handled."
Zorro got in, slamming the door shut. Whitey picked up the car phone and motioned it toward Zorro like a shaking finger. "Nobody pulls that shit on us." He dialed the number one on his speed-dialer. Counsel picked up on the second ring.
"Yeah," Counsel answered.
"It's Whitey."
"What's up, Whitey? How are things in the City of Brotherly Love?"
"Oh, not bad. I'm just left feeling a little hungry after my meeting tonight."
A long pause.
"I see. What do you want to do about it?" asked Counsel.
"I'd like to take my friend to dinner. He deserves a good meal."
Another pause. Shorter this time.
"What's on the menu?"
"Oh, something hot. And very spicy."
"Who's your friend?"
"I'll spell it for you. H Y F R A A Y."
Another long pause. Whitey could picture Counsel deciphering the code which, during the last meeting of chapter presidents, they had both agreed to use when discussing sensitive matters over the phone. He knew Counsel would have his doubts. Killing Vinetti could be bad for business. Not that Counsel would be afraid to take on the Mob. But an all-out war would gain nothing. He would have to allocate too many resources to the Philadelphia area, thus hurting business in New York and other East Coast territories. Yet he knew Counsel wouldn't let his Philadelphia chapter down.
"When were you planning to go eat?" Counsel asked.
"Right now," replied Whitey. "This motherfucking minute."
Whitey immediately thought of The Henchmen's bylaw number seven, which states that no Henchman shall fail to retaliate fully when wronged. Counsel had little choice.
"Enjoy your dinner," he said before he hung up the phone.
Whitey smiled and placed the car phone back in its compartment. He removed a pair of gloves from the cradle and instructed Zorro to wait in the car. He then released the trunk lock. Inside the trunk was a set of golf clubs. He removed the red leather bag and reached inside, pulling out a disposable bazooka, standard army issue. He threw the weapon over his shoulder and took up his position behind a brown station wagon across from Angelo's. Inside he could see Vinetti, still sitting at the table with his two men. Vinetti was talking while he picked his teeth and gestured animatedly. Whitey squeezed the trigger slowly.
"Right in your face, scumbag," he said, releasing the rocket with a powerful swoosh . A second later Angelo's exploded, sending glass and debris in all directions. Whitey fell to the concrete, trying to avoid the flying glass, wood, and metal. A fiery form came running through the smoke into the street. Whitey couldn't tell if it was Vinetti or one of his people. It fell about three feet from the station wagon. Whitey watched the figure burn.
"Whitey! Whitey! Goddammit, man! Let's get the fuck out of here!" pleaded Zorro. Whitey dropped the smoking weapon to the ground and ran to the car. He hopped in, and the blue BMW sped down to Front Street and off toward the clubhouse in South Philadelphia.
The Bobby Jones concert was running an hour overtime. One of the most successful country-and-western singers, he sold out every city he played in. The crowd was roaring for a third encore. Barbara and Alice, two teenage fans, had become separated from their friends.
"Hey, Barb. Lez go up fron' and get a bedder look at Bobby," said Alice, her speech slurred from one too many beers.
"I don't know, Ally. Those motorcycle guys are keeping everyone away from the stage."
"Come on. Doan be a wimp. Lizzen, we're on our own. I'm sposed to be sleeping over your house. Your sposed to be sleeping over mine. We agreed we were gonna make this the bez night ever, right?"
"Oh all right, Ally," said Barbara hesitantly, "but I know I'm gonna regret this."
The two teenagers began to make their way down to the stage. The outdoor, general-admission arena seated eleven thousand, and had standing room at stage level for five hundred. Six Henchmen bikes were parked near the stage with a sign draped across them:
Zorro got in, slamming the door shut. Whitey picked up the car phone and motioned it toward Zorro like a shaking finger. "Nobody pulls that shit on us." He dialed the number one on his speed-dialer. Counsel picked up on the second ring.
"Yeah," Counsel answered.
"It's Whitey."
"What's up, Whitey? How are things in the City of Brotherly Love?"
"Oh, not bad. I'm just left feeling a little hungry after my meeting tonight."
A long pause.
"I see. What do you want to do about it?" asked Counsel.
"I'd like to take my friend to dinner. He deserves a good meal."
Another pause. Shorter this time.
"What's on the menu?"
"Oh, something hot. And very spicy."
"Who's your friend?"
"I'll spell it for you. H Y F R A A Y."
Another long pause. Whitey could picture Counsel deciphering the code which, during the last meeting of chapter presidents, they had both agreed to use when discussing sensitive matters over the phone. He knew Counsel would have his doubts. Killing Vinetti could be bad for business. Not that Counsel would be afraid to take on the Mob. But an all-out war would gain nothing. He would have to allocate too many resources to the Philadelphia area, thus hurting business in New York and other East Coast territories. Yet he knew Counsel wouldn't let his Philadelphia chapter down.
"When were you planning to go eat?" Counsel asked.
"Right now," replied Whitey. "This motherfucking minute."
Whitey immediately thought of The Henchmen's bylaw number seven, which states that no Henchman shall fail to retaliate fully when wronged. Counsel had little choice.
"Enjoy your dinner," he said before he hung up the phone.
Whitey smiled and placed the car phone back in its compartment. He removed a pair of gloves from the cradle and instructed Zorro to wait in the car. He then released the trunk lock. Inside the trunk was a set of golf clubs. He removed the red leather bag and reached inside, pulling out a disposable bazooka, standard army issue. He threw the weapon over his shoulder and took up his position behind a brown station wagon across from Angelo's. Inside he could see Vinetti, still sitting at the table with his two men. Vinetti was talking while he picked his teeth and gestured animatedly. Whitey squeezed the trigger slowly.
"Right in your face, scumbag," he said, releasing the rocket with a powerful swoosh . A second later Angelo's exploded, sending glass and debris in all directions. Whitey fell to the concrete, trying to avoid the flying glass, wood, and metal. A fiery form came running through the smoke into the street. Whitey couldn't tell if it was Vinetti or one of his people. It fell about three feet from the station wagon. Whitey watched the figure burn.
"Whitey! Whitey! Goddammit, man! Let's get the fuck out of here!" pleaded Zorro. Whitey dropped the smoking weapon to the ground and ran to the car. He hopped in, and the blue BMW sped down to Front Street and off toward the clubhouse in South Philadelphia.
The Bobby Jones concert was running an hour overtime. One of the most successful country-and-western singers, he sold out every city he played in. The crowd was roaring for a third encore. Barbara and Alice, two teenage fans, had become separated from their friends.
"Hey, Barb. Lez go up fron' and get a bedder look at Bobby," said Alice, her speech slurred from one too many beers.
"I don't know, Ally. Those motorcycle guys are keeping everyone away from the stage."
"Come on. Doan be a wimp. Lizzen, we're on our own. I'm sposed to be sleeping over your house. Your sposed to be sleeping over mine. We agreed we were gonna make this the bez night ever, right?"
"Oh all right, Ally," said Barbara hesitantly, "but I know I'm gonna regret this."
The two teenagers began to make their way down to the stage. The outdoor, general-admission arena seated eleven thousand, and had standing room at stage level for five hundred. Six Henchmen bikes were parked near the stage with a sign draped across them:
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