"I remember, sure. What'd you say your name was?"

"I'm using Lambretta right now, Mr. Bonelli. You understand. Listen, what I got is this. I just came from a joint on the east side, a very weird joint, Mr. Bonelli. Out in the damn sand, you know. Looks like it got blasted pretty bad, and not long ago. There's a guy there calls himself Morales — a greaser, acting like a head cock. Does any of this sound like anything you know?"

"Maybe and maybe not," Bonelli replied cautiously. "What are you getting to, Lambretta? Let's get there."

"This Morales tried to recruit me. He wouldn't say for what, but he dropped your name. He offered me five thou for a night's work."

"What the hell!" Bonelli growled angrily. "You call me urgent to confirm a lousy job offer?"

"No sir, that's not why I called. Like I said, I owe Don Bonelli. The greaser don't know I'm calling you."

The guy's reply to that was mixed with irritation and open curiosity. "How the hell did you get this number then?"

"Hey! Mr. Bonelli! I been connected a long time. You don't need to ask a soldier of the blood how he-"

"Okay, okay! What've you got?"

"Something very cutesy about that joint, sir. The guy has a damn combat force out there ... must be forty or fifty boys with heavy heat. Not a damn one is a made man ... no connections there anywhere. He says-"

"Wait a minute, wait! How many you say? Forty or fifty!? How long ago was this?"

"Not an hour ago. What I was gonna do was ... well ... nobody's connected, except me. He wants me out front. He says for identification. He says so Mr. Bonelli will know it's the right place. It stinks, don't it? It Just stinks to me."

"Maybe it does, yeah," Bonelli replied, the tone thoughtful. "How'd you say you come to get out there?"

"This Morales came looking for a connected man. He found me through a, uh, mutual friend."

"He's pretty damn stupid then, isn't he?" said the heir. "He doesn't understand the blood, does he? You say forty or fifty boys under arms out there? How'd you happen to get loose?"

"I told him, sure, I'd take the job. But I had some business in town first. I'm supposed to be back by sundown."

"Don't go back," Bonelli said softly.

"Don't worry."

"If this checks out, you look us up in Tucson someday. If it don't, well ..."

"I gave you what I got, Sir. Exactly."

"He says you're up front for identification, eh?"

"Yessir. The idiot. Any man with connections knows what that means. Right?"

"Right, right. Thanks, uh, Lambretta. You look us up in Tucson. We'll show you the town."

Bolan hung it up and made an imaginary mark in the air above his head, then immediately called the other force.

Hinshaw himself answered the ring, identifying with a curt, "Hinshaw. What?"

"This is Bolan."

A brief silence, then: "Well hello. How'd you find me?"

"You were easy," Bolan said pleasantly.

"When did you tumble it was me?"

"I caught a glimpse of Worthy and Morales. Put it together. What are you trying to do to me, soldier?"

The guy chuckled. "I might ask the same of you."

"You're screwing me up," Bolan said, the tone still entirely pleasant.

"I guess that's the idea. Beans are beans, you know. Makes no difference who cooks them or serves them."

"So how much is he paying you?"

"You want to make a counter-offer?"

"Right."

"I'm getting 200 a day plus."

"Plus what?"

"All I can steal," Hinshaw replied laughing. "What are you prepared to offer?"

"Guess I can't top that," Bolan said. "Not the plus, anyway. Forget it. All I can offer is about twelve hours."

They were getting down to business, and Hinshaw's tone reflected an understanding of that fact. "Twelve hours of what?"

"Life," Bolan said quietly.

"Come on."

"Seriously. And I can't guarantee even that much. It all depends on Paul."

It was a forced laugh that came across that connection. "Good try, soldier. Whatever you're trying."

"Any victory for them is a loss for me," Bolan said soberly. "I'd throw in with the devil if they were storming hell."

The guy's interest was aroused, despite the natural caution. "I'll listen. Say what you're saying."

"I have the whole state wired. I even have you wired, soldier. And I challenge you to find the-"

Hinshaw broke in to unload a disturbance of his own mind. "Yeah, tell me about that, pole climber. How'd you engineer that hit?"

"You found the hardware."

"Sure. And what about Tucson?"

"I was there," Bolan admitted.

"What kind of explosives did you hit me with? Angel swears you were under surveillance the whole time. What'd you use?"

It was shop talk between a couple of professionals. Bolan replied, "Something I whipped up in my lab. Time delayed. How'd it go?"

"Just like Ex-Lax, smooth as silk. Did you design that box for the fifty?"

"Something else I cooked up in my lab, yeah. She didn't jam up, eh?"

"Not hardly. It's a beautiful effect. I'm taking It with me when I break camp here. It'll come in handy somewhere, some day. You wired me, too, huh? We searched, man. Where is it?"

"About two miles downline. Climb a pole where the barrel cactus stands. You'll find it. Keep it, it's a gift — to remember me by. If you're able to remember."

"You were saying? About wires on the state?"

"Yeah. I have very sophisticated stuff. You'd love it. Straight out of the space age. Hear-all, know-all — you know what I mean. They're setting you up, soldier. I could have guessed it, even without the ears. It's SOP with these people. Contract a dirty job, see. That's a security layer. Then contract the contractor. That's another layer. The point is, it was never intended that you get the chance to enjoy that 200 per day plus."

The returning voice was sober, wary. "You're giving me this just for old-time's sake, eh?"

"The past is the past," Bolan said. "You did your thing and I did mine. Anyway, it was long ago and far away. This is here and now. Far as I'm concerned, you are a fellow grunt getting another shaft. Take it or don't, makes no difference to me. But I hate to see those bastards get away with it."

"You'd hate that, eh?"

"I'd hate it, yeah. Watch your flanks, soldier."

Bolan put the phone down and made another imaginary mark in the air, then changed his mind and erased half of it.

The game was winding down, yeah. And Bolan was down for doubles.

Abraham Weiss loved the sunlight. Others may take comfort in the moderate Arizona winters, but Weiss preferred the burning heat of summer because it also meant more hours of daylight in each twenty-four.

Not that he was afraid of the dark.

He would not admit that even to himself. He Just Preferred the sunlight. One reason he hated Washington was the damn short days — especially in winter. God, how he hated Washington in the winter!

But he definitely had mixed feelings about these desert sunsets. SO beautiful to behold, sure, but sort of like dying, also. Even knowing that the sun also rises, there was something very sad and tragic in a sunset.

Like a man's life, slowly waning, waning, waning then snuff! — gone — blackness — nothingness. He shivered and stepped away from the window. Another hour of daylight. So where the hell was Moe! And where the hell was all this police protection he'd been promised! Leave a man hanging out here like the final damn grape on the vine, just waiting for someone to come along and Snuff!

That kind of thinking would get him nowhere!

He crossed to the desk, opened the secret panel, reversed the tape on the recorder, and played back that ridiculous telephone conversation with his lifelong buddy, Moe Kaufman. Some buddy.