Toro performed a quiet introduction. Her name was Margarita, and the lustrous dark eyes did not miss a detail of Bolan's physical presence. He became awkwardly aware of his ill-fitting jeans and dust-sweat-caked torso, mumbling an acknowledgement of the introduction as he slid onto the rear seat of the jeep. Toro climbed in beside the girl and they conversed in rapid Spanish as the vehicle sped along the lane at suicidal speeds — or so it seemed to Bolan, considering the terrain. The girl's statements at times took on an agitated quality and she would toss her head angrily with an occasional quick snap toward their visitor. Bolan began to feel like an unwelcome dinner guest.
The night had firmly settled in when they reached the compound, and a chill was falling upon the air. As the jeep bounced to a halt, Toro stood on the floor and hurled an authoritative string of Spanish phrases toward a guard tower, high above them. A floodlight flashed on and washed the jeep with a brilliant glare. Bolan closed his eyes but kept his face elevated, in his mind visualizing an armed camp with machine-gun towers, barbed wire, and nervous sentries with willing fingers. Someone opened a gate, Toro sat down, the floodlight went off, and the jeep went in.
Bolan experienced a surge of uneasiness as the gate closed behind him. He had played a hunch and ridden it to the bitter end . . . but what if his instincts had gone awry? How did he know that Toro was a friend . . . or a militant exile . . . or even a Cuban? And even if it were all true, the Cuban bit and all, how could Bolan be sure that the Mafia cancer had not spread to include such groups for one purpose or another? He discovered that he was breathing too shallow, his stomach tight and queasy. He forced himself to relax and to still the disquieting doubts. They were speeding along a smoother road, headlamps extinguished, and with a total cessation of conversation in the front seat.
A dip, a wild turn, then an abrupt climb and they broke into a large clearing. Dismal yellow light seeped from the open windows of a dozen or more long and lowslung barracks-type wooden buildings. Somewhere a man was strumming a guitar and singing in soft Spanish. The jeep slowed and swerved between several buildings, then again broke open ground and jounced to a halt in front of a crumbling stucco house. A number of men in varying styles of dress filed out through the wide doorway and lined the rail of the veranda, staring quietly at the new arrivals.
The girl leapt from the jeep and went into the house without a backward look. Toro showed Bolan a flashing smile, then stepped to the ground and delivered a flourishing statement in Spanish to the men on the veranda.
Bolan caught only the last few words, ". . . Senor Mack Bolan, El Matador!"
The announcement produced a startled reaction from the men on the porch. Then they made a rush for the jeep. A fat man with a cigar clenched between his teeth grabbed Bolan's hand and helped him to the ground. The others milled about, exclaiming excitedly in hushed Spanish, and pressing warm handshakes upon the surprised visitor.
Toro caught Bolan's amazed reaction and quietly extricated him from the welcoming, moving him insistently toward the house. "Is it so surprising, Senor Bolan," he said, grinning, "that courage and daring is admired in this place?"
"I guess not," Bolan replied. His doubts had left him. El Matador, he was certain, was in the very best of hands.
Chapter Eleven
A matter for competition
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.