Mob Psychology td-87 Read online

  Chiun piped up, saying, "You will like the new you, Remo. "

  "So help me, Chiun, if I end up looking like a refugee from a Hong Kong chopsocky movie-"

  "It is better than looking like King Kong, as you formerly did," the Master of Sinanju sniffed.

  The doctor arrived a minute later and asked genially, "How is the patient?"

  "Angry enough to chew nails," Remo said.

  "Well, this should not take long."

  Remo listened as the doctor rolled some kind of wheeled object probably a tray of instruments-up to the side of the bed.

  "I am bringing a mirror up to your face," the doctor told Remo. "Is that all right with you?"

  "Just let's get this over with," Remo said testily.

  The doctor began to snip away the gauze, pausing often to unwind the long strips. As successive layers came away, Remo saw two patches of light emerge. He made his pupils compensate for the brightness. If he had not been lied to, it had been a while since they had been subjected to light.

  More gauze came away. Finally the last layer was peeled from his eyes and Remo could see them reflected in the mirror.

  Dr. Harold Smith and Chiun stood out of range of his vision, somewhere behind him, so they were unable to see Remo's face.

  Only a patch of pale skin showed here and there through the gauze. The doctor continued snipping and unwinding busily.

  The nose emerged. Then the rounded plane of one cheek. And the point of the jaw.

  Finally, as if a key thread had been yanked, the gauze abruptly dropped away and Remo Williams was staring at his naked, dumbfounded face.

  The silence in the room was thick.

  All at once Remo threw his head back and began laughing uproariously.

  "What is it, Remo?" Smith demanded hoarsely.

  "He's hysterical," said the doctor.

  "I must see this," cried Chiun.

  Before anyone could move, Remo turned around, jumping off the bed. He spread his arms like a stage performer, saying, "Behold the new Remo!"

  Harold Smith gasped and turned as pale as the walls.

  Chiun's tiny mouth made a circle of shock, his eyes narrowing into walnuts of inscrutability.

  And although it hurt like hell, Remo Williams grinned from ear to ear, enjoying their horror-struck expressions.

  Chapter 18

  The first thing that Antony Tollini did upon being ushered into the glowering presence of Don Carmine Imbruglia was to fall down on his knees and beg for his life.

  "Anything you want," he said, his voice twisted with raw emotion. "I'll do it, Don Carmine. Please."

  Tony Tollini shut his eyes. He hoped if they shot him, it would be in the head. Quick.

  Don Carmine Imbruglia was seated at the Formica-topped table not far from the great black stove on which a tiny saucepan of basil cream sauce bubbled pungently.

  "You cost me fuggin' money," he roared.

  "I'm sorry," Tony said, squeezing his eyes. A single transparent worm of a tear crawled from one corner and scooted down into the relative safety of his mustache.

  " 'Sorry' don't fuggin' pay the piper," pointed out Don Carmine. "I ask for repair guys, I get stiffs. I ask for better repair guys, and I lose wise guys. Then I lose the hard-on disk. Now I gotta fuggin' hard-on. And because you're Don Fiavorante's nephew, I can't whack you out, which is a perfectly natural thing to do under the circumstances."

  "Thank God."

  "But I can bust your balls," added Don Carmine. "Where's that testicle crusher?"

  "Out bein' fixed," reported Bruno the Chef. "You broke it on Manny the Fink, remember?"

  "That's right. I did." Carmine frowned down on Tony Tollini. "Okay, you can keep your balls. For now. But I gotta have satisfaction."

  "What can I do to make it up to you?" Tony pleased.

  " I owe Don Fiavorante forty G's. You got forty G's?"

  Tony Tollini's black eyes snapped open. "Yes, yes, in my bank account. As a matter of fact, I have almost sixty thousand."

  "Okay," said Don Carmine in a mollified voice. "I get all sixty."

  "But you said forty!"

  "That didn't include the money I can't collect from the dough I put out on the street at twenty percent on account of that fuggin' hard-on disk."

  "Can I write you a check?" said Tony.

  "After you gimme your watch," said Don Carmine.

  Tony blinked. "Why?"

  "You're a sharp fuggin' dresser. I figure you got a sharp fuggin' watch I can hock for another grand."

  Morosely, Tony Tollini removed his Tissot watch and handed it over.

  Don Carmine Imbruglia accepted the proffered tribute. He looked at it with blinking eyes.

  "What the fug is this? A fuggin' joke?"

  "What?"

  "You holding out on me, you yubbie bastid?"

  "No, I swear!"

  Don Carmine held up the watch for all to see, saying, "Look at this watch! He palmed the fuggin' numbers. I never heard of anything so brazen."

  "Numbers?" said Tony blankly.

  Don Carmine passed the watch to his lieutenants. It was passed from hand to hand.

  "Hey, it's made out of a rock," exclaimed Bruno (The Chef) Boyardi.

  "What do you take me for?" snarled Don Carmine Imbruglia. "Stupid? Tryin' to hoist a rock off on me?"

  "It's a Tissot," Tony explained. "It's supposed to be made from a rock. It cost me almost two hundred dollars."

  Don Carmine took the watch back and looked at it again.

  "You got rooked, smart guy." He tossed the watch back. "Here, I can't do nothing with this. The fences'll laugh me right out of town."

  Tony Tollini caught the watch.

  "You and I," said Carmine. "We're gonna make some money together."

  "How?"

  "You're a smart guy. You know computers. Don Fiavorante says you're gonna fix me up with the best computers money can buy. Only they ain't gonna cost me nothing."

  "They ain't? I mean, they aren't?"

  "Naw. 'Cause you're gonna filch 'em from IDC."

  "Oh," said Tony, getting the picture.

  Then Don Carmine explained his needs.

  "I got runners, see? You understand runners and numbers slips? What can you do about that?"

  "We'll bring in faxes," Tony said quickly.

  "I don't hire queers. That's out."

  "No, I said a fax. It's a telephone that transmits sheets of paper. "

  Don Carmine looked blank.

  "With the writing on it," Tony added.

  "They got those now?" said Don Carmine, his beetling brows lifting in surprise.

  "I can have this room filled with plain paper copiers, faxes, beepers, dedicated phones, word processors, and PC's equal to all your needs," said Tony Tollini, suddenly on familiar ground. Sales. "What's more I can get you fault-tolerant systems. They're completely bulletproof. You'll never have a hard disk failure again, Mr. Imbruglia."

  "Call me Cadillac. Everybody does."

  "Yes, Mr. Cadillac. "

  "Now you're talkin' my language. Boys, help Tony here set this up."

  They helped Tony Tollini off his knees. He made a call to IDC and ordered an open system.

  "I want our best stuff," he told customer service. "And program everything to run LANSCII."

  Within two days Don Carmine was on line. The Salem Street Social Club was crammed with equipment. He stood blinking at the big black fax that had been placed on a dead burner of the black stove for lack of a better place.

  "Looks like a fat phone," he said doubtfully.

  "I'll show you how it works," said Tony Tollini eagerly. "There's a restaurant near here that accepts fax orders. Here's the menu."

  Frowning, Don Carmine looked over the folded paper menu.

  "I'll have the clam chowder," he said.

  "Great," said Tony Tollini, who typed a brief letter on the word processor, printing it out and sending it through the fax machine.

  Don Carmine watched as the s
heet of paper hummed in one slot and came out the other to the accompaniment of startled beeps.

  He ripped the sheet free and looked at it.

  Turning to Tony Tollini, he said, "It's still fuggin' here. What is it, broke?"

  "Just wait."

  Minutes later, there came a knock at the front door.

  Instantly Pauli (Pink Eye) Scanga and Vinnie (The Maggot) Maggiotto drew automatics as Bruno the Chef answered the door.

  "It's okay," he called back. " I got it."

  He came back with a paper bag and handed it to Don Carmine.

  "What's this?"

  "Your eats, boss," said Bruno confidently.

  Don Carmine broke open the bag and pulled out a plastic container. He lifted the lid, sniffed experimentally, and looked inside.

  "This stuff is all white!" he roared.

  Bruno looked.

  "It's clam chowder. Ain't it?"

  "This stuff looks like fuggin' baby puke. Where's the tomato soup?" ,

  "They don't put tomato soup in clam chowder up here," said Bruno.

  "Then what do they put in, fuggin' cream? Send this back. I want clam chowder with tomato sauce in it."

  And as an expression of his wrath, Don Carmine picked up a heavy cellular phone and threw it at a nearby computer screen.

  The glass cracked, seemingly sucking in the rows of amber columns. Silence followed.

  Don Carmine turned to a cringing Tony Tollini. "What happened to bulletproof." he roared.

  Eyes widening, Tony sputtered, "They're not literally bulletproof!"

  "What other kind is there!"

  "It's just a technical term," Tony bleated. "The system is built of arrayed redundant mirror components. If some break down, the others take over."

  "Oh," said Don Carmine slowly. "Now I understand perfectly. "

  "You do?"

  "No wonder these computer things work like they're magic. It's all done with fuggin' mirrors."

  His eyes sick, Tony Tollini swallowed his reply.

  While Bruno ran the errand, Don Carmine demanded of Tony, "Got any other things you want to show me, genius?"

  The phone rang then. The Maggot answered it. He called over to Don Carmine, "It's Don Fiavorante. He wants his money. "

  "Tell him I got it."

  "He wants it now."

  Don Carmine frowned. His eyes lit up suddenly. "Ask him if he's gotta fax."

  "He's says he does."

  "Tell him to hang up. I'll give him his money in no time."

  Don Carmine pointed to Tony Tollini. "You, genius. You write that check for forty G's now."

  Tony sat down at the Formica table and pulled out his checkbook.

  "Make the check out to Fiavorante Pubescio, the crook. Only leave out 'the crook' part, okay?"

  Obediently Tony began writing.

  When he was done, Don Carmine looked at the check and handed it back, grinning.

  "Fax this to Don Fiavorante," he said.

  Tony swallowed. "But I can't . . ."

  "Why not? Won't checks fax?"

  "They will, but . . "

  "No buts. Fax the fugger."

  An unhappy look on his face, Tony Tollini trudged over to the fax machine, inserted the check sideways, and dialed the number Pink Eye read off to him.

  The check went in. And then it came out again.

  Don Carmine plucked it free.

  "You know," he said, pocketing the check, "modern technology is fuggin' wonderful."

  He was so pleased with his new computerized office that when Bruno the Chef came back and said, "They say they don't know how to make tomato clam chowder up here,

  Don Carmine simply shrugged and said, "Screw it. We'll go out to eat. Maybe we'll take over one of these joints. Make 'em do chowder right and join the fuggin' human race for a change. "

  "Why don't I stay here?" said Tony quickly.

  Carmine paused, his expression becoming suspicious. "Why you wanna do that?"

  "Somebody should stay here to answer the phone," said Tony, who knew that Don Fiavorante was sure to call back about his nonnegotiable check.

  "Good thinkin. You stay by the phone. We'll get you a doggy bag if you promise not to go on the fuggin' rug while we're out," Carmine said, laughing.

  When Don Fiavorante did call minutes later, Tony Tollini was profuse in his apologies.

  "I'm sorry, Uncle Fiavorante," he explained. "Don Carmine hasn't mastered the modern office system yet. I'll drive the check down tonight, okay?"

  "You are a good boy, Tony. I trust you. Why don't you send it Federal Express?" Don Fiavorante's voice sank to an unctuous growl. "But if I don't have my rent money by ten-thirty sharp tomorrow morning, it will not be a good thing, capisce?"

  "Capisce," said Tony Tollini, who called Federal Express the minute he got off the phone with his uncle.

  In the weeks that followed Tony Tollini almost forgot he was in league with the Mafia.

  Business hummed. Carmine Imbruglia hummed.

  From the Salem Street Social Club, the bettor slips came in by fax. Tony logged them onto the PC system. Any incidental paper was destroyed once it had served its purpose or the information was entered into the LANSCII program.

  There were a few incidents, to be sure, such as the time an odds list immolated itself while passing through the fax.

  "What's with this fuggin' fax?" demanded Don Carmine. "It's trying to sabotage me."

  "It's the paper," complained Tony. "I told you, you don't need to use flash paper anymore. Its outdated."

  "What if the feds bust in?"

  "You just erase the computer records."

  Don Carmine squinted at the glowing amber lines on the PC screen.

  "How do you erase light?"

  "By typing star-asterisk-star. It wipes the hard disk clean."

  "Star-asterisk-star," muttered Don Carmine, making a mental note to look up the spelling of asterisk. "Got it. Can I get it back afterward?"

  "Maybe. Unlikely."

  Carmine shrugged. "What the hell, it's better than twenty-five to thirty in the pen," he said philosophically. "We're making money hand over fist, although we're barely making rent. "

  "You should think about expanding," said Tony, who, although he was still working off his debt to Don Carmine at thirty-six percent interest, felt a flush of pride in his work.

  "Whatchu mean?"

  "You need larger quarters. And you should think about incorporating. "

  "You mean, go legit?"

  "Not that exactly. But create a corporate shield around yourself. "

  Don Carmine waved to his ever-present bodyguards, Pink Eye Scanga and Vinnie the Maggot.

  "I got all the shield I need right here. Ain't that right, boys?"

  "Whatever you say, boss."

  "You know," Carmine said slowly, "I hear there's fast money in heroin up here. Maybe we should get into that."

  "I thought the Mafia-"

  "Hey! We don't use that word around here," Carmine snapped. "There's no such thing as the Mafia. This is just Our Thing. Got that?"

  "Got it," said Tony Tollini. "I thought the, you know, didn't get involved in drug trafficking."

  "What joik told you that?"

  "My Uncle Fiavorante," said Tony truthfully.

  "He was pullin' your fuggin' leg. If there's a dishonest buck in it, we do it. Now, how do we move drugs without it gettin' back to us?"

  Tony Tollini considered this business problem seriously. "You could Fedex them, I suppose."

  "Fedex? Is that like faxin'?"

  "Not exactly. It's slower. Takes a day or two."

  Don Carmine nodded sagely. "That makes sense. It's one thing to send paper through the telephone. Sending drugs is harder. We should start with cocaine, though."

  "Why is that?" Tony wondered.

  "What are you, retarded or somethin'?" Carmine jerked a nubby thumb at Tony Tollini. "Listen to this guy. He's askin' why we should start Fedexin' coke and not smack."


  Don Carmine's underlings laughed on cue.

  "You dink," said Don Carmine, lifting the fax receiver and holding it up to Tony Tollini's suddenly white face. "Cocaine is powder. Like salt. It's the best thing for sending through the little holes," said Carmine, stabbing at the receiver mouthpiece with a blunt finger.

  "That's not how Fedexing works," said Tony woodenly.

  Don Carmine looked at the phone receiver.

  "You know," he said slowly, "I'm thinkin' maybe we should try Fedexin' salt first. You know, in case we dial a wrong number. It could be embarrassin', not to mention expensive. Coke ain't cheap."

  There were no dissenting opinions to this observation. Tony bit his tongue.

  The next day, Vinnie the Maggot showed up with a suitcase filled with cocaine in one-ounce plastic bags. The case was opened under Tony Tollini's eager eyes.

  "Where did this come from?" Tony wondered.

  "Got it off a guy," said the Maggot casually.

  "Just like that?"

  "Well, I had to shoot him first, of course."

  "Oh."

  "Okay," said Don Carmine briskly. " I got a customer to send it to. Get to Fedexin'."

  Tony Tollini looked at the small lake of pure white coke under his nose.

  "Maybe someone should sample it," he suggested eagerly.

  "Good idea. We mighta got took. You wanna do the honors?"

  "Gladly," said Tony Tollini.

  He popped a bag and sifted a small pile of white powder onto the table. Unscrewing his solid silver ball-point pen, he emptied it of its ink reservoir and used the hollow lower end to inhale a line.

  "Whew! Great!" said Tony, his eyes acquiring a shine.

  "Good stuff?" asked Don Carmine gruffly.

  "The best," said Tony, grinning.

  "Great. You now owe me three hundred little ones."

  The shine went out like a wet match. "Three hundred!"

  "Street price. What-you think I'd give you a free hit? Hah, I don't give nothin' free out of the goodness of my own heart. Is that pen silver?"

  "Yeah," said Tony unhappily.

  Don Carmine snapped his fingers twice. "Give it here. My price just went up. Three hundred and a silver pen. Nice doin' business with you, joik. Now, get the phone number from Pink Eye and Fedex an ounce to the guy what lives there. "

  " I need the address too."

  "Makes sense," said Don Carmine. "You gonna move somethin' heavy like coke you need the address too. It's only reasonable."