Portocci marched woodenly on toward the cars as though he had not heard. Balderone added, "Freddie the Swinger is dead, so's Ralph Apples, Toadie Pangini, and all your soldiers. Did you hear me? He got 'em all."
Salvatore Di Carlo, another Lavangetta under-boss headquartered at Tucson, cleared his throat nervously and curled his fingers into the sleeve of Balderone's coat. "Any action down in my territory?" he inquired.
Balderone shook his head, "Not that we heard, Sal." He glanced about for a quick check of the faces in the Arizona delegation. "Who'd you leave the store with? Marty?"
"Yeah," Di Carlo growled. "I'm gonna call." He split off from the main group and walked rapidly toward a line of telephone booths.
Portocci did not speak until the party reached the vehicles, then he turned to Balderone and said, "Does Ciro know?"
"Sure he knows," Balderone replied. "He's the one told me."
"What'd he have to say?"
"He said he was glad you got out when you did. He also said he wonders if you left a trail outta Phoenix."
"Yeah, I left a trail," the musician muttered. "A condensation trail, at thirty thousand feet."
"Huh?"
Portocci grimaced impatiently and said, "Where's Ciro?"
"He's out at the joint. He says you should go straight to the Sandbank and stay there until he calls."
"Grapeshit. What kind of a dump is this Sandbank?"
"It's okay, Johnny," Balderone replied nervously. "Nice place, right on the beach."
Portocci was scowling. "Why can't we go out to the joint?"
"The bosses say no more Appalachians, Johnny. We're not mobbing up down here. Guys are scattered all around. They're setting up a schedule for the meetings and we'll have some parties, don't worry about that, but we ain't living together. I mean, we ain't setting up for no bust down here, like at Appalachian."
Portocci soberly nodded his head in understanding. "So why'd we have to come in the first place, eh?" he asked sourly.
"Christ, Johnny, you know how things have been going. The bosses are plenty nervous. We're getting busted everywhere. They even got Sammy-"
"I know about Sammy and his big damn mouth!" Portocci interrupted. "So did he make it for the meet?"
"Sure!" Balderone scoffed. "You don't think a little bust like that is going to put down Sam the-"
"So the Commissions is in full session. So now you tell me, Vin — is there any reason why the rest of us have to come down here and lay out in a crummy fleabag motel? I don't like this slinking around bit, Vin, and Ciro knows that. Listen. You get back inside there and give him a call. Tell Ciro that Johnny Portocci is going back to Phoenix. I got too much to lose back there to-"
"Hell no, I'm not doing that, Johnny," Balderone protested. "Don't drag me in the middle of you and Ciro."
Portocci seemed to be pondering the idea. "You think he wouldn't like it, eh?"
"You know damn well he wouldn't like it. All the other bosses got their administrations here with 'em. That would be embarassing to Ciro, if you up and took a walk on 'im."
"Is that the way it would look, Vin? Like I was taking a walk?"
"That's the way it would look to me, Johnny. Ciro too. I know him and so do you."
"What would you do, Vin, if some wild man had just shot up your palazzo?"
Balderone frowned and shrugged his shoulders. "Like Ciro, I'd figure that wild man was long gone from Phoenix by now, Johnny. You can't use that as an excuse to go back. The bosses are already taking steps about Bolan, don't worry. They figure he maybe will track you here."
Portocci screwed his face into a thoughtful scowl and quietly watched the approach of Salvatore Di Carlo, who was then descending the steps to the vehicle area. The other members of the party stood about in a strained silence.
Balderone tried again. "Go on out to the Sandbank, Johnny. Ciro will get in touch with you there. That's instructions, Johnny — and, hell, you know not from me."
"What're you going to be doing, Vin?" Portocci asked in a quiet drawl.
"I'm . . . we . . . the bosses want a screen at every airport. I'm in charge of this one."
"You mean you got soldiers crawling all over this place, that's what you mean, huh. I spotted some, so don't tell me different. You've got something on this Bolan and you're just waiting for him to show, huh."
Balderone licked his lips and studied Portocci with reproachful eyes. "Don't you go telling Ciro I told you that," he said angrily. "He don't want you in this, Johnny. He wants you at the Sandbank."
"That's what I figured," Portocci said, his voice sullen. "He wants me covered up in a fleabag while somebody else does my work. I don't like that, Vin. You know I don't like that at all. It turns my guts over."
Di Carlo rejoined them at that moment. He asked, "What turns your guts over? This Bolan? Hey, he hasn't made any tracks around my territory."
"Course not," Portocci growled. "He's coming here. Everybody seems to know that but you and me, Sal."
"Now look, Johnny," Balderone put in anxiously. "We're using all local talent for this job. The bosses don't want no tie-back to a national convention here. Anyway, we don't know he'll show up. We're just getting ready, just in case. Why should you spend the whole night just standing around here, huh? Hell, you're too big a man for stake-out jobs. These local boys ain't got nothing better to do than-"
"I don't know how good your local talent is, Vin," Portocci said musingly. "I mean, a lot of people come through this airport, right? How're they going to spot this Bolan, huh?"
"Hell, we got those sketches, Johnny. We all know what he looks like."
"Naw, you don't, Vin, you don't know what this boy looks like. Nobody knows what this boy looks like for sure, 'cept maybe a bunch of dead men. It's got to be a thing of instinct, Vin, spotting this Bolan. And I'm not so sure of local instincts."
"Look, you let us worry about that. And you worry about Ciro Lavangetta, or you better. He says you go to the Sandbank. I think you better be at the Sandbank when he calls, eh. You know what I mean, Johnny?"
"Don't get flip with me, Miami Vino."
Balderone colored furiously. "This ain't Miami Vino talking, Johnny. This is Ciro talking, and the words say that Mr. Portocci checks in at the Sandbank in Miami Beach. Now of course I can go back in there to a telephone and tell Mr. Lavangetta that Mr. Portocci says to go to-"
Johnny the Musician interrupted the angry speech with a loud laugh. He opened the door of the lead vehicle and gently shoved Di Carlo in ahead of him. "Okay okay," he said agreeably. "We'll go to the damn Sandbag, but I just wish to god I was still in Phoenix. I'll bet there's not a ready broad in this whole damn town."
"That's where you're wrong, Johnny," Balderone replied, smirking. "I got broads all over the Beach, the cream of the country, too. And I already sent some out to the Sandbank. That's bank, not bag. Don't go calling it no Sandbag. I got a half-int in that place, Johnny, and I'm telling you it's nothing but first class. The broads too."
"Forget the baggy broads!" Portocci snarled, his anger resurfacing. "You bring me Bolan! Hear? I got full int in that boy, and Iwant 'im! Not dead, either, but alive enough to kick and scream a while! You know what I mean, Vin? No quick'n easy bullet for this boy!" He stepped into the car and slammed the door.