Count me into your foot force," the federal man volunteered.

"Thanks. Uh, you were saying something a while ago about the guy in Los Angeles."

"Brognola? Yes, he was very close to the Bolan case out there. Left word for him to call. Possibly he can fill us in on the Bolan M.O. in ways that others can't. I thought it might be helpful."

"Hell, yes," Harmon quietly agreed.

"Who's Brognola?" Wilson inquired.

"Justice Department," Dunlap explained. "He has actually spoken with Bolan and . . . well, I guess he was even working
with
him toward the big Mafia bust out there!" He aimed a pencil toward a manila folder on the desk. "That
Project Pointer
report there tells all about it."

"Doesn't sound exactly kosher," Wilson commented uneasily.

Dunlap shrugged. "Sometimes we have to go for the end, and not the means. I guess Brognola figured the Mafia was the greater enemy. That's our big hangup right now, anyway, you know. Federally speaking." He smiled. "Not to put down the local cops, you understand, but we're not nearly as interested in everyday street crime as we are in the big underworld combines."

"I hope you're not speaking of the present case," Hannon said heavily. "This is no everyday street crime staring at us. We have one goal, and that's to prevent a hot war from erupting on our streets. Agreed?"

The federal agent showed his usual cheery smile and said, "I'm yours to command, Captain." He got to his feet and headed for the door. "I'll be upstairs. I want to stick close by in case Brognola calls. But yell if you need me."

Hannon nodded his head and Dunlap went on out. Wilson said, "I get the feeling that guy knows more than he's telling us. You get that feeling?"

"Hell, I'm sure of it," Hannon replied dismally. He went over and closed the door, then returned to the desk and sat down with a heavy sigh. "The Justice Department would like to play footsy with Bolan, and that's the whole truth of the matter. Maybe not the department
per se,
but someone up there with authority is trying to make intercessions with the police forces around the country. You don't see the FBI getting all lathered up over Bolan, do you?"

"What do you mean, what kind of intercessions?"

"They're suggesting it might be in the greater national interest if we just try to
contain
Bolan. Sort of turn our backs, you know, unless he really gets out of line."

"And what does he have to do to really get out of line? I mean, sure, so far today all he's done is gun down a couple of people who were peacefully passing the time of day around the old swimming hole. Where do we draw the line? When Miami Beach starts sliding into the Atlantic?"

The captain grimaced and reached for his pipe. The battered meerschaum in his hand was always a symbol of an inner agitation. "So far Bolan has reserved his gunsights for his natural enemy," he explained. "He has never harmed a law officer or an innocent bystander. Someone in Washington seems to think he's performing a national service."

"Miami isn't buying that crap, are we?"

"You better bet we're not, son," Hannon growled. "They'll be no Mafia massacres in Miami. I have a request in to the chief now. I've asked for an additional fifty men, all motorized. The Executioner is going to strike out in this town, Bob. Or else."

"Or else what?"

The captain shrugged. "Or else there's going to be a massacre like we've never witnessed." He pointed a quivering pipestem at the pile of papers atop his desk. "That intelligence data there points conclusively to one thing. A mob-up in Miami. The mob is here. And Bolan must know it."

"What mob-up? You mean a convention? Like at Appalachian?"

"That is precisely what I mean."

"Well, goddammit, let's bust 'em!"

"We can't bust 'em unless we can find 'em. And I have a feeling that Bolan has the edge in this footrace."

"Oh, hell," Wilson said miserably.

"Yeah, that's what it's going to be," said the captain. "Just hell."

Bolan checked into the Tidelands Plaza, a swank hostelry in the lower beach area, using the name Michael Blanski, and went directly to his room. There he unpacked a new suitcase, removed the tags from a recently purchased Palm Beach suit, and called for service from the valet shop. Next he called room service and put in an order, then carried a small spray can into the bathroom and silverized the hair at his temples. He critically inspected the job, then added a touch of silver to the locks directly above his eyes. Satisfied, he capped the can and dropped it into the water tank of the toilet.

The door buzzer sounded. He donned his sunglasses and admitted the bellman who brought in a covered tray with bottle, mix, and ice. Bolan inspected the man closely, taking note of his dark hair and skin and slightly foreign manner. "That's fast service," he said gruffly, and handed the man a large bill. "Keep it," he added grandly.

The bellman said, "Thank you, sir. I brought also the late newspaper, it is on the tray. You had something also for the valet shop, sir?"

Bolan took note of the stiffly constructed speech, the soft and barely noticeable improper stressing of syllables. He said, "Yeah," and pointed to the suit on the bed. "Just get th' wrinkles out so I'll look irresistable to the girls, eh."

The bellman smiled dutifully and crossed to the bed to pick up the suit. "Prettiest girls in the States right here at the Beach, sir," he advised Bolan.

"Yeah, but they're spookish. What's the best way to get introduced in this town, eh?"

The bellman draped the suit over his arm. "There are ways, sir. I mean, channels."

Bolan laughed. "Yeah, I'll bet. How much?"

"The price for every taste, sir." He was moving toward the door. "Fifty to a hundred and fifty. Even more for more expensive tastes. One simply makes the right contacts."

"Yeah, well, I'll think that over," Bolan said.

"I wasn't inferring, sir, that
I
—"

"Sure, sure," Bolan said.

The man went out and pulled the door softly shut. Bolan grinned and went to the service tray, opened the bottle, and poured a water glass full of bourbon. He went to the bathroom, washed his mouth with the whiskey, and spat it out, then dumped the remainder of the glass and flushed it down the toilet. He returned to the tray and filled the glass with crushed ice, added some mix, and sipped it as he undressed. He could not allow his mind to become fogged with alcohol, but the scene also needed to be properly set.

His eye fell on the newspaper, precisely folded to afford a quick look at the page one feature story. His own face glared up at him from the newspaper. He set the glass down and picked up the paper. The headline above the story read, HAS THE EXECUTIONER COME TO TOWN? The picture was a pretty close artists' sketch, close enough to make Bolan feel uneasy. The story was a rehash of the Executioner story, from Pittsfield to Palm Springs, coupled to some strong hints of the morning's work at the Sandbank. He put the newspaper down and returned to the bathroom, shaved and showered, taking care to preserve the color added to his hair, and had just finished towelling dry when the bellman returned with his suit.

Bolan watched curiously as the man leaned into the closet to hang the suit. He was looking for the telltale bulge of concealed hardware, but found none. The man was a head shorter than Bolan, but thickly built and powerful looking. Bolan just did not read him as a bellman. He gave the man another tip and growled, "How's th' food around here?"

"Very good, sir. The Surfers' Lounge offers very tasty short orders, and you may order from poolside. The dining room opens at six, but the kitchen is always open for room service. May I bring you a menu?"

"Naw, I'll try the lounge," Bolan replied: "It's a bit early for stuffin'." His face creased into a perplexed scowl, as though he were undecided about something.

The bellman hesitated with one hand on the doorknob and said, "Sir?"

"I, uh, got some friends here," Bolan said hesitantly. "I missed a plane, got here late. I'm not sure, uh, how they registered. Know what I mean?"

A bland mask seemed to slide into place across the dark man's face. He said, "No, sir."

"Hell, Balderone made the arrangements, and I'm not sure how he gave out th' names.
Now
you know?"

A muscle twitched in the bellman's face. He said, "I believe you have found your channel, sir. What are you asking me to do?"

Bolan passed another bill into the man's hand. "Get me my pals' room numbers. Hell, I don't know what names they're using. Catch?"

The bellman seemed to have reached a decision about Bolan. He nodded his head and replied, "Discretion is the better part of valor, sir. I believe I can help you."

"You talk like a teacher, not no bellboy," Bolan commented harshly.

"I
was
a school teacher, sir . . . in Cuba. I will locate your friends for you . . . discreetly."

"That's th' stuff." Bolan spun around and stalked over to the room service tray. He lifted the bourbon and began pouring into his glass. He heard the door softly close. He smiled, again dumped the bourbon into the toilet, and got dressed. So the bellman was a Cuban exile, he was thinking. That could explain a lot of things. And yet . . . Bolan was not entirely sold and he was beginning to wonder about the wisdom of his maneuver when the buzzer sounded again. He cautiously answered the ring. The Cuban stood in the hallway and passed an envelope in to Bolan. He was wearing the same bland mask and inspecting Bolan's face closely as he said, "I believe this is what you wanted, sir."

Bolan quickly opened the envelope, glanced inside, then smiled and put another bill in the bellman's hand. "Go liberate Cuba with that," he said, and closed the door.