Well, Paul Bonelli was there now, and Hinshaw did not for one moment buy that business about the guy just being there to "keep an eye on the boys."
Bonelli was there to keep an eye — and a tight rein — on Hinshaw. From the minute he stepped out of that shiny Detroit tank, Paul Bonelli was in command of the Phoenix game, and everybody concerned knew it. Whatever sugar coating Paul or his father tried to put on it, Hinshaw was being relieved of his command in all but name, and the idea rankled him. And yet, if that had been all there was to it, Hinshaw might have been content to roll with the punch, biding his time.
But there was more, much more going on in Phoenix than a Mafia warlord expressing dissatisfaction with a field commander. Hinshaw didn't know for sure yet just what it was, or even who was pulling the strings, but he could feel his hackles rising as they had in "Nam, when some sixth sense had warned him of impending ambush by the Cong.
Jim Hinshaw was being set up. But for what? And by whom?
If Mack Bolan was pulling the strings, there was nothing Hinshaw could do except try to anticipate the next blow and brace himself for it when it fell.
Things might be different, though, if the setup was a Bonelli operation. There just might be something that Hinshaw could do to prepare for that eventuality. Something decisive, maybe.
Hinshaw picked up the phone, which had done so much to derail his schemes of late, and quickly dialed a local number. He recognized the answering voice and got down to business without wasting time on preliminaries.
"Get the men together on the double. I'll expect them to be ready to move within twenty minutes. Can do?" He acknowledged the affirmative reply with a terse grunt and broke the connection. Hinshaw was calling up his reserves. He had not been green or foolish enough to enter the Phoenix campaign with only thirty men at his disposal, nor had he been inclined to place himself at the mercy of replacements from the south. Like any field commander worthy of the name, he had trained and positioned a secondary force in anticipation of unforeseen setbacks ... from any faction. The "hole card," as Angel called it.
Jim Hinshaw did not intend to lose face — or anything else — from this operation. It had been recognized from the start as his golden opportunity to establish himself as a man for the world to reckon with.
He would not, dammit, return to the obscurity that had held his manhood captive through all those drab years.
He was going to bag himself a bonus baby, all the damn Bonellis to hell. And he'd walk over anybody to get Mack Bolan's head in a sack. He'd have it, dammit. The cute bastard. New face, eh? All faces looked the same inside a paper sack.
Chapter 14
Links
"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you!" Moe Kaufman's voice was angry, betraying signs of the inner strain which had dogged him throughout that day. "I need protection. Now!"
He sat in a richly panelled conference room upstairs in the Phoenix City Hall. Facing him across the broad table were two command-rank officers from the city police department and a captain from the county sheriff's office. The lawmen looked unhappy, their faces wearing almost identical expressions of grim displeasure and embarrassment. Their eyes alternated between the tabletop and Kaufman's face as the mobster continued his harangue.
"I put you guys where you are today, don't forget. And I expect some return for my investment. I made you and I can unmake you just as easy."
Frank Anderson of the Phoenix PD spread his big hands in a placating gesture. "C'mon, Mr. Kaufman. There's no reason for these threats. We're doing everything we can-"
"Bullshit!" Kaufman snapped, watching the officer redden. "You haven't done a goddamned thing except haul a few stiffs to the cooler and stake out the places the guy's already been!"
"It's standard procedure, sir," the sheriff's captain interjected.
Kaufman turned to him with a glare. "This is not a standard situation, Joe. You're not running some punk gamblers out of town to make the department look good at election time. This guy is after my ass! He could shake the whole damned thing apart!"
The officers were silent, waiting for the outburst to run its course. Kaufman slumped back in his padded chair and took several deep breaths, regaining his composure before speaking again. "I want some men with me day and night. Fix it."
"Policemen?" Frank Anderson sounded uncomfortable.
"Why not? I'm an upstanding citizen whose life has been threatened by a known maniac. What better cause do you need? Log it as a Bolan stakeout."
Anderson nodded slowly, clearly unhappy about the situation. Kaufman didn't give him time to brood about it. "I want men on Weiss, too," the mobster said.
Again the desultory nod.
"Okay." Kaufman was partially placated. "Now fill me in on what you've accomplished toward bagging this psycho Bolan."
"First off," the sheriff's captain said heavily, "we don't read the guy as being a psycho. H-"
"Save it for the eulogy," Kaufman snapped. "What are you doing to stop him?"
The police spokesman took over. "We have SWAT teams on standby alert around the clock. Roving patrols everywhere we feel he's likely to surface — that is, around your places." A glare from Kaufman killed the guy's grin as it began. "Okay, uh, the chopper is up and in full communication with the ground patrols. On the federal level, we have liaison with the local FBI, and a planeload of U.S. Marshals due in any time. Some kind of special Bolan strike force." Kaufman said, "Okay. Maybe it's finally getting off the ground." He paused, then continued, "I want all of you to remember above everything else that this guy is bad for business. My operations are at a standstill, and I'm sure I don't need to remind you that your monthly take depends upon mine. The longer Bolan runs loose in this town, the worse it is for all of us. And if he gets me, you can all kiss those nice fat envelopes goodbye."
Anderson sighed and said, "I can detail a pair of plain-clothes officers to you, and a couple for Weiss. Any more would bring the headhunters down on me from Internal Affairs."
"How soon can I have them?"
"They'll be waiting when you get downstairs."
"Good." Kaufman rose to leave, pausing as he turned from the table to reinforce his earlier message to the three men. "I want this Bolan, you understand? I want him dead! Pass the word that there's a bounty of five G's on the bum's head. Maybe that'll sharpen somebody's shooting eye."
The three officers rose to usher Kaufman out. Anderson offered his hand, but the mobster brushed past him, eating up the corridor with brisk, energetic strides.
Yeah, five grand should buy a little unaccustomed alertness from the boys in blue. Kaufman almost smiled as he felt the old familiar stirrings of power which had always exhilarated him. It made him feel good to have men indebted to him here, in the halls of government. Also, Bolan wouldn't shoot back at cops — that much was well known — and if they could manage to corner the guy, he would be a sitting duck, as good as dead. And if they couldn't trap him?
Well, the guy never stayed long in one place, and the extra heat would surely hasten his departure. He'd blow town before long, maybe heading south to mop up Bonelli and the Tucson crowd. So much the better. All Kaufman had to do was go underground, stay safely hidden behind his cops, and ride out the storm. Later, when all the clouds had blown away, he could surface again and resume business as usual. There might even be thoughts of a punitive excursion southward, if any foes remained alive there.