stood on the porch of Hinshaw's field headquarters. A handful of Hinshaw's men flanked their leader, remaining aloof from the forty or so Tucson hardmen milling around their crew wagons in the yard. Bonelli's gunmen were taking in the incredible scene as well, commenting on the site's condition In hushed tones.
There was much for comment. The walls of the main building were riddled with symmetrical holes, the window frames splintered and empty except for jagged shards of glass. The ruined hulk of a limousine slouched beside the house, its pock-marked body sagging to starboard on two shredded tires. Behind the ventilated structure, two mounds of blackened lumber memorialized the former existence of other buildings.
The younger Bonelli shook his head in bewilderment and turned toward the door. Hinshaw got there first, holding it wide for the Tucson underboss. Bonelli accepted the courtesy as his due and stepped inside, pausing briefly in the doorway to finger the jagged splinters left by heavy-caliber slugs which had punched through the panel. He took in the interior damage at a glance — bullet gouges, furniture overturned and shattered.
"How many did you lose this time?" he asked Hinshaw.
"Four dead, two wounded. It's a wonder we didn't lose more."
"Any rumbles from the cops?"
"None. Neighbors are scarce around here. And they mind their own business."
Bonelli nodded his satisfaction with the answer, allowing his eyes to sweep the room again. His gaze settled on a large weapon which sat atop a dusty tripod In one corner of the room. Two short tubes made of plastic or cardboard or something were propped against the big gun, completing the sinister little tableau. The mafioso gestured toward the pile of weaponry with one hand as he turned toward Hinshaw.
"That's it?"
"That's it. A .50-caliber machine gun and a couple of LAW rocket tubes."
Hinshaw's tone was brisk, matter-of-fact.
"What's that LAW?"
"Light anti-tank weapon," Hinshaw explained to the "civilian."
"Think of it as a throw-away bazooka. We found them on a rise overlooking the compound, about a hundred yards out. He did this with the .50." Hinshaw's hand swept the room, indicating the hundreds of bullet holes. "It has an automatic trigger lock, set for continuous fire. That left his hands free to handle the LAWS."
"The chopper shoots by itself?" Paul Bonelli was skeptical.
Hinshaw nodded. "It's a relatively simple mechanism. He probably-"
"Simple?" Bonelli interrupted, scarcely able to believe his ears. "It was simple for one man to kick hell out of your entire force? What were your boys doing, Jimmy?"
"Dying," Hinshaw answered flatly. "Or trying like hell not to."
Bonelli was boiling. "It looks bad, Jimmy. One guy dumping all over — how many men is it now?" The Tucson sub-capo knew very well how many men had been lost before Hinshaw answered "twenty-three" in a tired voice. Bonelli nodded solemnly as he repeated the number aloud. Then his tone softened and he took a different tack with the beleaguered field commander. "Okay, I can see what you've been up against here. I understand. But my papa, now ..." Paul left the sentence hanging, letting Hinshaw know that Don Niccolo Bonelli was not apt to share his son's understanding of the situation. He let Hinshaw think about that for a moment then added, "I hate to bring home news like this so soon after your other troubles." Another pause, then, "Maybe I don't have to tell him right now. I guess we can wait until after we have this thing in the bag." Bonelli smiled at the scowling soldier. "We are going to bag it, aren't we?"
The telephone rang, breaking the tension building there. Hinshaw seemed frozen for a long moment, then reluctantly scooped up the receiver.
"Hello? Yes, hang on." He held out the instrument to Bonelli. "For you."
Paul accepted the receiver and growled into the mouthpiece. "Yeah?"
The voice at the other end of that connection was taut, breathless. "Paul? Jake Lucania
There was much for comment. The walls of the main building were riddled with symmetrical holes, the window frames splintered and empty except for jagged shards of glass. The ruined hulk of a limousine slouched beside the house, its pock-marked body sagging to starboard on two shredded tires. Behind the ventilated structure, two mounds of blackened lumber memorialized the former existence of other buildings.
The younger Bonelli shook his head in bewilderment and turned toward the door. Hinshaw got there first, holding it wide for the Tucson underboss. Bonelli accepted the courtesy as his due and stepped inside, pausing briefly in the doorway to finger the jagged splinters left by heavy-caliber slugs which had punched through the panel. He took in the interior damage at a glance — bullet gouges, furniture overturned and shattered.
"How many did you lose this time?" he asked Hinshaw.
"Four dead, two wounded. It's a wonder we didn't lose more."
"Any rumbles from the cops?"
"None. Neighbors are scarce around here. And they mind their own business."
Bonelli nodded his satisfaction with the answer, allowing his eyes to sweep the room again. His gaze settled on a large weapon which sat atop a dusty tripod In one corner of the room. Two short tubes made of plastic or cardboard or something were propped against the big gun, completing the sinister little tableau. The mafioso gestured toward the pile of weaponry with one hand as he turned toward Hinshaw.
"That's it?"
"That's it. A .50-caliber machine gun and a couple of LAW rocket tubes."
Hinshaw's tone was brisk, matter-of-fact.
"What's that LAW?"
"Light anti-tank weapon," Hinshaw explained to the "civilian."
"Think of it as a throw-away bazooka. We found them on a rise overlooking the compound, about a hundred yards out. He did this with the .50." Hinshaw's hand swept the room, indicating the hundreds of bullet holes. "It has an automatic trigger lock, set for continuous fire. That left his hands free to handle the LAWS."
"The chopper shoots by itself?" Paul Bonelli was skeptical.
Hinshaw nodded. "It's a relatively simple mechanism. He probably-"
"Simple?" Bonelli interrupted, scarcely able to believe his ears. "It was simple for one man to kick hell out of your entire force? What were your boys doing, Jimmy?"
"Dying," Hinshaw answered flatly. "Or trying like hell not to."
Bonelli was boiling. "It looks bad, Jimmy. One guy dumping all over — how many men is it now?" The Tucson sub-capo knew very well how many men had been lost before Hinshaw answered "twenty-three" in a tired voice. Bonelli nodded solemnly as he repeated the number aloud. Then his tone softened and he took a different tack with the beleaguered field commander. "Okay, I can see what you've been up against here. I understand. But my papa, now ..." Paul left the sentence hanging, letting Hinshaw know that Don Niccolo Bonelli was not apt to share his son's understanding of the situation. He let Hinshaw think about that for a moment then added, "I hate to bring home news like this so soon after your other troubles." Another pause, then, "Maybe I don't have to tell him right now. I guess we can wait until after we have this thing in the bag." Bonelli smiled at the scowling soldier. "We are going to bag it, aren't we?"
The telephone rang, breaking the tension building there. Hinshaw seemed frozen for a long moment, then reluctantly scooped up the receiver.
"Hello? Yes, hang on." He held out the instrument to Bonelli. "For you."
Paul accepted the receiver and growled into the mouthpiece. "Yeah?"
The voice at the other end of that connection was taut, breathless. "Paul? Jake Lucania
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