Read Online Miami Massacre by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Don Pendleton
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through that lovely head just as nasty as the other two." He smiled. "But I didn't, you see."
She lay very still, staring at him with growing apprehension. She whispered, "I don't even know why you killed them, or anything about you. You have no reason to kill me."
"Maybe you're right. What do you know about Portocci?"
She shook her head. "Nothing. I never saw him before this morning."
"What's your name?"
"J-Jean. Kirkpatrick. I'm a model."
"What were you modeling this morning?"
"I . . . I . . ." Her eyes dropped in embarrassment and confusion.
"What?"
"Sometimes . . . when I don't have any modeling assignments . . . Mr. Balderone hires me to . . . as a companion for . . . his friends."
"Who is Balderone?"
"You k-killed him, and you don't even know him?"
"How would I go about getting a date with you, Jean?"
"Huh? You mean . . .?"
"Yes, that's what I mean. If I'd never met you, and knew nothing about you, how would I go about getting an introduction?"
"You, uh, you don't understand."
"I'll listen while you give me an understanding."
She had decided that Bolan was not going to murder her. She said, "Can I get up?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. Let's get this understanding first."
"I'm not a prostitute, if that's what you're thinking. I mean, there's a difference, a very important difference."
"All right, there's a difference. Tell me about it."
"I work for Mr. Balderone. He pays me himself. Between me and his friends it was just like fun, like a party . . . you know. I mean, no money passed. No business arrangements. You know what I mean?"
"Were all of Mr. Balderone's friends Italians?"
Her eyes blinked rapidly. "Not all the time."
"Look, kid, let's get something straight. How you make your living is your business. I'm not interested in that. I just want some live information, and I want it straight and quick. Are you reading me?"
The girl had begun to cry. Bolan was feeling miserable for her, but his face kept the secret. "You're mixed up with the Mafia," he told her.
"The what?"
"Portocci was the junior boss of a western family. Now I want to know . . . who was Balderone? What was his connection to Portocci?"
The girl shook her head. The tears were rapidly drying up. Bolan snared a box of Kleenex from a dressing table and tossed it on the bed. She rose to hands and knees, rocked back in a kneeling position, grabbed a tissue, and dabbed at her eyes and nose. Bolan understood the maneuver. She was giving him a good look at the object of his abuse.
He let her know that he was looking and not buying. He pressed on. "You ever hear the name Ciro Lavangetta?"
"Yes. He's a . . . he was in business with Mr. Balderone."
"That's a good answer," Bolan murmured. "Okay. How many other girls are on Balderone's payroll?"
"Quite a few. Sometimes there are —
were
big parties."
"Always at the same place? That same hotel?"
She sighed and shook her head. "No. Different places. Sometimes on a boat, a yacht, the
Merry Drew.
"
"How are the bookings right now?"
"Uh . . ." Her eyes dropped from his intent gaze. "Things are booming."
"Tell me about it."
"A lot of his friends are in town. Some sort of convention, I believe. They're all over the beach, though, here and there. Too many, really. He had to bring some girls in from the Gulf Coast."
"Okay, get a pencil and paper."
"What for?"
"I want a list. Every place Balderone has girls booked for this week."
"That's crazy. I don't know all that. Are you a cop? You can't use any of-"
"Shut up!" Bolan snarled.
She blinked and recoiled, as though expecting physical violence. "So you're not a cop," she said breathlessly. "I'm sorry, I don't know all the places."
"But you do know a few."
"Well, yes. I know a few."
"Then get to writing."
"I believe you're getting me into a lot of trouble, mister."
Bolan shook his head. "You're already there, kid. I didn't put you there. I
found
you there."
The tearworks went back into operation. Bolan pulled out his notebook and
She lay very still, staring at him with growing apprehension. She whispered, "I don't even know why you killed them, or anything about you. You have no reason to kill me."
"Maybe you're right. What do you know about Portocci?"
She shook her head. "Nothing. I never saw him before this morning."
"What's your name?"
"J-Jean. Kirkpatrick. I'm a model."
"What were you modeling this morning?"
"I . . . I . . ." Her eyes dropped in embarrassment and confusion.
"What?"
"Sometimes . . . when I don't have any modeling assignments . . . Mr. Balderone hires me to . . . as a companion for . . . his friends."
"Who is Balderone?"
"You k-killed him, and you don't even know him?"
"How would I go about getting a date with you, Jean?"
"Huh? You mean . . .?"
"Yes, that's what I mean. If I'd never met you, and knew nothing about you, how would I go about getting an introduction?"
"You, uh, you don't understand."
"I'll listen while you give me an understanding."
She had decided that Bolan was not going to murder her. She said, "Can I get up?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. Let's get this understanding first."
"I'm not a prostitute, if that's what you're thinking. I mean, there's a difference, a very important difference."
"All right, there's a difference. Tell me about it."
"I work for Mr. Balderone. He pays me himself. Between me and his friends it was just like fun, like a party . . . you know. I mean, no money passed. No business arrangements. You know what I mean?"
"Were all of Mr. Balderone's friends Italians?"
Her eyes blinked rapidly. "Not all the time."
"Look, kid, let's get something straight. How you make your living is your business. I'm not interested in that. I just want some live information, and I want it straight and quick. Are you reading me?"
The girl had begun to cry. Bolan was feeling miserable for her, but his face kept the secret. "You're mixed up with the Mafia," he told her.
"The what?"
"Portocci was the junior boss of a western family. Now I want to know . . . who was Balderone? What was his connection to Portocci?"
The girl shook her head. The tears were rapidly drying up. Bolan snared a box of Kleenex from a dressing table and tossed it on the bed. She rose to hands and knees, rocked back in a kneeling position, grabbed a tissue, and dabbed at her eyes and nose. Bolan understood the maneuver. She was giving him a good look at the object of his abuse.
He let her know that he was looking and not buying. He pressed on. "You ever hear the name Ciro Lavangetta?"
"Yes. He's a . . . he was in business with Mr. Balderone."
"That's a good answer," Bolan murmured. "Okay. How many other girls are on Balderone's payroll?"
"Quite a few. Sometimes there are —
were
big parties."
"Always at the same place? That same hotel?"
She sighed and shook her head. "No. Different places. Sometimes on a boat, a yacht, the
Merry Drew.
"
"How are the bookings right now?"
"Uh . . ." Her eyes dropped from his intent gaze. "Things are booming."
"Tell me about it."
"A lot of his friends are in town. Some sort of convention, I believe. They're all over the beach, though, here and there. Too many, really. He had to bring some girls in from the Gulf Coast."
"Okay, get a pencil and paper."
"What for?"
"I want a list. Every place Balderone has girls booked for this week."
"That's crazy. I don't know all that. Are you a cop? You can't use any of-"
"Shut up!" Bolan snarled.
She blinked and recoiled, as though expecting physical violence. "So you're not a cop," she said breathlessly. "I'm sorry, I don't know all the places."
"But you do know a few."
"Well, yes. I know a few."
"Then get to writing."
"I believe you're getting me into a lot of trouble, mister."
Bolan shook his head. "You're already there, kid. I didn't put you there. I
found
you there."
The tearworks went back into operation. Bolan pulled out his notebook and
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