Miami Massacre

The night had firmly settled in when they reached the compound, and a chill was falling upon the air. As the jeep bounced to a halt, Toro stood on the floor and hurled an authoritative string of Spanish phrases toward a guard tower, high above them. A floodlight flashed on and washed the jeep with a brilliant glare. Bolan closed his eyes but kept his face elevated, in his mind visualizing an armed camp with machine-gun towers, barbed wire, and nervous sentries with willing fingers. Someone opened a gate, Toro sat down, the floodlight went off, and the jeep went in.

Bolan experienced a surge of uneasiness as the gate closed behind him. He had played a hunch and ridden it to the bitter end . . . but what if his instincts had gone awry? How did he know that Toro was a friend . . . or a militant exile . . . or even a Cuban? And even if it were all true, the Cuban bit and all, how could Bolan be sure that the Mafia cancer had not spread to include such groups for one purpose or another? He discovered that he was breathing too shallow, his stomach tight and queasy. He forced himself to relax and to still the disquieting doubts. They were speeding along a smoother road, headlamps extinguished, and with a total cessation of conversation in the front seat.

A dip, a wild turn, then an abrupt climb and they broke into a large clearing. Dismal yellow light seeped from the open windows of a dozen or more long and lowslung barracks-type wooden buildings. Somewhere a man was strumming a guitar and singing in soft Spanish. The jeep slowed and swerved between several buildings, then again broke open ground and jounced to a halt in front of a crumbling stucco house. A number of men in varying styles of dress filed out through the wide doorway and lined the rail of the veranda, staring quietly at the new arrivals.

The girl leapt from the jeep and went into the house without a backward look. Toro showed Bolan a flashing smile, then stepped to the ground and delivered a flourishing statement in Spanish to the men on the veranda.

Bolan caught only the last few words, ". . . Senor Mack Bolan, El Matador!"

The a

Toro caught Bolan's amazed reaction and quietly extricated him from the welcoming, moving him insistently toward the house. "Is it so surprising, Senor Bolan," he said, gri

"I guess not," Bolan replied. His doubts had left him. El Matador, he was certain, was in the very best of hands.

Chapter Eleven

A matter for competition

Ciro Lavangetta had put in a rough day . . . and it was getting rougher by the minute. George the Butcher had been needling him mercilessly, with at least the tacit approval of the eastern bosses — right up to the moment when the electrifying news came in from the Tidewater Plaza. From that point on it had been sheer turmoil, with Ciro on the hotseat, being required to repeat over and over each tiny detail of his entirely second-hand knowledge of Mack the Bastard Bolan.

The Talifero brothers had presented the worst ordeal, with their suavely cold ma

The whole thing was terribly u

The Arizona chieftain's discomfiture was understandable enough. The Talifero brothers were not every day items in the life of a Costa Nostra boss. They occupied a unique niche in the family hierarchy, answering to no particular Capo or family, but to the invisible and impersonal body of the Commissione itself. Indeed, the Taliferos constituted a "family" of their own, also largely invisible, impersonal and loyal only to the unified concept of "this thing of ours," or La Cosa Nostra.

It is not certain as to just how, when, or by whom the brothers were originally empowered to carry out the Commissioners' edicts. It is not even known if Talifero is the true family name (a constructed name could be suggested by the Italian tale, meaning "such," and ferro, "iron") but that they were brothers is beyond contest. They were, it seems, identical twins. Each stood about six feet tall, weighed about 175, had dark hair, light skin, blue eyes, and were evidently well educated. Legend has it that they were graduated from the Harvard Law School; if so, they did not attend under the name Talifero.

At the time of the Miami convention, the brothers were about 40 years of age. They dressed immaculately, spoke precise English in the Harvard ma

A normal Mafia family was actually a business enterprise, geared to the accumulation of money by whatever means available. Contrary to their public image, the Families did not normally indulge in overt criminal activities, such as armed robbery, burglary, etc. Occasionally an individual Mafioso, short of funds and seeking a new stake, might pull a stick-up or a hijack, but this type of activity was generally frowned on by the Family itself, considered far too risky for the rewards available. Relative safety with rich rewards was much more likely along the "trade routes" of the underworld, in endeavors such as gambling, loan-sharking, narcotics wholesaling (never retailing), smuggling, and brokerages in illegal whiskey, stolen automobiles and appliances, etc. Labor racketeering had also proven lucrative, and millions of illegally acquired dollars had moved into legitimate trade areas like banking, construction, trucking, vending machines, garbage collection, nightclubs and casinos, restaurants and bars, and virtually anywhere that profits could be reaped by unscrupulous and non-regulated manipulating.

Violence upon the outside world, then, was not a normal Mafia pursuit; that is, it was not regarded as profitable. A certain amount of strong-arming was perhaps inevitable in some minority of business pursuits; for the most part, however, violence was a thing of, in, and around the underworld itself. Protection of trade routes, for example, against invasion by outside or competitive interests; enforcement of Family fealty and territorial rights against over-ambitious Mafiosi; and, of course, protection of the Families themselves against unwarranted persecution by members of the "straight" community and legal establishment. In this co