Mob Psychology td-87 Read online

  "What happened to this town. An earthquake?"

  "No one's sure," said Bruno the Chef. "Ever since the Greek lost the election, this whole territory has gone to hell. It was like a balloon that had been pumped up too much and exploded. "

  Carmine made shooing motions with both hands. "It'll come back. It'll come back. Don't you worry. I'm kingpin of this town and I'm tellin' you it'll come back."

  Carmine Imbruglia's first sight of the North End brought the broad smile back to his face. It was a slice of Little Italy. Even the pungent aromas were identical.

  "Say, this is more like it," he said happily.

  The Salem Street Social Club was more to his liking too.

  Carmine strode up to the front door, and after inserting the ancient brass key in the lock, turned it.

  He stepped in. His heart swelled. It was just like the old Neighborhood Improvement Association. Only it was his, and his alone.

  The back room was simply furnished. There were a card table and a great black four-burner stove with a double oven. The kind they had in restaurants.

  Carmine Imbruglia's pig eyes fell on the computer terminal that sat square in the middle of the card table.

  "What the fug is that thing doin' there?" he wanted to know.

  "It's a computer, boss."

  "I know it's a fuggin' computer. I asked what the fug is it doin' here, not what its species was."

  "It's a present from Don Fiavorante. Here's the instruction book."

  Don Carmine accepted the blue leather notebook. He squinted at the cover, which had stamped in silver the strange word "LANSCII."

  "Is this Pilgrim, or what?" he muttered.

  "I think it's computerese."

  "Computerese? What does Don Fiavorante think we're runnin' up here, fuggin' IDC? Get rid of it."

  "Can't. Don Fiavorante's orders."

  Don Carmine tossed the book back onto the table. "Ah, I'll worry about it later. Go hustle me some lunch."

  "What'll you have?"

  "Pizza. A nice hot pizza. Everything on it."

  "Squid rings too?"

  Carmine turned like a tugboat coming around. "Squid rings? Whoever heard of squid rings on pizza? Hell, if that's how they do it in Boston, pile 'em on. I'll try anything once. Some vino. And some cannoli. Fresh ones. Don't let em give you day-old."

  "Don't worry. I'm going to the restaurant where I work nights. "

  After you get the food, give 'em your notice. Nobody moonlights anymore. This ain't the fuggin' merchant marine I'm runnin' here."

  When the food came, Don Carmine Imbruglia took one look at the pizza and went white with rage.

  "What the fug is this? Where's the tomato sauce? And the cheese? Don't they have cows up here? Look at that crust. This fuggin' pie is all crust."

  "That's how they do pizzas up here. Taste it. You might like it."

  Carmine tore off the point of one dripping slice with his teeth. He spat it out again.

  "Tastes like cardboard!" he said between explosions of dry crust.

  "Sorry. Have some vino," said Bruno the Chef, pouring.

  Carmine waved him away. "I can always drink later. I'm hungry." He lifted a cannoli to his mouth. He bit down. The brittle shell cracked apart. He tasted the sickly green filling.

  And promptly spat it on the linoleum floor.

  "What'd they fill these things with-used toothpaste?"

  "This is Boston, boss. It's not like New York. They do things a little different up here."

  "They don't do them good at all! Get rid of this junk and get me some real food."

  "What kind?"

  Don Carmine jerked a thumb at the heavy black stove.

  "You're the fuggin' chef. Fuggin' surprise me."

  Over a puffy calzone bursting with pinkish-gray tentacles salvaged from the pizza, Don Carmine began to feel better about Boston.

  "So where are my soldiers?" he asked, shoving a rubbery tendril of squid into his mouth with a greasy thumb.

  "I'm it."

  Carmine's apish jaw dropped. The tentacle slithered back onto the plate. "Where's the rest of my fuggin' crew?" he demanded hotly.

  "Dead or in jail. Rico."

  "Them fuggin' Puerto Ricans are everywhere. Hey, what am I worried about? I can make guys now. I'm a fuggin' don. I'm absolute boss of Boston. I need soldiers, I'll just make 'em."

  I know some guys. Vinnie the Maggot. Bugs. Toe Biter-" Carmine's face assumed a doubtful expression. "With names like those, make sure they got all their shots before you bring 'em around," he said. "Got that?"

  At that moment the phone rang.

  As Don Carmine resumed his meal, Chef Boyardi went to answer the phone.

  "This squid tastes a little gamy," Don Carmine muttered. "You sure they didn't stick you with octopus?"

  "I asked for squid."

  "Tastes like fuggin' octopus."

  "Yeah?" Bruno (The Chef) Boyardi said into the telephone. "Yeah, he is. Boss, it's for you." The Chef clapped a hand over the ancient black Bakelite mouthpiece. "It's Don Fiavorante."

  Carmine grabbed the phone.

  "Hello?" he said through a mouthful of tentacular matter.

  "Don Carmine. How is my friend this day?" came Don Fiavorante's smooth-as-suntan-oil voice.

  "It's great up here," Carmine lied. "Really wonderful."

  "You have seen the computer?"

  "Yeah, yeah. Nice. Appreciate it. Always wanted one of my own."

  "Good, good. You will need it to keep track of your rent payments. "

  Carmine stopped chewing. "Rent?"

  "Rent is due Friday. Every Friday you must pay me twenty thousand dollars for the privilege of running Boston."

  Don Carmine gulped. "I may need a few weeks to get on the ball here-" ,

  "Every Friday. The next Friday is two days from now."

  "But I don't got that kind of money. I just got here!"

  "If you cannot pay me twenty thousand dollars on this first Friday," said Don Fiavorante, "I will understand."

  "That's good, because I barely blew into town."

  "However, if you cannot pay your first week's rent, then you must pay me forty thousand on the following Friday."

  "Forty!"

  "Plus, of course, your second week's rent of twenty thousand dollars."

  "But that's sixty thousand bucks!" exploded Don Carmine Imbruglia. He wiped spittle off the mouthpiece with his sleeve.

  "And if you cannot pay on the second Friday, that, too, I will understand. So on the following Friday after that, your combined rent will be, for the first two Fridays, eighty thousand dollars. Plus of course the third-Friday rent."

  Don Carmine felt the room spinning. He had never seen that kind of money in his entire life. "What if I can't pay on the third Friday?" he wailed.

  "This is not done, and I know you will not fail to repay the trust I have placed in you, Don Carmine, my good friend, to whom I owe my current high estate."

  Carmine swallowed a tentacle tip that his tongue discovered wedged between two loose molars.

  "I will do as you say, Don Fiavorante," he gulped.

  "I know that you will, Don Carmine. I know that you will. Now, all you need to get started you will find in the blue book called 'LANSCII.' "

  "That name sounds kind of familiar," Carmine muttered vaguely.

  "It should. You have any trouble with the system, you just call the number inside the cover. Ask for Tony."

  "Tony. Got that."

  "Tony is a friend of mine. He will help you."

  "Any friend of yours is a friend of mine too. You know that. "

  "You are a good boy, Don Carmine," said Don Fiavorante. "I know you will not let me down. The future of this thing of ours is in your hands."

  The line went dead.

  Don Carmine Imbruglia hung up. Woodenly he walked over to his unfinished meal. With a sweep of his arms he cleared it from the table.

  "You don't like my calzone?" asked Bruno (the Chef) Boyardi.r />
  "It tastes like fuggin' octopus," snarled Carmine Imbruglia, dragging the computer terminal over to the place where his plate had been. "I got no time to eat anyway. I just hit town and I'm already twenty G's in the fuggin hole.

  He squinted at his brutish reflection in the terminal screen.

  "Oh, mother of God," he said hoarsely.

  "What? What?"

  "I don't see any channel changer on this thing. I think we got a defective computer. Where did Don Fiavorante get this pile of junk anyway?"

  "Maybe the changer fell off when it fell off the truck."

  Chapter 12

  Dr. Rance Axeworthy made the unpleasant discovery less than an hour into the operation.

  "This man has had plastic surgery before," he muttered, discovering the telltale scars behind the ears.

  "Many times," said the tiny Oriental.

  "Then I shouldn't be doing this. Repeating the procedure can have a catastrophic effect on the plastic tissues. Odd that there is so little scarring."

  "He heals well."

  Dr. Axeworthy paused. He attempted to calculate the risks of facial scarring. High. The chance of a malpractice suit. Low. This was too irregular an arrangement for anyone to sue. Then he recalled the exact sum of his fee.

  "I was going to bring out the cheeks," he said thoughtfully, "but I see that this has been done. I will instead fill out the face somewhat. Resculpture the ears. Ears are a telltale identifying mark."

  " I am more concerned with the eyes," said the old Oriental.

  "I have my orders," Dr. Axeworthy said stiffly.

  "A slight tightening of the corners would not be noticed," the tiny man said hopefully.

  "I'm going to have to do something to effect an overall change," said Dr. Axeworthy, as if he had not heard.

  He stared at the strong face in repose. He could not believe that he was operating without qualified assistance. Still, the fee more than made up for that slight inconvenience.

  The patient's earlier history created enormous problems. This required more time. And because there was no time, he remarked, "I'm going to remove the tumor while I think this through."

  He injected a strong nerve block into the lump, to further ensure no regrettable complications, such as the patient waking up in hysterics. Tracing the blue ink marking, he made a simple X with the scalpel, bringing forth surprisingly little blood. Using a Metzenbaum scissors, he laid the four triangular flaps of skin aside.

  What he saw made him gasp and nearly drop the scalpel.

  "Good Lord!"

  The old Oriental leaned in to peer at the exposed anomaly.

  "Ah, the orb of Shiva," he breathed.

  "My God. That can't be a tumor. Can it?"

  "It is not."

  "It looks almost like . . . an organ."

  Using a blunt probe, Dr. Axeworthy touched the thing.

  It was soft, like a human eye. Only it was as black as a gelatinous marble. There was no retina or iris. No white at all. No sign of veining. It could not be an eye, he told himself. It looked more like a great black fish egg.

  Still, Dr. Axeworthy held his breath as he painstakingly extracted the black orblike thing from its raw pink cavity, looking for the telltale grayish eye-controlling rictus muscles he would have to sever if his worst fears were true.

  They were not. Once the thing was out, the clean flat bone of the forehead showed underneath. There was no socket.

  Dr. Axeworthy laid the black orb on a stainless-steel tray, dripping with bright red blood.

  Carefully he sutured the expert X in the patient's forehead, keeping his worried eyes averted from the extracted orb. He could not bear to look at it, and because of his unprofessional timidity, he failed to notice that the orb had begun to glow a faint violet color.

  Dawn had turned Long Island Sound into a quaking lake of burning red and orange by the time Dr. Axeworthy had laid down his bloody scalpel and had begun bandaging the patient's new face.

  "It is done?" asked the old Oriental curiously.

  "I did the best that I could."

  "The eyes must be just so."

  "I can't guarantee the eyes," Dr. Axeworthy said testily. "But I did reduce the nose."

  The old Oriental watched the last pale winding of gauze swallow the freshly washed tip of the patient's nose and said darkly, "It is still of freakish size."

  "Anything more extreme and he would not look normal," remarked Dr. Axeworthy, cutting off the gauze spool and anchoring the trailing end under the chin with a tiny clamp.

  He stepped back.

  "When he wakes up, he will be in excruciating pain."

  "He will transcend it. For he is my son."

  Dr. Axeworthy's virile eyebrows lifted. "That explains your eagerness to bring out your side of the family."

  "His ugliness had been a source of deep pain to me," the old Oriental said sadly. "It sent his mother to an early grave." He brushed at one eye.

  "I see. Please inform Dr. Smith-if that is his true name that the procedure has been completed."

  The old Oriental padded from the operating room with the easy silence of a ghost.

  After he had departed, Dr. Axeworthy gathered up his instruments. His eyes went to the black thing. He blinked at it.

  Was it imagination, or was the orb glowing like a black light bulb? He reached for it curiously ....

  Dr. Harold W. Smith was supervising the workmen as they were completing the installation of the new office window when the Master of Sinanju entered the office.

  Smith lifted a hand to silence the words about to emerge from the old Korean's papery lips.

  His eyes on the workmen, Chiun floated up to Smith, who bent his head sideways to catch the whispered words.

  "It is done."

  "Good," whispered Smith.

  "Do I eliminate the doctor?"

  "No!" hissed Smith.

  "This was always done before," Chiun pointed out.

  "Not here."

  One of the workmen looked over from the window.

  "We're about done here."

  "Excellent." Smith cleared his throat. "You may leave now. "

  "Funny thing," one of the workmen called over. "I've been installing windows for a lot of years. This is the first time I ever had to put a trick one in."

  "This is a private hospital," Smith told him, thinking quickly. "Boaters have been caught training binoculars on the windows facing the shore. Since extremely delicate patient interviews are conducted in this room, we are concerned about lip readers gleaning highly intimate details about our patients. "

  "Guess you can't be too careful, huh?"

  Chiun tugged at Smith's gray sleeve. Smith leaned over slightly.

  "He suspects," hissed the Master of Sinanju. "Shall I dispatch him and his confederate here and now, or shall we await a more profitable opportunity, when no blame will be attached to us?"

  "No!" said Smith from behind a thin hand.

  "This has been done before," Chiun suggested.

  "They can be traced to this office," Smith said huskily.

  Chiun frowned like an unhappy mummy.

  After the window installers had departed, Smith turned to the Master of Sinanju and said, "I must speak with Dr. Axeworthy. "

  "I do not trust him," said Chiun darkly. "I suspect him of not following your wise instructions to the letter."

  "Why don't you accompany me, then?"

  Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed. A light of understanding shone in their ageless depths. He understood now. Wise Emperor Harold suspected the window persons of being in league with the treacherous physician and did not wish to tip his hand.

  As they took the elevator to the operating room, he thought with a contained expression that he might not have to pay the dishonest physician his promised tribute after all.

  Dr. Axeworthy whirled nervously when they entered the operating room.

  "Dr. Smith. Look at this. My God!"

  "What is it?" Smith said, hurrying ov
er to the operating table. "Has the patient been injured?"

  Axeworthy pointed with an unsteady index finger. "This is the source of the swelling on the patient's forehead."

  Smith looked where Dr. Axeworthy pointed. His gray eyes widened at the sight of the viscous black orb that was surrounded by a faint purplish halo on the stainless-steel instrument table.

  "What on earth'?" Smith blurted.

  "I've never seen anything like it," Dr. Axeworthy said excitedly. "I've never heard of anything like it." He turned, his eyes fever-bright. "Smith, you must allow me to take possession of this organ or nodule or whatever it is."

  "Why do you wish that?" asked Smith in an austere voice.

  Dr. Axeworthy could not tear his eyes from the glowing object. "This thing may make medical history. I think it may be some form of vestigial organ. An organ of some new kind, perhaps. Look at it glow. It's been out of the patient for nearly three hours!" ,

  "I am afraid I cannot allow this."

  Dr. Axeworthy drew himself up stubbornly.

  "And I am afraid I must insist.

  "Really?" Smith's tone sank several degrees.

  "I hesitate to say this, but this entire procedure has been unorthodox. I have no qualms about going to the authorities with the entire sordid story, such as I understand it."

  "What do you suspect this of being?" Smith asked in a chilly voice.

  "I have no idea. A criminal enterprise of some tawdry sort. I imagine Folcroft is a suitable place in which to remake notorious criminals. I am only sorry that I have been made a party to this."

  "If you had these suspicions, why did you proceed with the operation?" Smith demanded.

  Dr. Axeworthy hesitated. He was obviously thinking, Smith saw. The surgeon cleared his throat and said, "I was playing along. Yes I was being a good citizen and gathering evidence so I could testify in court. Had I not performed the surgery, there would be no crime, nothing to report to the police. "

  Harold Smith and the Master of Sinanju exchanged glances. "You want the . . . ah . . . organ. Is that it?" said Smith.

  "And my fee, naturally. I am willing to exchange the organ for my silence."

  Smith nodded to the Master of Sinanju and said, "Kill him."

  The Master of Sinanju started forward, his hands coming out of his sleeves like talons.