Don Pendleton: Caribbean Kill

Lavagni had never seriously regarded himself as a candidate for Arnie Farmer's vacant throne. A wishful thought or two, sure, any guy would think about a thing like that. But Quick Tony had been not quite so quick to reach for those heady reins of power. For one thing, he was convalescing from that close scrape with death in France. Also, there were a couple others clearly above him in the line of succession, very capable others whom Lavagni did not really wish to cross. He preferred to play it cool, and almost surely he would be moved into an underboss spot regardless of who eventually succeeded to Amie's crown. Tony was content to leave the scrambling to Weeney Scarbo and Big Gus Riappi, the major contenders.

But then, before the Commissione had time to pick the successor, another round of attrition started. Weeney had been in New York, politicking with the big city bosses, when Bolan made his hit up there… and Weeney had got hisself caught in that horror out at the Long Island joint — not killed, no, but enough of his brains were removed so he'd probably never be up and walking around again — hell, Weeney would probably never even feed himself again.

That left only Big Gus, and Tony was next in rank below him.

Lavagni had been in Miami, fully recovered now from that mess in France but content to lie about in the Florida sun for awhile longer, when the call came down from the top.

"The Talifero brothers lost it at Vegas," was the message, which could mean they were dead or anything. "We've got Bolan made, though. He's calling himself Frank Vinton, and right now he's on a run to the Caribbean in one of our planes. We want you to get up a party and meet him at Glass Bay."

"Okay, sure, I'll be glad to," Lavagni had replied without hesitation.

"We knew you would. Something else you should know, Tony. We haven't made up our minds yet about the new head of the Atlantic Seaboard Company. You make a good show at Glass Bay and… well, what else do we have to say, Tony?"

The thinly veiled promise had struck Lavagni momentarily dumb. When his voice returned he simply replied, "Yessir, I understand. How much time do I have to get there?"

"We're slowing him all we can without actually showing our hand. But you have, at the very most, six hours. You'll have to move fast."

"What if I don't beat him there?" Tony had wanted to know.

"Then he'll get met by Vince Triesta."

"Oh, well, I guess I sure better move fast," he'd replied soberly.

"We're making all the arrangements for your transportation, Tony. Just get a party together and get in touch with Jake Schuman for the rest. You're jetting to San Juan direct, helicopters on into Glass Bay. Jake will handle your financing and all of your materials requirements. You know. Recruit as many hunters as you can round up, keeping in mind the time problem. They'll be paid in advance as they board the plane."

Freelancers. Quick Tony had again gotten stuck with a bunch of goddam freelance streetcorner rod-men. So okay, fuck it. He'd known that Charlie Dragone was in town, also probably two or three other experienced hands were around, enough to build a force on.

"I want an open ticket," he'd told the commissioner. "I want authority to tap any boy around here that I like. And I want it clearly understood with Vince Triesta who'll be running the show at Glass Bay."

"Don't worry, Tony, we're putting out the word. He's all yours, baby."

Yeah. All Tony's. As quick as that. And Quick Tony had left Miami less than two hours later, and with a pretty good force after all, considering the sudden notice plus the fact that he was a long way from home turf. And it was not until he had settled into the cushions of the chartered jetliner that the full implications of the thing crashed into his mind.

God, he could come out of this contract wearing the crown of the Lower Atlantic Seaboard, boss of all that moved and breathed between Jersey and Jacksonville. Arnie Farmer's crown was still floating around, awaiting a suitable head to descend upon. And Quick Tony Lavagni had suddenly decided that his very own head was both suitable and deserving. And why not? He had been a loyal and hard working family man for going onto a quarter of a century now. His only serious failure had been that business in France… and, hell, Bolan had disgraced better triggermen than Tony Lavagni.

Maybe, he'd decided, this was the Commissione's reasoning: give Tony another shot at the bastard, let him redeem himself. Yeh. And surely the guy who could come up with Bolan's skull would be worthy of something extra special for his own head. Something like, say, the Lower Atlantic Seaboard. Yeh. And Quick Tony had begun to dream of empire.

So what the hell, the thing had started going sour right at the start. No time for the setup at Glass Bay, and Bolan's goddam grandstand play, the bastard. So what kind of a nut should believe that Bolan would be a pushover? The guy hadn't won anything yet… the thing had only started, not ended… and Quick Tony was now satisfied that he had found the place where his quarry had come ashore.

He was kneeling in the finely packed sand near the waterline and running a visual triangulation between the house, which was about a half a mile downshore, and the encroachment of jungle flora, less than twenty feet away. The shoreline jogged slightly at that point, creating a shallow indentation which would be invisible from the house.

Sure, it all fit. "This is where, all right," Lavagnl announced to chief gunner Charlie Dragone. He lifted an arm and sighted across the bay. "Yeah, and it was a hell of a long swim, nearly a mile I'd say. He could've cut that in half, but he was looking for cover, not comfort. And looka here…" The Mafia chieftain was running the palm of his hand along the sand. "Still wet right here. We can't be more than a few minutes behind him. I bet that goddam guy swum underwater the whole way. Now… that can only mean…"

The voice trailed away and Lavagni stared speculatively across the small width of beach.

Dragone rose nervously to his feet, standing in a half-crouch with both hands on his hips and gazed back toward the house. Smoke was still pouring out back there. Now and then a tongue of flame would lick clear of the smoke, a reminder that all was not over down there, either.

"You figure maybe he's circling back to the joint?" the crewchief mused.

"Naw." Lavagni stood up and spat into the water. Somewhere he'd heard that it was supposed to bring good luck. "After a swim like that he's probably all worn out. Probably laying low, somewheres in that Jungle there, just getting his breath. What Grimaldi have to say about his hardware?"

"He only saw one gun. Said it was an automatic with a silencer."

Lavagni snorted. "That Beretta, probably. That's his hotsy, but it ain't going to be hot enough this time."

Dragone looked worried. He said, "Well the longer we wait…."

"Let 'im run awhile," Lavagni said casually. "Who's got the walky-talky?"

"Latigo."

"Awright. You tell Latigo to get those plugs in place. Just the way we laid it out. And tell him not to screw around with this guy, he's bad news all the way. Don't give 'im an inch, not a damn inch."

"Okay." Dragone took a step forward, then froze and whirled about as one of his gunners moved quickly onto the beach and hoarsely whispered, "Boss! We found something!"

Both men hurried across the sand to inspect a soggy package of cigarettes and a paper matchbook bearing the imprint of a Las Vegas casino. The gunner was explaining, "We found it in the bushes back here, just off the beach."

"Where's Tilly?" Dragone asked quickly.

"He's in there, looking for tracks."

Lavagni hissed, "Tracks hell! Get that guy outta there!" He took his crewchief by the arm and whispered, "Get Latigo moving. Then get all your boys down here and lined up. No more'n ten foot intervals. Put the center of your line right here. But we don't start the sweep until Latigo says the plugs are all in. You got that?"