Miami Massacre by Don Pendleton Page B

last night, eh?"
    Lavangetta replied soberly, "You know about as much as I do, Augie. Don't worry, I'm on top of it. I'll know pretty soon just what is what."
    Aggravante chimed in with, "What is what is that all your Phoenix soldiers are dead, Ciro. If that's what you're on top of, I'd say
somebody
better start worrying."
    The flustered Arizona chieftain flashed back, "Look, you let me . . . ." He sucked in his breath and left the balance of the statement unsaid, turning back to address Marinello in a calm tone. "Like I was saying, Augie, I'm on top of it. This was Bolan, the crazy bastard, like everybody here knows already. I got a line on him, and we're chasing him down. Don't worry, this guy's luck is running out. He can't get away with this crap forever."
    Marinello held silent for another comment from Aggravante. The old
Capo
softly observed, "You call it luck if you wanta play ostrich, Ciro. But this boy has knocked over already two families. Off hand, I'd say he's busy working on the third. You can't just wave it off as luck. That's this boy's secret weapon, this idea of everyone thinking he's just another punk and can be frowned into the grave. I say it again, Ciro — somebody better start worrying. And that somebody had better be from Arizona."
    Ciro was trying to think of a suitable reply, silently cursing himself for allowing the old man to lead him into that trap, making him brag and then get caught looking like a silly punk with no brains. He made a series of tight fists with both hands and said, "I didn't mean
I
wasn't worrying. I was saying for no one
here
to worry. Hell,
I'm
worried, sure. Hell, I got a hundred boys out after this guy."
    "Maybe that's not good enough," Marinello stated gently. "Not unless you've really got something working for you."
    "Yeah, I got something working," Lavangetta replied quickly. "Look, we made this boy hotting it out of Phoenix right after his hit last night, in one of these little private planes. We watched 'im all the way, we're thinking he is no doubt tracking Johnny Portocci down here and we got all the airports covered. Sure we got something working."
    Aggravante suggested, "If you know the plane, there's ways of finding it."
    "Sure I know that, Georgie. We made the plane landing at Jacksonville. We made it landing at Miami. The guy had got off, at Jacksonville we figure, but I had boys all over that airport and-"
    "You got 'im at Jacksonville then," Aggravante purred.
    "No, hell, I didn't say that, Georgie. I said the boy got off at Jacksonville, and we weren't covered up there. But the plane came on down here, see and-"
    "So what you got working, Ciro? An empty plane?"
    Thoroughly confused now, Lavangetta fumed, "I'm trying to tell you, this Bolan is no punk. I mean, I know that. You wanta see something classy?" He reached into his coat pocket and produced a small oblong box and placed it on the table. "This thing came all gift wrapped and addressed to Johnny, ribbons and all. The pilot of this plane had it, so we know the boy was on that plane."
    "That's brilliant," Aggravante said. "What's in th' box?"
    Marinello was already reaching for the box. He removed the cover, stared inside for a long moment, then withdrew the contents and held it up for all to see. "It's this boy's calling card," he announced. "A marksman's medal."
    "Yeah, that's classy, all right," Aggravante softly commented.
    Another New York boss said, "You could almost admire this boy, you know?"
    "But not from the grave," Marinello added. "Okay, Ciro. This seems to be your apple and I guess you got a right to eat it. Just don't get no stomach ache from it. But if this Bolan has served notice that he's making our convention, I guess we might all have to take a bite. You better tell us what you got going."
    "I got everything covered," Lavangetta quickly replied. "Airports, bus and train stations, everything. And I got a thousand pictures of this Bolan in circulation around town. I got all the drops, all