Minelli did not like the way this was going, and he moved to head it off before it got out of hand.
"Relax, all right, Jules? I've got people on this thing right now. They'll get some answers for you, an' whoever pulled this shit is gonna wish that he was born without a trigger finger."
Patriarcca's silent scowl was like a slap across the face, and it was plain he did not think he had to look much farther for the author of the fireworks. Suspicious at the best of times, the capo of Seattle and his toady from Los Angeles were clearly thinking that Minelli was himself responsible.
Right now, Minelli had to find out who was lunatic enough to come in here, on his land, and draw down on his guests. When he had answered that one, then they could see to business, with some good old-fashioned entertainment as a lead-in to the main event.
As if in answer to his thoughts, a burst of static issued from the walkie-talkie carried by the houseman at his elbow. Don Minelli turned, waiting as the message was received.
"We've got some cartridge casings here," the disembodied voice announced.
The houseman pointed toward a rise about three hundred yards away where tiny figures stood between two trees in stark relief against the sky.
"Go on."
"Some kinda big-bore hunting rifle. Sucker must've used a scope."
"What else?"
"That's it. Five shots, five shells."
"Damn, give me that."
Minelli snatched the walkie-talkie from his houseman, fumbled for a moment with the transmit button, finally got it right.
"There must be something else," he barked.
The searcher's voice came back at him audibly tinged with fear and respect.
"No, sir. Nothing. Too much grass up here to hold a footprint."
Minelli fought an urge to dash the radio against the fender of his burned-out limousine.
"All right. But keep on looking, anyway. The bastard didn't float in here, for cryin' out loud."
"Yessir. Out."
The walkie-talkie hissed at him, went dead, and Minelli passed it back to his houseman. He forced a reassuring smile and turned to meet the scowling faces of his guests.
"They'll work it out," he said. "Don't worry. Anybody tries this shit with me is crazy."
"Like a fox," said the capo from Los Angeles.
Minelli's smile went stony, frozen on his face.
"I guess I didn't get that, Lester."
"Oh? Well, maybe I can make it plain."
But Patriarcca raised a hand to silence his associate.
"No more. It's hot out here, an' frankly, I'd feel better if we went inside. Whatever anybody has to say can just as well be said when everybody's here."
A grudging nod from Cigliano, and Minelli's jaw relaxed.
"You're right. Let's go up to the house and get some drinks, whatever. All your rooms are ready, an' the others should be here before you know it."
"Hope you've got a lotta Continentals, Don Ernesto," Cigliano gibed.
Minelli pretended he hadn't heard or understood. Patriarcca and his crony had brought three men each, together with the woman who stood beside Jules, watching everything and saying nothing. Too damn many for a showdown on the lawn, but if the skinny L.A. capo kept on needling him...
And why, in heaven's name, did something like this have to happen now, when it was most important for him to present the image of a man in full control of his surroundings? As he walked back to the house, trying to make small talk with his shaken guests, Minelli's mind was working on the riddle, coming up with nothing that made sense.
It seemed improbable that anyone intent on killing either of his visitors would do it there, so far from home, when they could easily have sniped them on their own respective turfs. A sniper with the skill of this one could have taken Patriarcca or his upstart colleague any time, and that made Don Minelli's problem all the more perplexing.
Had the shooter known exactly who was riding in the limousines? Or was he firing blind, content to pick off anyone he found on Minelli property?
Why had he settled for destruction of the cars, wounding a couple of Minelli's buttons, when he could have had the bosses just as easily?
Had he been looking for someone else? Perhaps Minelli himself?
Don Ernesto picked up his pace, suddenly anxious to be inside the house and out of the glaring sunlight. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and he cursed his faceless adversary.
Someone was trying to upset his plans, to sabotage the meeting that had been long months in preparation.
Someone.
But who?
It might be Patriarcca, certainly. Or Cigliano, though his mind rebelled at the thought of L.A. Lester laying out a plan without someone to walk him through it. Either way, complicity by one or both of Don Minelli's guests would perfectly explain their lucky break in slipping through the sniper's sights. And then again...