Shock Waves(23)

His time was coming, but he had not come this far by ignoring danger signs. If Lazarus could not pin down the latest threat, Minelli would be forced to do the job himself.

And there would be no shortage of suspects.

The Ace was right in pointing out that Jules and Cigliano could not be absolved without a second glance. The sniper's pinpoint accuracy, their amazing fortune, all demanded closer scrutiny before he wrote them off as the intended victims of a hit.

As for the others...

There were candidates right there, in Don Minelli's own backyard, among the other New York families. Frank Bonadonna. Tom Gregorio. Vito Aguirre. Giuseppe Reina. The first two were almost openly hostile toward Minelli's new expansion, and none of them, he knew, was above suspicion.

Bobby D'Antoni, the Jersey capo, was a friend. Or was he? He possessed the muscle to become a major problem if he underwent a change of heart.

Santos Bataglia, out of Boston, was at best a friendly neutral. That was fine with Minelli, as long as he remained that way. But might a better offer sway him, move him firmly into the opposition camp? It was something to think about.

Chicago's Paulie Viccarelli had some problems of his own, with the IRS, the federal strike force peering up his asshole with a spotlight. By rights, he should be too damned busy to initiate a war... but on the other hand, he might be feeling insecure enough to read a threat in Don Minelli's sudden growth. Another possible.

Vince Galante, the Cleveland capo, was a wild card, dabbling in business with the Jews and Cubans as if they were all his long-lost relatives or something. It was possible that he would move on their behalf or on behalf of other outside forces, to consolidate his strong narcotics base and open new supply routes to the south and east.

Jerry Lazia, boss of the Dixie Mafia with his base in New Orleans, was tight with Viccarelli and Galante in the smuggling of heroin, cocaine, you name it. He had as many Cubans and Colombians on the goddamn payroll as he did amici... and he was another wild card.

In sum, Minelli realized that none of the expected delegates was totally above suspicion. Any of them might harbor some hostility, turn thoughts to action, and if two or more were joining hands against him...

No matter.

The Manhattan capo dismissed it, secure in his belief that there was nothing they could do to stop him now.

He had Eritrea on ice to show them his connections were the very best. That he was able to succeed where each of them, in turn, had failed.

And if Eritrea was not enough, he had his clincher in reserve. The damn-sure winning card securely tucked inside his sleeve. When he had let them see the pigeon, when he had revealed himself for who he really was, they would not dare to stand against him, singly or en masse.

He ran his eyes along the line of trees, two hundred yards away across the lawn, and picked out tiny figures laboring with shovels there. Two graves... and it could be two dozen, for all he cared.

Minelli's hands were steady when he turned back from the window. No longer trembling inside, he knew that he was equal to the challenge he had set himself. It was his destiny to occupy the brotherhood's long-vacant throne as the boss of bosses.

It was his birthright.

And there would be last rites, yes, for anyone who stood in opposition now. The future was his. As for the rest, they were expendable.

Within the hour they would be arriving from the airport, from their homes around Manhattan and Long Island. Minelli would be there to greet them with open arms and welcome them into the fold. The wise and loyal among them jwould be going home when he was finished, after they had jput their seal of approval on his coronation. The rest would stay to keep him company and beautify the grounds.

He smiled.

Tonight was his.

Tonight he would fulfill his destiny.





11




Bolan tested the fire escape, keeping his grip on the edge of the roof until satisfied that it would hold his weight. It was an eighty-foot drop to the alley below, with nothing but trash cans and overflowing dumpsters to break a fall. When he was confident the scaffolding would not collapse beneath him, Bolan released his handhold, started down.

The target was a South Bronx tenement, identical to countless others in the blighted neighborhood. Officially condemned, they were more or less abandoned, save for rats and roaches, homeless drifters, any one of half a hundred street gangs thriving in the squalid urban jungle. Others had been torched — by landlords, angry neighbors, someone — until the neighborhood resembled London in the blitz.

The tenement was owned by a Manhattan corporation that in turn was owned by Don Francesco Bonadonna. On its seventh floor, it housed a full-scale powder factory, devoted to the cutting and repackaging of heroin, cocaine and other drugs for retail distribution on the streets. The plant was one of half a dozen in the Bronx, and Bonadonna had at least as many in Manhattan, cranking out more poison by the kilo, day and night.