Balderone's face was flushed as he leaned down to peer through the open window. "From what I hear," he said in a calm voice, "you better be glad to get 'im any way we can bring 'im in. I ain't guaranteeing no condition on delivery."
The other members of the Arizona delegation were scrambling into a line of cars to the rear. As the small caravan eased out of the terminal area, Balderone stepped quickly into the shadows of the terminal and whistled softly. A man in an airline uniform moved out to join him. Balderone breathed a relieved sigh and said, "Okay, we got Mr. Tough out of the way, now let's get set. You got your boy up in the tower?"
The uniformed man nodded and tapped finger on a small device at his ear. "He's up and I'm tuned in," he reported.
"Okay, that's great." The thickset Mafia veteran withdrew a small transistorized two-way radio from his pocket. He grinned, extended the antenna, and said, "To hell with that guy. We got instincts and more. We got a sure thing, ain't that right."
His companion smiled back. "Yes, sir, I'd say so. That Cessna business jet out of Phoenix looks like the real article. According to his flight plan, he'll arrive just before dawn."
Balderone soberly nodded his head. "Okay, you take your station now. I'll be up on the observation deck. You give us a quick make on every plane landing. Don't you try to decide which ones are important. You let me decide."'
"Sure, Mr. Balderone."
"Tell your boy upstairs the same thing. I ain't paying no five thou for decisions, I'm paying for solid info and I don't wanna see nothing dropped."
"Sure thing. Uh, I hope you have some men at the flying service, sir. That's where these private charter jobs tie up."
"Listen I even got boys on the damn gas trucks, don't you worry about that. You just keep . . ." His words trailed off as he turned an expectant gaze toward the awkward approach of two men burdened with equipment cases and other paraphernalia — apparently photographic equipment. "You got all the stuff?" he asked.
One of the new arrivals grinned and extended an oblong leather case. "If you mean this, yeah. It will drop a charging rhino, and you can see the man on the moon's pimples through that scope."
Balderone smiled and patted the case, then slung it over his shoulder. "I'll carry the tripod, too," he offered. "You boys ain't never gonna make it to the roof with all this. Hey, don't forget my press card."
The man in the airline uniform was exhibiting a troubled frown. "You aren't, uh, planning on doing any shooting from up there, are you?"
"Naw, we're not planning," Balderone replied. "This's just our little handy dandy screen patcher, just in case a hole develops. Instant reweaving, see, right on the spot." He chuckled and walked away, the other two men following closely. The Miami screen was about to be lowered firmly into place.
Chapter Three
The soft sweep
The gray November dawn at Miami International revealed a scene of relative inactivity. Several airliners were loading, sleepy-eyed passengers moving quietly and unhurriedly along the ramps and into the planes. A small Caribe Airlines arrival was unloading in the customs area. An Eastern Airlines flight had just completed its landing roll and was turning onto a taxiway. At the far end of the airport, the low-slung building and hangars of the private flying service were just as quiet, with very little sign of activity.
Inside the terminal, 50 to 60 between-flight travelers slumped tiredly in lounge chairs or wandered restlessly about the quietened building; a lively breakfast trade in the restaurant provided the only signs of bustling activity, and even here the sounds were subdued and in keeping with the solemnity of sunrise.
On a parapet above the observation deck, outside the main terminal, two men continued a quiet vigil — surrounded by an impressive array of photographic equipment. Below them, leaning against the deck railing, a large man in a baby blue suit was peering onto the field through powerful binoculars. He lowered the glasses, allowing them to swing from a strap about his neck, and spoke into a small radio. "How 'bout this big jet just landed?"
The reply came instantly. "Eastern flight from New York. Made stops at Washington and Jacksonville. I just gave that to you."
"Just checking." The big man sighed and rubbed at his eyes, then again lifted the binoculars to follow the progress of the jetliner along the taxiway. A man in a porter's uniform stepped through the doorway and approached the man at the railing.
"Like some more coffee, sir?" the porter asked.
"Naw, we're floating now," Balderone replied.
"Well . . . I'm going off duty now. I'll tell my relief to take good care of you. Hope you get some good pictures."
Balderone dropped the binoculars to dig in his pockets. He found a bill and thrust it at the porter. "Tell 'im to just sort of keep spectators out of our way, eh."
The porter smiled and murmured his thanks and went back inside. Balderone was returning to the binoculars when his radio again crackled. "That charter job out of Phoenix finally reported into the Miami control area. Don't understand the delay but he'll land in about . . . say . . . ten minutes . . . and go into the flying service terminal."
"Okay. You hear that, Morry?"
"Yeah, I heard," came a bored voice from another distant location.
"Okay, I'm gonna run down and check these people offa the Eastern flight. Then I'm coming over with you. One of these has got to be it, so let's everyone get fully woke up."
A man on the parapet leaned forward to give Balderone a high sign. The big Mafioso waved back as he disappeared through the doorway. He went directly to the Eastern terminal area, carefully noting the positions of his screen men along the way, arriving just as the passengers were making their entrance. Instincts, Portocci had said. Ha! Vin Balderone would match his instincts against a pup like Johnny Portocci any day of the week. Johnny had come into the business when things were humming along and easy. Any old soldier, like Vin Balderone for example, who'd made it through those uncertain early days of the Maranzano era knew a thing or two about instincts.
He positioned himself in the narrow passageway so that each deplaning passenger would have to pass his close scrutiny. Then he scowled at one of his screen men farther back and unholstered an impressive looking press camera. The flashgun of the big camera would be the tip-off. Any passenger Vin "flashed" would be further scrutinized and shaken-down in some remote reach of the terminal by screen men with forged customs office credentials. No fireworks right out here on the floor, hell no, and no obvious strong-arming either. The damn Miami terminal had already been a source of considerable embarassment to the family; the damn FBI had killed a perfect betting setup right there in that terminal. There was no telling even now how many secret spy-drops they had about the place.
The first group to pass was a party of young women, excitedly giggling and chattering over a projected holiday in Nassau. Balderone passed them on with hardly a flicker of interest. Next came two elderly couples, moving sprightly and with almost as much enthusiasm as the young women. The procession continued, with Balderone "passing" young couples with babies, family groups, and assorted loners. About halfway through, a quiet group of weirdly-dressed youths appeared, about a dozen equally divided by sex. Most of the males sported shoulder-length hair and facial bush. The girls wore their hair in free-flowing cascades down their backs. Arm bands and ankle bracelets showed here and there. Some were barefoot, others wore high Indian boots or moccasins with buckskin leggings. Balderone experienced a surge of irritation mixed with apprehension. He quickly raised his camera and stepped into their path.