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half-smile.
    The
Mafioso
growled, "Where's your passenger?"
    "He got off at Jax," the pilot replied, his smile fading. "Are you Mr. Portocci?"
    The unexpected query threw Balderone momentarily off balance. He said, thickly, "He got off at Jacksonville? How come he— didn't he charter you through to Miami?"
    The pilot repeated, "Are you Mr. Portocci?"
    "I represent him," the confused Balderone snapped. A sudden thought crashed through his racing mind and he swung the tiny radio into position and barked, "Hey, he must've switched to that Eastern plane at Jacksonville. We missed the bastard somehow . . . fan around, fan around up there good and goddammit let's at least get a smell!"
    The pilot was staring at him curiously. He had opened the mapcase and was fishing out a small package, giftwrapped in colorful paper and topped with a satin bow. "My charter said someone would be on hand to meet me here," he said. "Listen . . . if there's something illegal going on here, I don't know a thing about it. The man asked me to deliver the package — now if it's . . ."
    Balderone was glaring at the man with undisguised irritation. He took the package and said, "Now what the hell is this supposed to be?"
    "The name is on the tag," the pilot snapped, his own tone matching the other's irritation. "It's addressed, if you can read, to John J. Portocci, and that's all I know about it." He glanced over his shoulder, noting the men swarming over his small plane. "Look, I fly airplanes," he added dismally. "For a salary plus expenses. I didn't know this guy was-"
    "No no, you got the wrong idea," Balderone said hastily. "We just can't figger out why he ain't here hisself, but don't you give it another thought, there ain't nothing illegal." He spun away, waved to the men around the plane, and marched back to his vehicle, tossing the small package from hand to hand as though it were too hot to handle.
    "Instincts," he muttered as he settled into the vehicle.
    "What's in the package?" the driver asked.
    "Too small for a bomb," Balderone replied, sighing. "But I got a feeling it's just as bad. It's addressed to Johnny. Imagine that?" A new thought crossed his mind, and his face reflected the new hope. "Hey, you think I should open it? Maybe we been wrong all the way, about this plane, I mean. Maybe this is some of Johnny's business. Something he forgot, maybe, at Phoenix. You think maybe . . . ?"
    The driver shrugged his shoulders. "There's only one way to find out real quick."
    "Yeah," the big
Mafioso
growled. He eyed the little package for another deliberative moment, then sighed and carefully removed the ribbon, folded back the paper, and opened the top of the small oblong box. Inside and resting on a velvet pad was a U.S. Army marksman's medal. Balderone's face blanched, and he whispered, "Oh geez."
    From a distance of less than a hundred yards, the watchers were being watched. A tall man in a shiny rental car was focusing his binoculars with considerable interest upon the men who were pacing about the service apron outside the flying service, studying the faces, memorizing them, with particular attention going to the heavyset man who had accepted the package from the pilot. He grinned at the look of consternation that swept the thick man's face as the tiny box was opened, then he laid the binoculars in the seat and awaited the next move. A small crease across his forehead was the only evidence remaining of the leather thong which had adorned that head only minutes earlier; a small blue "tattoo" mark showed faintly on the chin where a hasty cleansing had not quite removed all traces of the color pencil.
    He tensed in the seat of the rented car and quickly started the engine as the service vehicle suddenly wheeled about and lurched to another stop in the parking area beside the flying service. He watched as the thick man transferred to a dark Lincoln, waving his arms in some signal to the other men congregated there. Then a small motorcade, led by