Miami Massacre (9 page)

Ciro Lavangetta had put in a rough day . . . and it was getting rougher by the minute. George the Butcher had been needling him mercilessly, with at least the tacit approval of the eastern bosses — right up to the moment when the electrifying news came in from the Tidewater Plaza. From that point on it had been sheer turmoil, with Ciro on the hotseat, being required to repeat over and over each tiny detail of his entirely second-hand knowledge of Mack the Bastard Bolan.

The Talifero brothers had presented the worst ordeal, with their suavely cold manners and often cooly mocking attitude during the interrogation. At least five times they had insisted that he repeat his complete impressions of the scene at Palm Springs, site of Bolan's latest big operation. They even tried crossing Ciro up, interviewing him one at a time in a closed room and each one asking identical questions — and Ciro never knew which one he was talking to. Stand those two boys side by side and you couldn't tell which was which.

The whole thing was terribly unnerving to Ciro and of course he blamed Mack Bolan for the entire ordeal. What the hell, Ciro had never done anything to Mack Bolan, or to Bolan's old man or old lady or the damn kid sister. Was it Ciro's fault the bastard comes roaring home from the war on a vendetta against the organization? Hell no. Was it Ciro's fault the bastard slams Sergio and Deej and tumbles their whole territories into ruins? Hell no. And now these Talifero brothers acting like Ciro was to blame for it all! Well, screw the Taliferos, this was Ciro's reaction. If they were such goddamn hot stuff, let them find the bastard theirselves and put
him
through the ordeal — why take it out on Ciro Lavangetta?

The Arizona chieftain's discomfiture was understandable enough. The Talifero brothers were not every day items in the life of a
Costa Nostra
boss. They occupied a unique niche in the family hierarchy, answering to no particular
Capo
or family, but to the invisible and impersonal body of the
Commissione
itself. Indeed, the Taliferos constituted a "family" of their own, also largely invisible, impersonal and loyal only to the unified concept of "this thing of ours," or
La Cosa Nostra.

It is not certain as to just how, when, or by whom the brothers were originally empowered to carry out the
Commissioners'
edicts. It is not even known if Talifero is the true family name (a constructed name could be suggested by the Italian
tale,
meaning "such," and
ferro,
"iron") but that they were brothers is beyond contest. They were, it seems, identical twins. Each stood about six feet tall, weighed about 175, had dark hair, light skin, blue eyes, and were evidently well educated. Legend has it that they were graduated from the Harvard Law School; if so, they did not attend under the name Talifero.

At the time of the Miami convention, the brothers were about 40 years of age. They dressed immaculately, spoke precise English in the Harvard manner, and were said to be in athletic good health. If they ever smiled, there is no record of this rare event. Perhaps they had little to smile about. Or perhaps they felt too strongly the weight of their grave responsibilities to "this thing of ours." The Taliferos were, in the deeper analysis, that much debated entity of international crime, "the boss of all the bosses." Not in decision-making functions, nor in the normal run of business — but they constituted the physical
will
of the council of
Capos.
As such, the Talifero brothers were the final word in family discipline. They served not themselves, not the Capos, but
this thing
itself.

A normal Mafia family was actually a business enterprise, geared to the accumulation of money by whatever means available. Contrary to their public image, the Families did not normally indulge in overt criminal activities, such as armed robbery, burglary, etc. Occasionally an individual
Mafioso,
short of funds and seeking a new stake, might pull a stick-up or a hijack, but this type of activity was generally frowned on by the Family itself, considered far too risky for the rewards available. Relative safety with rich rewards was much more likely along the "trade routes" of the underworld, in endeavors such as gambling, loan-sharking, narcotics wholesaling (
never
retailing), smuggling, and brokerages in illegal whiskey, stolen automobiles and appliances, etc. Labor racketeering had also proven lucrative, and millions of illegally acquired dollars had moved into legitimate trade areas like banking, construction, trucking, vending machines, garbage collection, nightclubs and casinos, restaurants and bars, and virtually anywhere that profits could be reaped by unscrupulous and non-regulated manipulating.

Violence upon the outside world, then, was not a normal Mafia pursuit; that is, it was not regarded as profitable. A certain amount of strong-arming was perhaps inevitable in some minority of business pursuits; for the most part, however, violence was a thing of, in, and around the underworld itself. Protection of trade routes, for example, against invasion by outside or competitive interests; enforcement of Family fealty and territorial rights against over-ambitious
Mafiosi;
and, of course, protection of the Families themselves against unwarranted persecution by members of the "straight" community and legal establishment. In this connection, the major obstruction to court prosecution of known
Mafiosi
lay in the difficulty of keeping prosecution witnesses alive long enough to get their testimony into the court records.

From all this emerges the true picture of a Mafia Family. Except for a small number of "enforcers" working within each Family group, the average
Mafioso
was little more than a shrewd businessman with a total disregard for legal restraints. He might be called upon from time to time to bear arms, to protect the Family estate, or even tapped for an execution of an errant brother — and he might hire "rodmen" from outside the Family to discourage competition or to provide for his own protection. He could be, and often was, a vicious and conscienceless killer — when the cause was right. Torture killings were a favorite method of vengeance against those foolish enough to betray or threaten the Family, from within or without, and some of these were hideously perpetrated.

Even so, life inside the Mafia was generally quiet and businesslike, with as few ripples upon the surface of society as was possible to make. The general inclination was toward total non-recognition, and to foster the idea that stories and charges of
La Cosa Nostra's
existence were entirely mythical.

The Talifero brothers did not operate a typical Mafia Family. Their business was murder, intimidation, espionage, and violence of every stripe. Their cadre had never been officially numbered, but it is known that their influence was ever present throughout the scattered provinces of Mafiadom, and that they were feared more than any other force of
La Cosa
Nostra.

When the brothers left the council chambers that evening, they knew Mack Bolan's professional background as perhaps no other persons living. They had wrung dry the memories of both Ciro Lavangetta and Frank Milano; they had carefully and painstakingly reconstructed the strikes at Pittsfield, Los Angeles, Palm Springs, Phoenix, and Miami Beach; and they had a fairly valid working model of The Executioner for their specialized minds to ponder.

Lavangetta gratefully closed the door behind their departure and told Augie Marinello, "I don't want to ever be put through anything like that again. I'd rather face a Congressional committee."

Marinello smiled and replied, "You know, we wouldn't have asked you to, Ciro, except that we thought it just had to be."

"We should of put them on the job a long time ago," George Aggravante growled. "And then maybe we wouldn't have this mess to face right now."

"You know how I hate to see those boys activated, Georgie," Marinello said quietly.

Aggravante snickered and replied, "Yeah, it's sort of like starting nuclear warfare, huh. This's a job for massive retaliation though, Augie. I don't see how we could of done otherwise."

"That's exactly what I'm telling Ciro here. We just had to turn those boys loose. I'm sorry if they ruffled your dignity any, Ciro."

"Dignity is a thing you get buried with," Lavangetta replied. "The Taliferos can dig at me anytime they want to, so long as they're not burying me. I just want them to bury that Bolan. I'd put up with anything to see that."

"You better get your eyes rested, then, 'cause you're going to be seeing it pretty soon."

Lavangetta laughed nervously, lit a cigar, and excused himself. He wanted some fresh air. He wanted to sit by some pure water and sip some fine wine and maybe even feel up some wild women. The day had been a nightmare. He hoped that the night would prove to be of a far better quality. In fact, it would not.

Within 30 minutes after the Taliferos had been "activated" by the Commission, and long before the completion of the skull sessions with Lavangetta and Milano, a "ring of steel" had gone into place to protect the "Miami Convention" from further Bolan raids. Under Talifero direction, the dispersal rule for visiting
Mafiosi
had been reversed, and three "centers" had been established wherein the Families would dwell, in strength, throughout the remainder of the summit conference.

The council meetings were to be held in a different center each day, with the location to be decided by the brothers in each instance and at the last moment. This decision created quite a problem in logistics. Two beachfront hotels, wholly owned by Mafia interests, were selected as the major strongholds. A phoney "strike" by employees of those establishments would be engineered as a pretext to cancel reservations and to empty those accomodations already retained by the "straight" public. Handpicked "employees," hastily recruited through underworld contacts, would be retained to serve the special guests who were already arriving.

The third "center" was a large cruise boat, also Mafia-owned and crewed, the MV
Merry Drew
— 
infrequently
used as a party yacht, more often as a gambling casino and floating pleasure palace, and occasionally as a contraband carrier to and from Latin American ports.

These arrangments were more aesthetically pleasing to the visiting Families than the earlier plan. A convention was a place for business, certainly, but it was also a time for renewing old friendships and relaxing with large numbers of one's own kind. Even with the Bolan menace in town, it was regarded as natural and right that a Family reunion be a thing of good-natured celebration and cheer. The general consensus among the visitors was that Mack Bolan was not going to spoil their holiday. The Talifero boys would take care of Bolan. Probably before the next dawn Bolan's head would be in a Talifero basket. It was even beginning to seem, in some minds, that a kindly fate had maneuvered The Bastard into this confrontation with the reality of
La Cosa Nostra.
Maybe even Bolan's head would serve as a new chalice to restore the confidence of the faltering brotherhood. There had been too many reverses lately, too many successful challenges to the omnipotence of the organization.

Yes, Bolan had been sent to them, C.O.D. The Taliferos would do the collecting, Bolan would do the paying, and
La Cosa Nostra,
this consecrated thing of theirs, would reap the profits of this most productive convention in their history. Or so the feeling went among certain of the rank and file.

One or two bosses, though, were not so certain of the "profits" to be realized from this enclave. There was a territory to be deeded, a most lucrative property, and hungrily eyed by the feudal kings of the adjoining estates. What businessman would not gamble a small piece of his soul for an opportunity to double his fortunes overnight? Bolan's presence in Miami, and especially during this convention, seemed to represent an unknown value to the disposition of these lands, at least to one or two among the visiting royalty. Somehow, went this feeling, the Bolan presence could be used to powerful advantage, and for a more specific form of profit. But how? As the Talifero brothers stepped into high gear and the rest of the convention appeared to relax and take comfort, this question was uppermost in a line of thought which replaced "this thing of ours" with "this thing of mine."

Even in
La Cosa Nostra,
it seems, there existed competitive kings.

Bolan had bathed away an accumulation of Atlantic salt, sweat, and dust. The clothing remained a problem; he had elected to stick with the swim trunks. During the meal, quietly supplied by Margarita, Toro advised Bolan that his personal effects at the Tidewater Plaza had been "sent for," and were being delivered to the camp in Bolan's rented car.

Bolan thought about that for a moment, then replied, "I guess you considered the possibility of a police stake-out."

"
Si.
This is not for concern. There was no search of unoccupied rooms." He smiled and produced a watersogged registration card from the hotel. "As you see, there is no record of a
Senor
Blanski at the Plaza."

Bolan grinned. "You're pretty sharp, Toro. And I envy your intelligence network."

"It is in our good interests to have the knowledge,
senor,
"

Bolan accepted that without further question. He finished the simple meal and declined a cigar from his host. Margarita eased into a chair next to Bolan and offered him an odd-looking cigarette from an unfamiliar package. He accepted it. The dark tobacco grains were rolled in leaf instead of paper. The girl watched his face as she lit the cigarette. He did not disappoint her, grimacing under the impact of the harsh smoke.

She laughed delightedly and said,
"Gringo no fum-"
then cut it off and gazed guiltily into the disapproving eyes of Toro.

"Margarita does not speak the English well," he told Bolan. "I teach her but she does not apply the lessons. I tell her she must speak the English with
El Matador.
"

Bolan took a long drag on the cigarette and wafted the smoke over the girl's head. He smiled at her and told Toro, "Anyone who looks that good,
amigo,
doesn't need to be worried about diction."

Toro laughed and translated the compliment to Margarita. It embarassed her. She hastily left the chair and began busily clearing the table.

Bolan watched the girl and idly asked, "How's your strike force, Toro?"

The Cuban sighed, puffed at his cigar, then replied, "We grow daily."

"I don't mean size, I'm thinking about effectiveness. How good are you?"

Toro shrugged. "Good enough to every now and then step upon
El Culebra de Cuba.
We are-"

"I didn't get that," Bolan protested, grinning.

"Sorry — the
snake.
Is it not the snake who beguiles the innocents and then perverts them? And so this
Culebra de Cuba,
yes — he is the betrayer of my country, my Cuba. And we walk upon him with each opportunity."

"You launch your raids from this base? Against Cuba?"

Toro smiled. "Did I say that?"

Bolan grinned back. "No, I didn't hear you say that, Toro. How are your weapons? Modern?"

The stocky Cuban again shrugged his shoulders. "The very best our modest funds can acquire,
senor.
"

"Money is your big problem, huh?"

"
Si,
is this not always the case? We work the jobs, any-"

"That reminds me," Bolan interrupted. "As a bellman you spoke almost perfect English. Ever since we left the hotel, you've gotten more and more Cuban. If it gets any worse,
amigo,
we're going to need an interpreter."

"I am sorry, sir. Is this better?"

Bolan grinned. "No, I guess I like you better the other way."

Toro smiled and explained, "To speak the English properly, one must
think
in English.
Comprende?
To think in Spanish is to speak the English with the accent. As a bellman, I do not mind this thinking in the English. But,
amigo,
Toro is Cuban — not English."

"Yeah, okay
amigo.
What were you telling me about the money problem?"

"The problem is not that much. As I was saying, we work the jobs, we pool the money, and we do what we can do with what we have. Not
all
Cubans are with us, naturally . . . or we would no longer be in exile." His gaze dropped to the floor and his voice took on a sorrowing tone as he added, "Many Cubans have lost the vision of the free Cuba, you see, and have become as
Yanquis.
I do not blame them. It is a lonely vigil,
senor,
this wait to return to the homeland. But . . ." The eyes flashed up, with a return of the old fire. "To many of us, to lose the vision is to lose the reason for living. We work and we plan and sometimes we
strike!
And we know,
Matador,
that one day we shall walk the length and the breadth of our Cuba."

"Killing snakes," Bolan put in quietly.

"
Si,
killing the snakes."

"Your war is impossible enough, Toro. You should have stayed out of mine."

Toro laughed scornfully. "Reverse the situation,
Matador.
Could you have stayed out?"

"I guess not," Bolan murmured. He made a quick decision. "If my vehicle gets here exactly the way I left it, Toro, I'm going to . . ."

"Senor?"

"What do you call a modern weapon?"

Toro intently studied his guest's face for a moment, then replied, "A gun manufactured since the end of the first World War, this is a modern weapon in this camp."

Bolan shot back, "How about a Stoner? — a Honeywell? — have you ever fired an M-16, an M-79, an M-60?"

An expression of vague frustration swept the Cuban's face. "This is not modern,
Matador.
This is
ultra
modern."

Bolan sighed. "That's what I thought. Listen, Toro, when you're going against the odds you've got to take every advantage available. And you start with
weapons.
"

"Si, comprendo."
He smiled and turned his palms upward. "So, now you see our nakedness. We are a ragged band, no?"

"No," Bolan replied. "You just need some support. And I think I know how to-"

Toro winced and hastened to interrupt the declaration. "Senor Bolan," he said quietly, "Toro must confess the ulterior motive."

Bolan was getting the prickly feeling again at the nape of his neck. He said, "Okay, maybe I'm ready for that, too. Go ahead."

"When I first recognize you, at the Plaza, I am thinking . . . for
La Causa de Cuba
— here is a big fish, no? Here is the thing for which Toro has prayed and pledged his life and his fortunes, here is . . ." He caught the look in Bolan's eyes and quietly ran out of words.

Bolan said, "You weren't thinking of collecting on that open contract,
amigo?
"

Toro's eyes dropped. "The thought was there,
amigo.
One hundred thousand Yankee dollars will buy many ultra modern weapons, no?" The eyes lifted again, and this time there were lights twinkling deep within. "But I could not do a thing like this to
El Matador.
I realize this while we swim for the boat. No,
amigo,
this I could not do. But . . ."

"Yeah?" Bolan prompted him, uneasily.

"But I think, maybe this fierce warrior could be persuaded to enter another cause, a finer one."

Bolan said, "I feel honored, Toro. But you know better."

"Si," the Cuban replied, sighing. "I respect your war,
amigo,
as you respect mine. How long will you stay with us,
El Matador?
"

Bolan hesitated. "I haven't slept for two days," he replied. "If I could get a couple hours sleep— How long before my car gets here?"

"Momentarily,
amigo.
"

Bolan studied his wristwatch. It was just past seven p.m., far from the end of a most active day. He removed the watch and stripped the leather band between his fingers to remove the Atlantic moisture still clinging to its fibers, then returned it to his wrist. "I'll wait till the car arrives," he told Toro. "Then, if you have some place to bed me down, I'd like to catch a short nap."

Toro quickly made available upon demand the full hospitable resources of his camp. Then the two men went to the veranda and perched upon the railing and quietly talked "shop," discussing weapons, tactics and other aspects of impossible wars. Some minutes later, Bolan's rented Chevy rolled to a halt beside the jeep and the two Cubans alighted from it. They approached the veranda and one of them dropped the keys into Toro's hand, delivering them with a short speech in Spanish. Toro handed the keys over to Bolan and explained, "They took every precaution. They were not followed. Your luggage is in the rear seat."

Bolan shook hands with the men and thanked them, then went directly to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. He called to Toro, and his host joined him there. Bolan was leaning into the trunk and wrestling with a bulky package, wrapped in heavy green waxed paper. "Get the other end," Bolan instructed. Toro did so, and they carried the heavy object to the veranda. The two men who had delivered the Chevy watched with interested silence, then dropped to their haunches and assisted as Bolan began removing the wrapping paper.

Exclamations of awe accompanied the final unveiling. Bolan grinned at Toro and announced, "This is a Honeywell, the hottest little number in any arsenal."

"This is a machine gun?" Toro asked in a hushed voice.

"Sort of. Actually,
amigo,
it's a rapid firing M-79 grenade launcher. Operated like a gatling gun. Belt fed — see? — there's your firing mechanism. Maximum effective range is about 100 meters, fires a 40 millimeter round of high explosives with an effective kill radius of five feet, also handles a shotgun round of 20 double-ought buck, a tear gas round and a flare round — and you can mix 'em in the belt any way you please."

Toro was running his hands about the weapon in a reverent inspection. He declared, "This is most impressive,
Matador.
"

"It would stomp a lot of snakes," Bolan replied, grinning. "It's yours, Toro, and there's a couple of cases of ammo in the car."

Toro was dumbfounded. He spluttered, "You are giving this . . . this . . .
magnifico
. . ."

Bolan explained, "It's too much for one man to handle, Toro. I added it to my arsenal in a weak moment, I really can't use it. It's a crew-served weapon, takes two men to operate, even better with three." He spun away suddenly and went back to the Chevy, returning immediately with another object. It was a leather golf bag with a canvas snood. Toro and the other two Cubans were still ardently occupied with the Honeywell. Bolan asked them, "Can you figure it out?"

"
Si,
we shall figure it out,
amigo,
"Toro assured him. "But are you sure that you do need this magni-"

Bolan cut him off with, "Look, I don't need it. Here's why." He was removing the snood from the golf bag and removing another weapon. "This," he explained, "is the best bundle of firepower going for a man alone. It's an over'n under M-16/M-79. Great for firefights. The 16 is our standard infantry weapon now, fires a 5.56 tumbling projectile at 700 rounds per minute, gas operated auto or semi-auto, your option. I carry 30-round magazines. This baby on the underside is the M-79, a pistol-grip for this configuration and a slide action breech, handles the same stuff as your Honeywell there, but just one at a time."

"Magnifico!"

"Toro. You want M-16's, M-79's, Honeywells, M-60 machine guns, and maybe a few Stoner Weapons Systems. You tell your supplier to dump the other junk in Africa."

Toro laughed. "My supplier,
amigo,
is one of your enemies, of this I am certain."

Bolan said, "Where the hell do you think I get mine?"

They laughed together, then Toro hefted the 16-79 configuration, gave Bolan a pleased nod, and said, regretfully, "Such weapons, I am certain, are beyond our limited means,
Matador.
But we thank you for the instruction. We will add it to our dream mountain."

Bolan muttered, "Well, there is one other thing, Toro." He made another trip to the car, returning this time with a leather satchel. He opened it, extracted a package of U.S. currency, riffled the edges of the packet with a thumb, then stuffed it into the waistband of his swim trunks.

Toro was watching him with puzzled eyes. Bolan closed the satchel and soberly passed it over. "
El Matador's
contribution, Toro the Spanish bull, to
La Causa de Cuba.
You will buy some snake-stompers, no?"

Toro's face was split from ear to ear in a delighted grin. He cried, "We will buy the snake-stompers,
si! Senor
Bolan, I do not know how to thank-"

"Hell, you already did," Bolan assured him.

The Cuban could contain himself no longer. He turned to the other men with an excited rattling speech.

"No! No!"

"Si! Si!"
Toro was digging into the satchel and throwing out packets of currency.
"Yanqui
dollars,
muchos muchos dinero, amigos, para la causa .
. . ."

Bolan was quietly putting away his weapon. He dropped the packet of retained money into the golf bag and restored the snood, then replaced the bag in the Chevy's trunk, wrestled the Honeywell ammo cases to the ground, took his luggage from the rear seat, and passed back into the house, pushing his way through a growing crowd of excited insurgents. Margarita made way for him at the door, regarding him with glowing eyes. He went on through and into a small bedroom, dropped his bags to the floor, and immediately sprawled out across the bed. He was bone weary. Also uncomfortable. The swim trunks were too tight, and briny from the swim in the ocean. He struggled to his feet and took them off, then lay down naked and passed almost immediately into an alert combat sleep.

There was no sensation of a passage of time, but he awoke with a start and the realization that he had slept for some time. The house was still, as though deliberately quietened for his benefit — but also there was another presence in the darkened room, a most distinctive presence which was hovering above and very near. Recognition beat reaction by one flashing synapse and his instinctive lunge into the attack was quickly converted into a soft embrace of delicately scented and delightfully resilient flesh.