Julian DiGeorge and had been greatly dependent upon that Southern California family from which Ciro had sprung. Now with DiGeorge dead and his family in a state of virtual dissolution, thanks to Mack The Bastard Bolan, Ciro regarded his position as definitely pivotal — perhaps even perilous. He had come to this "council of kings" with the hopes of making a strong bid for a more substantial power base for his family; he hoped, in fact, to "inherit" the DiGeorge empire and to consolidate it into his southwestern territory.
There was a fly in Lavangetta's ointment, however. The old man from San Francisco, George the Butcher Aggravante, had been casting lecherous glances toward the now open L.A. territory — and Aggravante had been the sole dissenter in the council which, some years earlier, had deeded the desert southwest to Lavangetta. George the Butcher would love to gobble up Southern California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas and thus give himself full sway over the Western U.S., Ciro was certain of this. Sure, now that Ciro had built up a thriving territory out of desert sand, the old man would gladly relieve him of it. Perhaps Ciro would be allowed to remain on as a "paper
Capo
"of his original territory, or maybe as an underboss to the butcher. Well, no thanks. George the Butcher could just go to hell. Giro knew the L.A. territory better than anyone now living. If there was to be a division of DiGeorge's legacy, no man alive stood closer in the line of succession than Ciro Lavangetta. Ciro would give Aggravante the area from the San Fernando Valley north. But the rest belonged to Ciro. He had earned it. And the fantastic revenues from L.A. County alone would insure a strong base for this newest and youngest family, the Lavangettas. Ciro's own brother-in-law was the only ranking member of the DiGeorge family yet alive, "Tony Danger" Cupaletto, a lightweight
Caporegime
based at San Diego. It didn't take a council of kings to recognize the fact that Tony Danger was far too light to bear DiGeorge's crown.
And that empty chair at the council table, DiGeorge's chair, was the paramount consideration in Ciro's mind as the first Miami session got underway. As an irritating symbol of the importance of this council to Lavangetta, that empty chair stood between the chairs of Ciro and George the Butcher.
Ciro nodded pleasantly to the grand old man from San Francisco and said, "Hi, Georgie. How's the meat business?"
Aggravante tossed him a cold glance and replied, "Couldn't be better, Ciro. How are things in Bolan's playground?"
Ciro colored angrily and choked back a hot retort. He quickly covered his anger with a light chuckle and said, "I'll export 'im cheap, Georgie."
Aggravante nodded his handsome king of the jungle head and said, "You export 'im my way, Ciro, and I'll make weenies out of him quick." He turned to the man on his other side and engaged him in pleasant conversation, shutting out the upstart from Arizona from further attention.
Lavangetta, darkly flushed, sipped at his wine and shot an angry glance about the table. The kings were feeling quiet today, he observed. Okay. Why not? Things were bad all over. Cops and feds busting everybody right and left, Congressional committees calling 'em in to testify against their own selves, talking to 'em like they were a bunch of cheap rodmen . . . and now this fancy bastard Bolan chewing up the territories and making everybody look stupid on top of everything else. Sure, why not quiet? This was to be a strategy council . . . but what strategy?
Ciro's unhappy train of thought was broken by a direct question from Augie Marinello, one of the New York bosses and a respected power in the council. The traditional toasts had been given, and the query from Marinello could only be regarded as an official end to the quiet period of personal greetings and exchanges which had followed. Marinello said, from across the table, "Hey Ciro, what's this we hear about the trouble in Phoenix
There was a fly in Lavangetta's ointment, however. The old man from San Francisco, George the Butcher Aggravante, had been casting lecherous glances toward the now open L.A. territory — and Aggravante had been the sole dissenter in the council which, some years earlier, had deeded the desert southwest to Lavangetta. George the Butcher would love to gobble up Southern California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas and thus give himself full sway over the Western U.S., Ciro was certain of this. Sure, now that Ciro had built up a thriving territory out of desert sand, the old man would gladly relieve him of it. Perhaps Ciro would be allowed to remain on as a "paper
Capo
"of his original territory, or maybe as an underboss to the butcher. Well, no thanks. George the Butcher could just go to hell. Giro knew the L.A. territory better than anyone now living. If there was to be a division of DiGeorge's legacy, no man alive stood closer in the line of succession than Ciro Lavangetta. Ciro would give Aggravante the area from the San Fernando Valley north. But the rest belonged to Ciro. He had earned it. And the fantastic revenues from L.A. County alone would insure a strong base for this newest and youngest family, the Lavangettas. Ciro's own brother-in-law was the only ranking member of the DiGeorge family yet alive, "Tony Danger" Cupaletto, a lightweight
Caporegime
based at San Diego. It didn't take a council of kings to recognize the fact that Tony Danger was far too light to bear DiGeorge's crown.
And that empty chair at the council table, DiGeorge's chair, was the paramount consideration in Ciro's mind as the first Miami session got underway. As an irritating symbol of the importance of this council to Lavangetta, that empty chair stood between the chairs of Ciro and George the Butcher.
Ciro nodded pleasantly to the grand old man from San Francisco and said, "Hi, Georgie. How's the meat business?"
Aggravante tossed him a cold glance and replied, "Couldn't be better, Ciro. How are things in Bolan's playground?"
Ciro colored angrily and choked back a hot retort. He quickly covered his anger with a light chuckle and said, "I'll export 'im cheap, Georgie."
Aggravante nodded his handsome king of the jungle head and said, "You export 'im my way, Ciro, and I'll make weenies out of him quick." He turned to the man on his other side and engaged him in pleasant conversation, shutting out the upstart from Arizona from further attention.
Lavangetta, darkly flushed, sipped at his wine and shot an angry glance about the table. The kings were feeling quiet today, he observed. Okay. Why not? Things were bad all over. Cops and feds busting everybody right and left, Congressional committees calling 'em in to testify against their own selves, talking to 'em like they were a bunch of cheap rodmen . . . and now this fancy bastard Bolan chewing up the territories and making everybody look stupid on top of everything else. Sure, why not quiet? This was to be a strategy council . . . but what strategy?
Ciro's unhappy train of thought was broken by a direct question from Augie Marinello, one of the New York bosses and a respected power in the council. The traditional toasts had been given, and the query from Marinello could only be regarded as an official end to the quiet period of personal greetings and exchanges which had followed. Marinello said, from across the table, "Hey Ciro, what's this we hear about the trouble in Phoenix
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