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 the kicks, all the-"
"Pictures, where'd you get pictures?" Aggravante growled.
"Sketches," Lavangetta amended. "We got one of those artists like the cops use. You know, these composite pictures." He saw a chance to make a point, and quickly seized it. "Remember, my boys were the first into Palm Springs after this guy left his mess there. Somebody had to pick up the pieces. We picked up also a trail, that's why so much action in Arizona here lately. We been right on this boy's tail all the way."
"Yeah, you got some piece o' tail all right," Aggravante observed sourly. "Looks like it swung you all the way to Miami."
Speaking between tight lips, Lavangetta said, "Look, I come to council, just like you. Now I don't wanta be disrespectful, Mr. Aggravante, but you got your ass showing a mile. You better tuck it back in, 'cause I'm not in any mood for-"
Marinello hurried into the heated exchange with, "Ay ay, fratelli, fratelli."He thoughtfully rubbed his chin and said, "Ciro's right, Georgie. You been diggin' him pretty good, and he's got enough on his mind without that. What happened in Arizona could have happened to any of us at a time like this. Now we came here to discuss our problems. This Bolan boy is one of 'em. I think we better start establishing priorities and I think maybe we should start right here, with Bolan."
"The big mistake," Aggravante said pleasantly, as though no rebuke had been uttered, "is that we been sitting around waiting for someone else to fix the problem for us. Bolan, I mean. We hope the cops will get him. We hope some freelancer will cash in on that open contract. We hope, we hope, and we don't do anything."
"Speak for yourself," Lavangetta muttered. "I gotta bury about a dozen boys when I get back home."
"I'm speaking for all of us," the old man replied. "You're talking about priorities, Augie." He reached over and picked up the marksman's medal. "There's number one. Anyone thinks otherwise is sciocco— a fool. This Bolan is a fox that chases hounds, no?"
"Look, you're crying about nothing!" Lavangetta declared emotionally. "I'm telling you I'm on top of it! You watch what happens to this fox when he gets to Miami, eh? You watch!"
A man at the other side of the table spoke into the sudden silence. "Don't nobody forget where this Bolan got started," he said. "Anybody thinks Sergio was an old lady had better step outside and fight me right now. This Bolan is a one-man army, never mind about foxes and hounds. And if he's in Miami, I'm telling you right now we better move our convention somewheres else."
The speaker was Frank Milano, successor to the late Sergio Frenchi, the first Mafia boss to bite The Executioner's dust. Noting, with some surprise, that he still held the floor, Milano added, "That is, if we expect to get any business done. I mean . . . ."
"We know what you mean, Frank," Marinello said quietly. "And you're right. Sergio was a man among men, nobody won't ever say otherwise."
Aggravante was staring at his hands. He said, "Tell Father Sergio, Frankie, that Ciro Lavangetta guards his grave."
"Look, I wasn't meaning to cut anybody down," Lavangetta said, his tone clearly apologetic. "I just want everybody here to know that I'm on top of this Bolan thing. If he gets within 50 miles of this room, he's a dead man. I just want you all to know that. And we can get on with our business. We got important things to discuss. Right, Augie?"
Marinello started to say something in reply but checked himself as the door cracked open and a roving eye caught his attention. He flashed a glance at Lavangetta and said, "I think one of your boys wants you, Ciro."
Lavangetta quickly left his chair and went to the door for a whispered consultation. When he returned to the table his face was ashen and his hands shook as he lit a cigar. The other members were staring at him curiously, none speaking. When he'd gotten the cigar going, Marinello quietly asked, "Bad news, Ciro?"
"Yeah, bad news," Lavangetta croaked. He was staring intently at a package of matches and speaking around the furiously smoking cigar. "Tommy Janno just called in from the Sandbank. Johnny the Musician and Miami Vino just got hit."
A brief silence followed, then: "You mean they're dead?"
"Yeah, that's what I mean. Sittin' there right by the pool, right there at the Sandbank. And somebody pumped a bullet into both of 'em. Imagine that. Somebody just-"
"Somebody!" Aggravante yelped.
Lavangetta sighed. "I guess it was Bolan."
Aggravante turned an angry gaze to Augie Marinello. "He means the guy he's right on top of," he said nastily.
Marinello snapped, "Get me the Talifero brothers!" His brooding gaze swept the assembled bosses and he amended the demand by adding, "I mean, I make a motion that we delegate this problem to Pat and Mike Talifero. Do I hear any objections?"
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.
Chapter Seven
A difference
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.