The Bone Yard by Don Pendleton Page B

rode the headspot at a massive conference table, Paulie Vaccarelli at his right shoulder for support. The rest were ranged around the table, muttering among themselves. Frank Spinoza could have cut the tension with a meat ax. On his left sat Johnny Cats, the man from Cleveland, with his able second, Tom Guarini.
    Beyond the Midwest delegation Larry Liguori was holding forth for Chicago, pausing now and then to confer with his strong right arm, Mike Teresa.
    And opposite the others, set deliberately apart from them on Spinoza's right, was Julio DePalma, sole ranking survivor of Minotte's Southern contingent. His forehead was bandaged with gauze and adhesive tape, giving his oval face a bulky look. He was flanked by two unsmiling hardmen who refused to sit, remaining on their stations at parade rest like a pair of guards outside Buckingham Palace. Julio DePalma clearly was not taking any chances, even in the company of friends.
    "I promise you, there will be action taken," Frank Spinoza told the small assemblage.
    "Yeah?" Liguori challenged him. "When's that?"
    Spinoza spread his hands, a gesture meant to be effusive, which instead made him look helpless.
    "As soon as the commission has a chance to meet and talk things over."
    Liguori made a disgusted face.
    "A chance my ass. My people have been asking for a meet the past six months and all we get is, "Later, later." Now it's "later," and we got a shooting war, but still no sit-down." He looked around at the others, appealing to them. "I don't know about the rest of you but I'm sick of waiting on New York."
    Johnny Cats chimed in at that.
    "Damn straight. I don't need anybody two thousand miles away to help me handle Kuwahara and his group. I say we hit the bastards now, today, before we wake up dead some morning."
    A general murmur of assent ran around the conference table, washing back at Spinoza like an angry surf. He raised his voice to make it heard above the rumble.
    "Wait a second. We're not a bunch of punks who run around and just start whacking people left and right. We're organized. We've got a system."
    "That's fine," Liguori countered, "if it works."
    "It'll work," Spinoza told him sharply, glaring. "Give it time, Larry."
    "Time? Give it time, Frank?" Liguori looked incredulous. "Six damn months..."
    Guarini interrupted Liguori.
    "You're all out of time, Frank."
    Spinoza cocked an eyebrow, feigning surprise as he stared down his nose at the Cleveland consigliere who had spoken out of turn.
    "You speaking for the family now, Tom?"
    "He speaks for me," Johnny Cats responded, his voice a rumble from inside his barrel chest.
    Spinoza shrugged.
    "Well, then — you both surprise me. I thought Cleveland had some legs."
    "We've got legs," Catalanotte said, bristling. "And I'm not waiting for some lousy Jap to cut them off around the ankles." He leaned across the table toward Spinoza, index finger pointed like a pistol barrel. "I won't let anybody sneak up on my blind side like they did with Bobby, rest his soul."
    "A goddamn sneak attack," Liguori blurted out. "Pearl Harbor in the frigging desert."
    Spinoza raised his hands again, trying to quiet the uproar with an effort.
    "Take it easy, everybody. The commissioners aren't sitting on their hands. No one has anything to worry about."
    Johnny Cats snorted.
    "Tell that to Bob Minotte, Frank."
    "Minotte was..."
    "He was set up, goddammit!"
    Julio DePalma had been listening to the hot exchange, and now he could contain himself no longer.
    Lurching to his feet, he overturned his chair and the two flankers had to step aside as it flew backward, grazing one of them on its way to the carpet. Every eye was on DePalma as he leaned across the conference table, supported on one hand, shaking the other fist at Frank Spinoza.
    "Kuwahara's chopsticks set him up and knocked him over while his good friends sat back watching."
    Spinoza fought to control the anger rising in his throat.
    "We all know how you feel..."
    "You don't know shit,