"What I got in mind, Sally, is bleedin' the weenie with a Bolan bite."
"Shit, you say the funniest things at the funniest times, Ciro," Di Carlo complained soberly.
Hannon was positive that he was going to retire after this case. He had used up an entire year of police energy in this one orgiastic day of unbridled mayhem; anything after this would be anti-climactic anyway. He took a final look at the charred corpses in the rubble-heap, said tiredly, "Okay, get them out of here," and moved aside to give the coroner's boys the grisly remains.
A uniformed patrolman followed Hannon back to the street and, in a conversational tone, asked, "What'd he use on those guys, captain — a flame thrower?"
"I would not be at all surprised," Hannon replied in a quiet voice. He paused and stared toward the death car. "There's a story lurking here," he mused half-aloud. "And it could be a very romantic story. But I'm not quite ready to buy it."
"Sir?"
"Never mind. Any make on the girl yet?"
"No sir. Except that she's Cuban, and she's wearing-"
"Hell I know all that!"
"We don't have an identification, captain."
"All right. You stay right here with the car and you don't let anyone touch it, I mean not the chief himself, until the lab boys release it. Then you get it down to the police garage and you seal it up tight. You tell the lab people that I want something to definitely relate those charred corpses to this vehicle. I want physical evidence."
"Yes sir."
Hannon sighed and went to his car, picked up the mike, and contacted Dade Force dispatch. "How many mobile units are tied up in that soiree out at the raceway?" he asked.
"Twelve, sir," came the reply.
"All right, release six of those and send 'em over here. We'll assign definite stations while they're en route. What'll it take, about an hour?"
"Half that if we blue-light them, Captain."
"All right, blue-light them. Next I want a Dade alert call. I want every man on the job, and it'll take a doctor's statement to alibi any absence. You get them in and assembled and I'll have instructions by the time I get in. Have they gotten anything from Tommy Janno yet?"
"No sir, but he's conscious and they're still trying. He's in the room right next to Lt. Wilson, by the way."
"Okay, I'm coming in. Get those calls going."
Hannon racked his mike and set the car in motion. This massacre had gone far enough. It was going to be stopped . . . or by god Hannon was going to call the President.
Bolan had completed his recon and the picture was entirely readable to his mind. No one, it appeared, was going to bed. The patio gardens were filled with seemingly relaxed and congenial men, sitting around tables, talking, laughing, drinking — living it up. Except for the hardmen who were placed strategically about the perimeters, the Hacienda reeked with party atmosphere. Only a couple of details belied this. First and most graphic, no women were present. This was a large item. Secondly, the waiters did not move like waiters. They were clumsy, and frequently dropped things, and seemed to forever be scrambling their orders, producing an almost comic opera effect with much good-natured kidding and heckling from those being served.
All this fitted neatly into Bolan's developing strategy. As long as the Mafiosi had been intermingled with the "straight" public, his angle of attack had to be geared to pinpointed singling-out and man-to-man confrontations. But with them clutched up in an exclusive gathering, Bolan could go for the big strike, using massive-kill techniques — he did not need to walk amongst them.
Bolan did, however, need a "hard drop" — a site with reasonable cover from which to conduct the assault. He had worked his way to the water's edge and just north of the hotel. The illumination from the Hacienda's outside lights was creating a twilight effect all along the ocean-front in that immediate area, except right at the waterline where the sloping beach provided a thin band of dense shadows. The tide was running low, giving Bolan several yards of hardpacked sand in utter darkness. Hardmen were thick in that particular perimeter, stationed close enough to converse with one another. With the covering purr of constantly breaking waves behind him, Bolan was moving slowly and carefully along that shadow-area and toward the galleon. The pier, he had decided, would make an ideal hard drop. The problem was that the enemy had evidently reached that same decision, and was then in possession. He passed within a few feet of a hardman who was trying vainly to light a cigarette in the stiff ocean breeze. Another man stationed several yards farther on had evidently found this amusing and was calling over heckling instructions.
"Hey, go tell Augie we need a smoking tent out here."
"Go to hell."
"Hey, my brother Angelo was in the navy. He says you gotta climb up inside your ass to light up, but then you got another hazard."
A chuckle, and, "Come over here and lend me your ass then."
Bolan slipped on past and made the overhang of the galleon. The mock-up was built to look as though the ship had been run aground, bow end to, and rode perpendicular to the beach. At high tide, very little of the floating pier was resting on dry sand and much of it was actually afloat. Now, with the tide running out, the situation was reversed; only the stern section was actually afloat. Three heavy cables angled down from the stern, holding the galleon firmly in position. Bolan slung his weapon parallel across his shoulders and moved quietly into the water. He was in to his chest and fighting the turbulent pull of the surf when he reached the nearest cable. Then he clenched a commando knife between his teeth and began the hand-over-hand climb to the galleon's deck, some fifteen feet above.
Hannon charged into the bull room and growlingly announced, "Okay, we got it. It's the Beach Hacienda, North Beach — let's roll! Pick up on the Dade Net for your assignments!" He wheeled about and led the squad of riot specialists through the tunnel and into the parking lot. A uniformed officer in a white helmet ran along beside him for a short distance.
"Standard riot roll, captain?" he inquired.
"We'll play it by the seat of our pants," Hannon puffed.
The officer nodded and peeled off toward his own vehicle. Hannon dropped into his car and muttered beneath his breath, "It's a blood roll, sergeant." Then he was screeching away, leading the blue-light procession to the massacre.
Lavangetta intercepted George the Butcher as the latter was making his way along the covered walkway toward his room. He said, "Listen, Georgie, I think it's about time we had an understanding."
Aggravante tried to push past him. "I've understood you for a long time, Ciro," he replied.
"I don't think you have, Georgie, and I think that's been the cause of all our trouble."
"You've never been any trouble to me, Capino," the old man replied nastily.
"That's all over with now," Lavangetta assured him, and quietly slashed George the Butcher's throat from ear to hairy ear.
The Boss of Arizona stepped quickly clear and dropped the knife into a lily pond, then began hoarsely shouting, "Get 'im! Get that guy! Get-"
His voice was quickly drowned out in the roaring of a heavy revolver in the courtyard just beyond, as Salvatore Di Carlo unloaded his gun into the roof. Nervous fingers all about the enclosure quickly joined in and a hail of slugs began chewing up the roof area directly above Aggravante's room.
Lavangetta had run into the courtyard, gun in hand, and joined the firing party. Augie Marinello charged out, flanked by two smooth-faced men in impeccable Palm Beach suits. "What is it?" he cried. "What's going on?"