Mob Psychology td-87 Read online

  Crawling back, Remo pulled the woman out like a dead cat. Only she was not dead. Her heart still beat.

  He brought her to the side of the road and laid her there as her husband fell to his knees behind her, sobbing without words.

  There were more injured, and Remo went to help them. He had no choice. He had screwed up. Not lying flat on the bus roof had spooked the mafioso. This had been the result.

  An hour later, a tired Remo Williams limped back to the Bartilucci Construction Company yard.

  "You failed," Chiun said after only a glance at his pupil's bedraggled clothes. His necktie was smeared with soot. Here and there, seams had burst.

  "Don't rub it in, okay?" Remo said dispiritedly.

  "You should have done your duty, not dallied like an amateur. "

  "Hey! I was worried about you. Is that a crime?"

  "Worry I will accept. Pity is unacceptable. You think I am too old to serve my emperor?"

  "No, I do not," Remo said. Chiun glared. "Okay. Maybe a little."

  "I will remind you that you were incautious enough to make an alarm sound when Smith sent you on a small errand."

  "It was one of those ultrasonic alarms," Remo said sourly. "A fly can't get past them. And I'd like to see you handle one."

  "Perhaps you will," said Chiun tightly.

  "Great. Then you can teach me. Come on, let's give the bad news to Smith."

  "I will leave it to you to inform Smith that the ransom was not properly paid," Chiun said tonelessly.

  "Except that I saw you take the envelope. What're you trying to pull?"

  "Nothing. Behold. There is no more than forty dollars in this envelope. The remainder is waste paper."

  "Only forty?"

  Chiun beamed. "Less my finder's fee, of course."

  "That's too bad, Little Father," said Remo. "You get only thirty-six bucks."

  "Smith will make up the rest, of course. For my fee was based on the ransom to be paid, not the ransom that was delivered."

  Remo said, "Chiun, I can hardly wait to be the fly on the wall when you try to work that out with Smitty."

  "Smith will not deny me."

  "No," said Remo, jerking a thumb at the deceased form of Vinnie (The Maggot) Maggiotto. "If you hadn't eliminated that guy, we would have had a line on LCN headquarters."

  "We will not speak of this one to Smith," Chiun said quickly.

  "Only if you stop carping."

  "I never carp. I enlighten."

  "Try enlighting without carping, then," said Remo.

  "Only if you will attempt to receive enlightenment," returned the Master of Sinanju.

  They left the body to decompose in the dark as they walked to their waiting car parked behind the long shed.

  Chapter 26

  Don Carmine Imbruglia was soaking the postmarks off a stack of postage stamps he had steamed off the day's mail when Nicky Kix burst in with the bad news.

  "I didn't whack the Jap."

  "Scroom, then," said Don Carmine, adding a dollop more Lestoil.

  "And I lost the Maggot."

  "Screw the Maggot," snarled Don Carmine. "He eats garbage. Tell me somethin' important. What about the fuggin' hard-on disk?"

  "Right here, boss," said Nicky Kix, producing the sealed disk unit.

  "Beautiful," said Don Carmine, his mood instantly brightening. He kissed the disk. "Beautiful. Now I'm gonna make some money."

  "You're already making money."

  "Yeah, but I gotta pay tribute on it to Don Fiavorante. This stuff in here is all free and clear."

  "Oh, I get it. Guess you gotta let Tollini off the hook, huh?"

  "No chance. He don't know about this. And who's gonna tell him? You? Do that and you'll never eat pasta in this town again."

  "Don't he gotta install it?" asked Nicky Kix.

  This thought gave Don Carmine pause. "Yeah, but he don't have to know what it is."

  "What about the Jap? There was a guy with him."

  "He look like a fed?"

  "No, he looked like a hood."

  Don Carmine's disarrayed eyebrows bristled and squirmed in slow thought.

  "I wonder who's tryin' to muscle in?" he muttered.

  "Search me," admitted Nicky Kix, trying to look innocent. "Maybe it's Don Fiavorante. Gonna make a move on you."

  This caused Don Carmine's bristly eyebrows to descend like relays closing.

  "If it was, why'd he give back the hard-on disk?" wondered Don Carmine.

  "Search me."

  "Well; whoever it was, he was makin' a feudal gesture. Completely feudal. We got the disk and we got Boston. Nothin' can stop us now. We're makin' dough hand over fist."

  "I am glad to hear this, Don Carmine," said a smooth-as-suntan-oil voice from the slowly opening door.

  "Who's that?" growled Don Carmine, starting.

  When his eyebrows had jumped up he could see clearly Don Fiavorante Pubescio's well-tanned features beaming at him.

  "Don Fiavorante!" Carmine Imbruglia said brightly, his mood changing from suspicion to forced pleasure. He came out of his seat, wiping sweat off his hairy palms.

  "So good to see you, Fuggin," said Don Fiavorante, reaching out to embrace his sottocapo.

  Carmine Imbruglia returned the embrace, noting the two hulking Pubescio soldiers standing just outside the door. "They don't call me that up here. Up here I'm Cadillac."

  "You were always the kidder, Fuggin," said Don Fiavorante. "I like this about you. I always have."

  "Yeah, yeah. What can I do for you?"

  "I am seeing my rent money come in like it was flowing from a tap, and I say to myself, this Don Carmine, he is one bright boy. I must see his sports book for myself."

  "Didn't you get my fax?"

  "Perhaps. I do not understand these machines. Many times the machine rings. I get the little light. I hear the loud beeps, but all that rolls out is blank paper."

  "Wrong faxes. We get them too. There oughta be a law."

  "Tell me, Don Carmine. Your sports book is outperforming Vegas. How do you pick your winners so perfectly?"

  "Come on, I'll show you," Don Carmine said, urging Don Fiavorante away from the sealed hard disk with lifted hands that took care not to touch his don. "I got a brilliant new way to pick the winning teams. It's fuggin' phenomenal. Works on the ponies, on football, baseball, anything you want. It's based on a well-known law of human nature nobody but me has caught on to."

  They were walking along a curving well-carpeted corridor.

  "You use computers?" asked Don Fiavorante.

  "Naw. Computers can't do that stuff. Believe me, I tried. First week I had one, I kept typin' in questions like 'Jets or Steelers?' All I got was error this and error that. The fuggin' computer musta thought I was talkin' baseball or somethin'."

  "These machines, they are overrated," said Don Fiavorante.

  They came at last to a door marked "ODDS MAKERS."

  "Watch this," said Don Carmine, throwing the door open. He thrust his bullet head in, startling a quintet of unshaven swarthy-faced men seated around a big-screen TV. They were watching a hockey game.

  "Who's playin'?" Don Carmine asked.

  "It's the Bruins against the Canadiens," said one swarthy man in a strangely accented voice.

  "Who you guys think is gonna win?" asked Don Carmine.

  The quintet huddled. When their heads reemerged, the spokesman said, "The Bruins. Clearly."

  "Everybody agree on that?" Don Carmine asked.

  "Yes."

  "Absolutely. "

  "Of course."

  "Great," said Don Carmine happily. "Thanks." He shut the door.

  "The Canadiens," said Don Carmine Imbruglia confidently, "are gonna massacre them Broons."

  "You are certain?"

  "Absolutely," said Don Carmine. He jerked his thumb back in the direction of the closed door. "You see those guys back there? Palestinians, every one of 'em. They're never right. All you gotta do is ask 'em who'll win and then
go with the other team. If they don't agree, that means it'll be a tie. I tell you, it's foolproof. Fuggin' foolproof!"

  Don Fiavorante Pubescio placed both hands on the thick shoulders of Don Carmine Imbruglia and in his warmest voice said, "Don Carmine, you are a genius."

  Don Carmine puffed out his barrel chest. His tiny eyes twinkled like proud stars.

  "I know you will go far in Boston," added the don.

  "Thanks, Don Fiavorante."

  "And because I know great things lie before you, I am increasing your rent ten percent."

  "Ten fuggin' percent!" howled Don Carmine.

  "Retroactive to last Tuesday. With interest accrued."

  "But . . . but . . . but . . ." sputtered Don Carmine, his face turning crimson. "What'd I ever do to you? I do everything you say. I give you no problems. Not one."

  Don Fiavorante Pubescio held up a beringed hand.

  "Do not consider this modest increase as a painful thing," he said broadly. "Look upon it as incentive. Let it spur you to new heights. You will make more money and so will I. None of us will lose."

  "It's gonna fuggin' spur me into an early grave, is what it's gonna do," Don Carmine complained.

  Don Fiavorante's genteel expression darkened. "It pains me to hear such ingratitude from one whose markers I carry without complaint. I would dislike having to call in those markers."

  "Okay, okay," said Don Carmine through set teeth. "I'll try to look at it that way. But you gotta let me get on my feet a little more. The rent on this dump is killin me."

  After Don Fiavorante had left, Don Carmine Imbruglia stood with his hands dangling down his sides. His fingers hung low enough to almost brush his kneecaps.

  When the crimson tinge of his wide face slowly seeped away, Don Carmine growled, "Get that Tony. We gotta make more fuggin' money. Piles of it."

  "We need somethin' big," Don Carmine was explaining to a frightened Tony Tollini, who had been hauled from his bed in the dead of night.

  "But, Don Carmine, you have everything locked up in this state."

  "There's gotta be somethin' we overlooked. Somethin' big. We need a big score. I could knock over banks, but the ones that ain't shut up are carrying our money. We'd be robbing ourselves. These ain't the old days, when you could launder

  dough through the front door and carry the safe out through the back. Nowadays you hit a bank and it's liable to go under. There's no percentage in it anymore."

  Tony Tollini's beady eyes narrowed.

  "Come on," Don Carmine urged.

  "Well," he said, "there are the Terrapins."

  Don Carmine looked stung. "Bowling? Are you talkin' bowling?"

  "No, Terrapins. Not Candlepins."

  "Never heard of it."

  "It's the biggest business operation in this state," Tony explained. "In any state. It's responsible for over a billion dollars a year in fees, licensing, video, movies, toys, and other revenue."

  "How come I never heard of this thing?"

  "They're global," said Tony Tollini.

  "I don't know from fuggin' global," snarled Don Carmine. "I'm from Brooklyn. Come on. You can tell me about it while you're puttin' in a new hard-on disk. I picked up a real nice one on sale. That's the one great thing about this stupid state. Every day's a fuggin' fire sale."

  Chapter 27

  In his office at Folcroft Sanitarium, Dr. Harold W. Smith watched the dark computer screen as it displayed a single word in phosphor green letters.

  The word was "WAITING."

  Smith had been waiting half the night since receiving word from Remo and Chiun that they had delivered the disk. It was impatience on Smith's part that compelled him to stay long into the night, waiting for the hard disk to be installed and reach out through the telephone system via a hidden program he had installed in the disk.

  The Boston Mafia would probably wait until tomorrow to install it, he concluded at last. He had been banking on the Mafia's basic psychology of distrust. They would typically check the disk as soon as it was back in their possession.

  Smith dragged himself out of his comfortable chair, feeling his knees creak. He reached for his ancient briefcase.

  The system beeped once, drawing Smith's gaze back to the dark screen. He sat down hard, his fingers coming up into the backglow of the single word floating in the electronic blackness.

  Only now the word was "WORKING."

  Smith's lips thinned in anticipation. He had been right, after all.

  Then he got a screenful of silent letters. It was an alphanumeric program completion display. Smith tapped a key.

  The word "LANSCII" appeared in large letters and Smith allowed himself a tight smile of satisfaction.

  He worked swiftly, with assurance, knowing that the LANSCII disk had, once installed, immediately dialed his own computer, thus establishing a dedicated-line linkup.

  Smith invoked the password. The Mafia disk had contained the password. It had not been changed.

  Every bit and byte of data contained in the Mafia system-presumably a battery of linked PC's-was now at his disposal.

  Raw columns of data and electronic spreadsheet programs began to scroll before his eyes.

  The headings were varied: "GAMING," "VIGORISH," "CARTING," "BROADS." Smith stopped at "GAMING."

  What he saw astonished him. According to the LANSCII files, the Boston Mafia had for over a week been predicting the winners of a wide array of sports events-even to the point of calling tie games. Their point spread was not consistently on the money, but their selections were utterly flawless.

  "They cannot be fixing every sporting event in the nation," Smith muttered to his unhearing computer.

  He moved on. There would be time to explore that aspect later. He paged his way to the bottom lines. Weekly the Boston LCN was generating a modest six figures of illicit taxfree income. This was unusual only in that its growth rate was virtually doubling from day to day.

  "If this goes on . . ." Smith said, his voice trailing off. Smith found names and addresses of contacts in Boston and the Massachusetts state government. Payoff ledgers on crooked officials. Officers on the pad. The tentacles of the Mafia were insinuating themselves into the usual weak societal crevices.

  Smith suddenly remembered that he had neglected to check the phone number of the line he had been connected to.

  He engaged the back-trace program.

  To his surprise, he got a non-working number, but a different one than had previously called in answer to the blackmail ad. The locale numbers were the same, however. North Quincy, Massachusetts. It was a significant clue. One Smith would return to later.

  As he poked through the LANSCII data base, he came upon a new file being created hundreds of miles to the north.

  As he watched, fascinated, duplicate letters were appearing before his eyes. A strange word completed itself:

  'TERRAPINS.'

  "What on earth?"

  Silently, letter by letter, a second word appeared beside it: "SKIM."

  "Terrapin skim?" said Smith dully.

  He had to look the first word up on his electronic dictionary, and when he did, he knew instantly the next target of the Boston Mafia. And he knew how much money was about to pour into the LANSCII files, not merely from Boston, but from factories as far away as Hong Kong and Melbourne.

  The Mafia was about to wrap its tentacles around one of the greatest enterprises of modern times.

  Harold Smith reached for the telephone, his agile mind instantly recalling from memory the phone number of the Boston hotel where Remo and Chiun were staying.

  There was still time to head off this new move.

  Chapter 28

  All Jeter Baird ever wanted out of life was to draw comic books.

  It was a simple aspiration, a very American one. One which might never have come true for the young artist had an Amherst, Massachusetts, Backgammon pizza shop not been filled to overflowing on the Friday night after finals in late May 1984.

  Arti
st Jeter Baird was balancing a shaky tray containing a provolone-and-sausage pizza and two jumbo Dr. Peppers as he looked about for an empty table. There were no empty tables. Jeter needed an empty table. He was so shy he couldn't stand not to eat alone. What if a girl struck up a conversation? He didn't know how to talk to girls. Jeter also needed the table space to accommodate the sketchpad tucked under his arm.

  Since finals at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst were over, Jeter was looking forward to a long sultry summer of fevered sketching. Mostly of girls.

  If only he could snag some table space in the tiny pizza shop that was jammed to the counters with his fellow students.

  Finally a pair of long-legged blonds evacuated a round corner table.

  Jeter Baird lunged for it, his tray held before him like a battering ram carried edge-on.

  Simultaneously Devin Western lunged for the identical table, an identical tray slicing the air before him, a sketchpad of his own tucked under his arm.

  They landed in their seats together.

  "I saw it first," whined Jeter.

  "No, I did," insisted Devin.

  "Well, I need the whole table for sketching."

  "Me too."

  The impasse lasted only long enough for each budding young artist to register the fact that he was in the presence of another budding young artist. They glanced warily at one another's work.

  "You published?" Jeter asked Devin, getting to the heart of the matter. He knew that no college art student drew comic book superheroes unless he aspired to publication.

  "No. You?"

  "No."

  Silence filled the corner of the noisy room.

  "But I'm working on a neat idea," said Devin. "Terrapin-Man."

  "What's a terrapin?" asked Jeter.

  "Kind of turtle that swims."

  "Why not call him Sea Turtle-Man then?"

  "Because CD Comics just published Master Turtle."

  Jeter nodded in sad sympathy. "Yeah, Wonder Comics got Squirrel Woman into print while I was still designing the costume for Squirrel Girl."

  "I like 'Squirrel Girl' better. It rhymes."

  "Her true identity was going to be Doreen Green, because that rhymes too."

  "Maybe we could collaborate," suggested Devin.