Miami Massacre Read Online Free PDF

'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.
    A bearded male moved quickly forward and placed a hand over the camera lens. "Peace, man," he said in a soft voice. "Where does it say groovy group poses for pix at plane palace?"
    The traffic had halted and there was some impatient