The men looked at the weapon, which he held aloft.
"It's a recoil-powered, open-bolt full automatic weapon. That open-bolt business is important, because it means it can only be fired with the bolt back. You forget to cock it, you are S. O. L. If it don't have a magazine in it, it can't fire, unless you have done stuck a cartridge with your fingers up in the chamber, then cocked it, and I ain't never heard of no man doing that but it's my theory that if there's a way to screw up, some recruit will find it, no matter how well hidden. Don't never put a shell into the chamber because everybody will think it's empty and that's how training accidents happen. You'll have plenty of chance to bleed up in Hot Springs, no need to do it here.
"Now, this evening, I'll teach you how to break it down, how to clean it, how to reassemble it. You will clean it and reassemble it each time you fire it, and the reason for that is the same as the one I gave you earlier: you want to treat it well so it will treat you well. Now, how many men know how to shoot this gun?"
A few hands went up, mainly from the older men who'd joined the unit from State Police agencies.
But so did Frenchy's.
"Frenchy Short, do tell. Well, young man, you come on up here. Where'd you learn to shoot the tommy?"
Frenchy came up.
"My mother knew the police chief of our town. She arranged for me to shoot all the guns for my fifteenth birthday."
"A birthday present. Damn, ain't that something. Come on, Frenchy, show the boys."
So Frenchy went to the firing line, inserted a stick magazine and leaned into the gun.
The Colt Police Silhouette target loomed twenty-five yards downrange, the shape of a man with his wrist planted on his hip.
"Get ready, boys!" Earl said and Frenchy found a good position, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Then he remembered the actuator up top, drew it back with an oily slide of lubricated metal, reacquired the shooting position, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
"Shit!" he said.
"Safety," said Earl.
Frenchy fiddled, eventually turned some lever.
Again he brought the gun to his shoulder.
One shot rang out. The magazine fell to the ground.
"Shit!"
"Now, see, Frenchy here thought he already knew. He didn't wait to learn. He already knew and he wanted to show off. You don't show off at this work, 'cause it'll get you killed. Got that? This is about teamwork, not hey-look-at-me. Also"―he winked at Frenchy-r-"when you load the mag, you gotta slap the bottom to make sure the mag lock has clicked in. Sometimes it don't lock up all the way but the spring tension holds the mag in place, and you think it's time to bebop. But it don't bebop, it only bops, once. Frenchy didn't know that, the mag kicked loose. So what does he now say to Baby Face Nelson who is walking toward him with a sawed-off? Slap that mag hard, hear it lock in."
Earl locked the magazine in, gave it a stiff smack with his palm, then drew back the actuator, then spun and shouldered it.
"Plug your ears, boys, but open your eyes. I'm using tracers so's you can watch the flight of the bullets."
He leaned into the gun with a perfect FBI firing position and fired half a magazine and even though his left wrist was stiff with ancient pain, he gripped the fore grip tightly, pulling it in. That was the whole key to the thing. The gun shuddered, the bolt cycled, the empties flew in a spray, the gun muzzle stayed flat though blossoming with blast and flash and spirals of gas, the racket was awesome as the bullets sped off so fast-fast-fast it seemed like one continuous roar. It was so bright that no flash could be seen but the chemical traces in the tail end of the bullets still igniting, trailing for a split second the incandescence of the round's trajectory. It was there and not-there at once, the illusion of illumination in the form of a line of simple whiteness, almost electrical, straighter than any rule could draw; the line traced from the muzzle to the target without a waver to it. Twenty-five yards downrange Earl's gun gnawed a raggedy hole in the center of the silhouette.
"Great, huh? Well, guess what, that's all wrong. Never fire more than three-round bursts. In the movies they wail away like that, but that's because right behind the camera they got a bohunk with a case of.45 blanks ready to scoot out and reload when the camera's off and the star's taking his Camel break. You will carry all your ammo, and you don't want to use it up for nothing, and unless you are a genius, every goddamn shot after the third is going into the trees. I happen to be a genius. Maybe Frenchy is too. But no other birds here appear to be. This is how we do it."
He turned again, brought the gun into play and tapped out three short three-round bursts. Each burst scored the head of the target, each leaked its flicker of flame. By the end, there was no head, only shredded tatters of cardboard.
They worked with Thompsons in the afternoon and the.45s in the morning for several days. They worked hard, and some got the swing of it faster than others, but by the end, each of them was edging toward some kind of proficiency. The tracers, an old FBI training trick, made it easier for a buddy to read the trajectory of the rounds and advise you when the muzzle roamed, throwing bullets to no particular destination. But Earl warned them only to use the tracers in training, never in battle, because first of all they were a dead giveaway to your position and secondly the trace was incendiary and if fired into dry wood buildings or sage or other undergrowth or dead leaves or whatever, would light up a fire. No problem on an island like Iwo, but not good in a city like Hot Springs, where most of the casinos were old wooden structures.
On the fifth day, Earl introduced them to the BAR.
"Now this here gun is a real Jap-killer. It fires big.30 government cartridges at about twenty-three hundred feet per second and they will tear up anything they hit. If you got a boy behind soft cover, this will punch through and get him. Against cars or light trucks, this here thing is The Answer. Twenty-round clips, effective range out to one thousand yards, gas-operated, man-portable, but no lightweight. About sixteen pounds. They usually come with bipods for support, but the first thing that happens is the bipod is junked. These guns already got their bipods junked. Each squad in the Marines or the infantry had one of these guns; they were the base of fire, set up to cover all squad maneuvers and offer long-range suppressive fire.
"We will use these guns sparingly. They will fire through three walls and kill someone across the street going to the bathroom. But you should know them, anyhow, in case we come up against some real desperadoes, who are hunkered in good and solid and want to shoot it out to the last man. That's when the BAR comes into play. It ain't a John Wayne gun. You don't spray with it like you see in the movies. It's got too much power for that."
But the boys found it much easier to shoot than the Thompsons, for the reason that it was heavier, and its weight absorbed the recoil better and because the longer.30 governments were much easier to load in the magazines than the stubby.45s for the Thompson. They'd shoot it at the hundred-yard range, and quickly became proficient at clustering five-round bursts center mass on the silhouettes.
Half days were spent on weapons they'd be least likely to use, the Winchester 97 shotguns and the M-l carbines. And then they took Sunday off, and most went into Texarkana for a movie or some other form of relaxation while Earl and D. A. plotted the schedule. Everybody knew what was coming next.
The fun part.
Chapter 10
Owney never held his meetings at the same place twice. It was a habit from the old days. You didn't want to fall into a pattern, because a pattern would get you killed. If you have a Mad Dog Coll hunting you, you learn the elementary lessons of evasion, and you never forget them.
Thus most of the higher-ranking Grumleys, the bigger casino managers, the head bookmakers, the wire manager, his lawyer, F. Garry Hurst, the men who ran the men who ran the numbers runners, and so forth and so on, were used to being banged all over town when Owney convened them.
They never knew when the call would come and what travel it would deman
d. So today's mandate was usual in the sense that it was no more unusual than any other mandate. He called the meeting for the bathhouse called the Fordyce, on Central, which had been temporarily closed for the occasion.
They sat naked, swaddled in sheets, under an ornate glass roof. It was somehow like sitting in flowers. It was daytime, as befit business. Sunlight streamed through the window above, incandescent and weirdly lit by the hyacinth-tinted glass. Each had bathed in the 141-degree water until each had felt like a raisin. Then each had been subjected to a needle-pointed shower that ripped open their pores. Now they sat in a steam room, looking like Roman senators in togas, except that the vapors swept this way and that. Outside, Grumleys patrolled to make certain no interlopers or accidental eavesdroppers were in the vicinity. A couple of Grumley gals even moved into the women's bath area, so as to make sure no ladies lurked there.
The meeting was businesslike, though the Owney on display here was not the cosmopolitan Owney the host, anxious to put on a display of savoir faire for an important out-of-towner, complete to a version of a British accent derived more from an actor than from actual memory. In the privacy of his own sanctum, where his power was absolute and his prestige unchallenged, Owney devolved to the tones of the East Side of Manhattan, where he had been nurtured from the age of thirteen through the age of forty-three.
"Nothin'," he said again, chewing on an unlit cigar, another Havana. "You got fuckm' nothing"
"Not a dang thing," said Flem Grumley, the senior Grumley since Pap Crumley's clap had kicked in a month ago, declaring that seasoned operative hors de combat. Flem, hardened in the bootlegging wars of the '20s, spoke a brew of Arkansas diction so dense it took years of concentration to master its intricacies. "We's run the town up, we's run it down. These damned old boys done slipped the noose. Damnedest goddamn-dangdest thang."
Owney chewed this over a bit, shredding his cigar even further.
"Only," said Flem, "only a bit later cousin Slidell, that being Will's boy Slidell, not Jud's nor Bob's, nor―"
"Yeah, yeah," said Owney, to halt the list of Slidell Grumley fathers.
"Uh, yes sir, that Slidell, he done checked back at the Best out Ouachita. Seems a feller rented two cabins fer a week. Older feller, sad-like. A younger feller jined him, tough-like, so it goes."
"There were two of them, then?" Owney remarked.
"Wal, sir, maybe. Manager says them boys stopped showing up midweek. Never came back. Will's Slidell got the key, checked out each cabin. Wasn't nary much-like. Extry underwear, toothbrushes and powder, a Little Rock newspaper. No guns or nothing. Them boys travel light, even if they's the ones, even if they's wasn't."
"I don't fuckm' like this shit one bit" Owney said aloud. "If they was nobodies, they fucking wouldn't have thought it to be a big deal. They mighta left town, but not before checking out. These guys, they knew I'd be looking for them. That fuckin' cowboy who hit Siegel, he knew me. He looked at me and said"―and here he lapsed into a passably convincing imitation of the rumbly vessel that was Earl's sulfur-scorched voice―"'How 'bout it, Mr. Maddox, you or any of your boys want a taste'? He fucking knew me. How's he know me? I don't know him. How the fuck he know me?"
Owney gazed off into the vapors as if fascinated by this new problem. That guy had the best hands he'd ever seen.
"That fucking guy, he could hit. I managed a boxer for a few years. Big lug couldn't hit shit. But I know the fight game, and that boy was a hitter!"
"Could they be New York guys? Or Chicago guys?"
"They could be Chicago guys," Owney said. "Bugsy was a New York guy and he sure as shit din't know them. I'd a heard if they was New York. Man, he hit that yid hard!"
"Cops?" someone thought to ask.
"Did you check the cops?" Owney asked Flem Grumley.
"Did, yes sir. Chief says it warn't none of his boys. He ain't hired no new boys. He even called a friend he has in the little Rock FBI and it ain't no federal thing. No revenooers or nothing like that. Believe me, I know revenooers and these damn boys weren't revenooers. No revenooer ever could hit like that."
"Could they work for the new prosecuting attorney?" somebody asked. "We don't got any sources into what Becker is ninning."
Flem had an answer: "That boy is so scared since Rufus throwed that dead dog on his lawn he ain't been seen in town! He don't hardly even go to his office!"
There was much laughter.
And that was pretty much it: the rest was old business―a new Chinese laundry near Oaklawn was behind in his payments and would have to be instructed to keep up-to-date; the Jax brewery in New Orleans had delivered too much beer but a Grumley had convinced the driver of the truck not to report it; the wheel at the Horseshoe was running wobbly and cutting into the joint odds, though it could be repaired―but thought had to be put into replacing it; the betting season at Hialeah was just getting started and Owney ought to consider putting a new man or two into the Central Book as the wire would run very hot when Hialeah was up and steaming.
But after the meeting was over, the manager of the Golden Sim, a house near the Oaklawn Racetrack, pulled Owney over.
"I heard something, Owney."
"And what's that, Jock?"
"Ah, maybe it's nothing, but you should know anyhow."
"So, spill."
"My brother-in-law runs a craps game in an after-hour joint for Mickey Cohen in L. A. He used to work on that gambling boat they had beyond the twelve-mile-limit."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, and times are tough since they closed that ship. But Mickey told my brother-in-law that good things are set up."
Owney listened intently. Mickey Cohen was Bugsy's right-hand man.
"What's he mean?"
"He says there'd be jobs for all the old guys, the real pro table crews."
"So? Is Bugsy going to try and get the ship thing going again?"
"No, Owney. It's bigger than that. Evidently, he's bought a big chunk of desert over the Nevada state line. Gambling's legal in Nevada. Nobody goes there, but it's legal."
"I still don't―"
"He's thinking big. He's going to build a place. A big place. He's got some New York money bankrolling it. It's supposed to be secret. But he's going to build a gambling city in the desert. He's going to build a Hot Springs in the desert. Me, I think it's shit. Who's going to go to a fucking desert to gamble?"
But Owney immediately understood the nature of Bugsy's visit, and saw the threat to his own future. That was Bugsy's game, then. There could only be one Hot Springs. It would be here in Arkansas, where it belonged; or it would be in Nevada, in the fucking desert, where yid punk Bugsy wanted it.
It wouldn't be in two places.
Someone was going to have to die.
Chapter 11
D. A. had worked it out very carefully in his mind. He broke the team down into two-man fire teams, and put three of them into each squad, one designated the front-entry team and the other the rear-entry team.
Now it was time to do it, with unloaded weapons but all other gear as it would be, including the heavy vests that everybody hated.
Of course the young Carlo Henderson found himself united with the even younger Frenchy Short, who was full of opinions too important to be kept to himself, which was one reason nobody else would come near Frenchy.
"See," he said, "I would use the shotguns and the carbines. This isn't the '20s. The Thompsons were developed for trench warfare. For spraying. You spray a room, you got―"
"You wasn't ever instructed to spray nothing," said the stolid Carlo. "Mr. Earl told us: three-shot bursts."
"Yeah, well, some of these hicks from the sticks, they'll go nuts if somebody starts shooting at 'em. They'll spray anything that moves. They'll turn one of these casinos into a Swiss cheese house."
"You'd best just do what you're told."
"Ah," said Frenchy. "You're one of them. You probably love all this shit. You probably love that big Mr. Earl throwing his weight around like he's s
ome kind of God or John Wayne or something."
"He seems okay. I heard he was a big war hero."
"Yeah, what'd it get him? Pretend sergeant in Hot Springs, Arkansas, busting down casino doors. Shit. He couldn't do better off a big medal than that?"
"What're you even here for if all this is so much crap?"
"Ah―"
"Well?"
"You won't tell anybody?"
"Of course not. You're my buddy. I have to cover for you."
"I got kicked out of Princeton. Boy, was my old man red-assed! He's a big-deal judge, so he got me a job in the police department. What I really want to do is get to the FBI. But not without a college degree, no sir. But if I do well as a cop―"
"Why'd you get kicked out?"
"It's a long story," said Frenchy, and his eyes grew hard and tough with a zealot's fire. "It was another crap deal, believe me. I got blamed for something I absolutely did not do! Anyhow, if I can get into the FBI, I can maybe then get into the OSS. You know what that is?"
"The what?"
"The what! Henderson, you're even dumber than you look. It's the Office of Strategic Services. The spies. Man, I would be so good at that! You work in foreign countries and I have a gift for languages and accents. These guys all believe I'm from some Passel O'Toads, Georgia! Anyhow, in OSS you pull shit all the time. In the war they blew up trains and assassinated Nazi generals and cut wires and eavesdropped on diplomats. My uncle did it."
"Well," said Henderson, "you'd best forget about all that and just focus on what we're going to be doing in a few minutes."
"Okay, but I get the Thompson, okay?"
"I thought you didn't like the Thompson."
"I didn't say I didn't like it. I said it was wrong for this kind of work. But I get to carry the Thompson."
"Fine. I'll go first."
"No, I'll go first. Come on, I'm much faster than you, I shoot better than you, I'm quick, I'm smart, I'm―"
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