Mob Psychology td-87 Read online

  "Not that I heard, Don Pietro," said a guard from behind Tony.

  Don Pietro Scubisci reached for another fried pepper. His watery eyes narrowed.

  "Tell you what I'm gonna do for you," he offered.

  "Anything," Tony said, wiping sweat off his mustache.

  "I give you back your gun, and I let you shoot yourself in the mouth."

  Tony paled. He gripped the table edge. "Why?"

  "On account of you talk too much."

  Tony blinked. "Why would I do that?"

  "Because you do it this way, I don't make you dig your own grave first," explained Don Pietro. "None of my guys gotta take the rap for whacking you out, and you don't die all sweaty and out of breath. Get me?"

  "That's an absurd offer!" Tony Tollini said in protest.

  Don Pietro shrugged. "It's the best one you're gonna get."

  Tony Tollini stared at the old don as a fried pepper like a bright green grasshopper disappeared into his mouth. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He couldn't comprehend how a simple pilot program, the most brilliant in IDC history, could bring him to this terrible crossroads in his life.

  "I ain't gonna wait for your answer till I grow old," Don Pietro warned through his careful chewing.

  It was then that Tony Tollini, a former rising star of International Data Corporation, realized that he had been made an offer he could not refuse.

  Tremblingly he accepted the offered Beretta. It was cold to his touch. His eyes began to mist over.

  Across the battle-scarred walnut tale, the don of Little Italy watched him with vague interest as Tony brought the muzzle of the Beretta into his mouth.

  Tony tasted the bitter tang of machined steel on his tongue.

  Closing his eyes, he pulled the trigger.

  The trigger refused to budge. Tony's eyes popped open.

  "Someone help this poor guy. He forgot to release the safety," said Don Pietro in a bored voice, reaching into the greasy paper bag.

  And while that cold fact was sinking into Tony Tollini's mind, someone placed the muzzle of a larger weapon to his right temple and splashed the organized receptacle of his thoughts across a dozen hung saints.

  Dispassionately Don Pietro watched Tony Tollini slump forward. A dollop of curdlike brain matter oozed out of his shattered forehead. A gleam entered the old don's tired eyes.

  Slowly Don Pietro Scubisci dipped the chewed edge of a fried pepper into the matter and tasted it carefully.

  While his guards urgently covered their mouths with their hands to keep the vomit in, Don Pietro dipped a fresh pepper into the oozing mass while smacking his lips with relish.

  "Needs more garlic," he decided.

  Chapter 35

  Harold W. Smith was saying, "If my plan has worked, both Don Carmine and Don Fiavorante are dead by now, victims of their own distrust and greed."

  Smith was logging onto the LANSCII files as Remo and Chiun gathered around the CURE terminal.

  "Explain it to me again," said Remo, reading the LANSCII sign-on screen.

  "You, Remo, have set Don Fiavorante against Don Carmine. Meanwhile, Chiun and I have revived Don Pietro and installed him in Little Italy."

  "What happened to Don Fiavorante?"

  "Master Chiun eliminated him after you delivered your friendly warning. In the resulting power vacuum, it was a simple matter for Don Pietro to install himself "

  Remo frowned back at the Master of Sinanju's tiny beaming face.

  "Since when are we in the business of putting Mafia dons back in business?"

  "When they are old, weak, and senile," explained Harold Smith, "they are preferable to the likes of innovators such as Don Fiavorante and Don Carmine. It is certain that Don Pietro will not see any advantage to computerization of illicit-"

  Smith stopped, frowning.

  "What is it?" Remo asked.

  "It appears that Don Carmine is still in business," Smith said unhappily. "Even as we speak, he is maintaining his usury file."

  "I guess Don Fiavorante's hit didn't go down," Remo said.

  "No doubt he employed amateurs," Chiun sniffed.

  "Great," Remo said sourly. "We have a direct line to his computer, but no clue to where it is. Usually your computers are more on the ball than this, Smitty. Maybe you need fresh batteries. "

  "It is obvious that we are dealing with a criminal genius," said Smith unhappily. "He has set up his operation perfectly. Every move we make against him, he counters with the brilliance of a chess player. He may well be the most brilliant criminal mind of our time."

  "So we're checkmated?" Remo asked, watching the numbers on the screen change, actuated by unseen fingers hundreds of miles away.

  Smith leaned back in his chair. "We know that he is headquartered in Quincy, Massachusetts. But we do not know where. Thus far, the key to thwarting him lies in an understanding of the psychology of the mob. We need to lure him out into the open."

  "Any ideas?" asked Remo.

  "None," admitted Smith. "I am stymied."

  "I have a suggestion, O Emperor," put in Chiun.

  Both men regarded the Master of Sinanju in surprise.

  "What have you to add, Master Chiun?" Smith asked, his glum voice lifting.

  "Merely wisdom," said Chiun smugly, eyeing Remo. Remo frowned but said nothing.

  "Go ahead," said Smith.

  "Offer this moneylender the thing that most appeals to him."

  "And that is?"

  "Money," said Chiun, raising a wise finger.

  "Do you mean to bribe him?" asked Smith.

  "No," said Chiun. "I mean offer this man a generous amount of money, but insist that he accept it in person. Tell him it is in repayment of an old debt that troubles your conscience."

  "Never work," said Remo.

  "It cannot hurt to try," countered Smith, logging off LANSCII and quickly pecking out a fax message.

  He programmed his computer to dial the fax number of LCN. When he was satisfied with the text, he pressed the Send key.

  The system hummed.

  "What's happening?" Remo asked.

  "Emperor Smith is following my wise and brilliant counsel," said the Master of Sinanju in a smug tone.

  "I have just faxed my offer to Don Carmine," explained Smith.

  "Can you fax straight from a computer like that?" Remo wanted to know.

  Smith nodded absently. "It is a common application."

  "News to me."

  "You have much to learn, round eyes," sniffed Chiun. "Such as how to penetrate so-called secure rooms."

  "I'd like to be a fly on the wall watching you get through one of those," Remo said, stealing a worried glance at the reflection of his eyes in the terminal screen.

  "You would undoubtedly repeat your earlier error, even as an insignificant fly." The Master of Sinanju beamed. "Heh-heh. Even as an insignificant round-eyed fly. Heh-heh."

  When Remo refused to join in the Master of Sinanju's amused laughter, Chiun went on.

  "Emperor Smith has explained how the alert machines work. They are very simple. Like you."

  "I'm all ears," said Remo.

  "One moment," Smith said as his desk fax began to ring.

  Out of the port streamed a long sheet a slick paper. Smith tore it off.

  "What's he say?" Remo asked.

  "He's very anxious to receive the sixty thousand dollars offered him."

  "No surprise there. Did he ask what it was for?"

  "He did not. I simply said it was an old debt."

  "And he didn't question it?"

  "No," said Smith, worrying his lower lip in a puzzled way. "But he made a strange request. He asked me to fax him a check." Harold Smith turned to the Master of Sinanju.

  "Tell him no," instructed Chiun. "Inform him you wish to tender personal apologies for your slight."

  Smith pecked out an answer, transmitted it, and received a prompt reply.

  "He has agreed," Smith said after reading the return fax. He looked up.
"I do not understand. Why would so brilliant a criminal fall for such an obvious ruse?"

  "It is very simple," said the Master of Sinanju.

  They looked at him expectantly. "First, he is greedy." "What's second?" asked Remo. "He is no more brilliant than Remo."

  Chapter 36

  Bruno the Chef was cooking a simple ravioli when Don Carmine Imbruglia barged into the LCN conference room, waving the morning edition of the Boston Herald.

  "It's fuggin' on page three!" he chortled, spreading the paper on the conference table.

  "What is?" asked Bruno.

  "The dope on Fiavorante's gettin' whacked. They found his body last night."

  "Guess that Tony pulled it off. So why ain't he back yet?"

  "Don't be a mook. He clipped Fiavorante. Fiavorante's guys clipped him back. End of story. Listen, see what it says here." Don Carmine read along. "This ain't right," he muttered.

  "What?"

  "This can't be."

  "What?"

  "They say when they found Fiavorante there wasn't a mark on him. What happened to the slugs No Numbers pumped into him?"

  "It say who's takin' over?"

  "Hold your horses. I'm gettin' to that. Oh, Mother of God," said Don Carmine. "Something is very, very wrong. I smell a rat here. This is wrong. This is very wrong."

  "What?"

  "Says here that Don Pietro Scubisci has taken over."

  "I heard he was in a coma."

  "He's out. Maybe he got time off for good behavior. Fug! Now we gotta whack him out too."

  "Why?"

  "On account of he and I got history together. It's gonna be him or it's gonna be me."

  "Who you gonna send? All your guys are dead."

  "I'll worry about that later. We gotta protect ourselves first. Lock all the doors. Turn on all the alarms. Nobody comes in. Nobody goes out. We lay low for a while."

  "Sure, boss, but what about that sixty G's you was supposed to pick up today?"

  Don Carmine looked up from his newspaper.

  "That's right. I almost forgot about that." His eyes narrowed craftily. "Okay, so you make the pickup instead. I'll hide out in the computertry room with all the motion alarms running. No one will touch me. I'll be safer than the fuggin' First Lady."

  "What if it's a hit?"

  "If it's a hit, they won't touch you. It's me they're after."

  "If you say so, boss," Bruno the Chef said without enthusiasm.

  " I say so," growled Don Carmine Imbruglia, wadding up the newspaper and bouncing it off the wall in frustration. "And on the way back I want you to pick up the oldest, most rotten-looking cod you can scrounge up."

  "Why?"

  "I'm gonna Fedex it to Don Pietro in the hope that when he gets a whiff of it, he's gonna fuggin' relapse."

  Chapter 37

  Bruno the Chef pulled into the Bartilucci Construction yard just after noon.

  Getting out of the black Cadillac, he looked around. No one was in sight. He ambled over to the idle nibbler and climbed in. If there was trouble, he wanted to be ready for it.

  When they showed up, they were driving a blue Buick. It coasted to a stop beside Bruno's Cadillac. Bruno started the nibbler engine, just in case.

  The front doors of the Buick popped out like wings, and two figures emerged with the perfect timing of matched reflections.

  Except that the duo bore no resemblance to one another.

  Bruno recognized the passenger as the Jap computer expert, Chiun. The other seemed familiar, but the face was not.

  They approached with calm assurance.

  "How's tricks, Bruno?" asked the man in the silk suit.

  "Do I know you?"

  "You don't remember your old buddy Remo?"

  "Remo!" That was all Bruno the Chef had to hear. It was a hit. He sent the nibbler rumbling forward, engaging the pneumatic chisel, which unfolded like an articulated stinger.

  "Let me handle this," said Remo to the Jap. The Jap glowered. "I owe him," Remo added.

  Nodding his head, the old Jap stayed by the cars. Remo advanced with an easy fearless walk that was unnerving.

  Bruno the Chef maneuvered the chattering blunt chisel until it hovered before Remo's advancing chest. Then he floored the gas.

  With seeming ease Remo faded back before the nibbler's angry lunge, the vibrating nib a constant inch away. Bruno sent the nibbler careening until he had Remo retreating in the direction Bruno wanted him to go. When he slammed into the brick wall behind him, he would get it.

  Except that Remo didn't get it. He ducked under the nibbler a spit second before it should have turned his rib cage to blood pudding. Bricks cracked and flew. One nearly brained Bruno.

  Weaving, Remo stayed one step ahead of the deadly blunt fang as Bruno worked the control levers that kept the nibbler angling from side to side like a noisy scorpion.

  He could see Remo's face clearly now. It was different. Like the guy had had his face fixed. And he was smiling a cold smile that made Bruno feel a chill settle in his marrow.

  The smile said that Remo could dance with the nibbler all day long without fear. Bruno cut the pneumatic power so he could hear himself talk. The jackhammer sound died.

  "What do you want from me?" Bruno demanded hotly.

  "Your boss."

  "He couldn't make it."

  "I'll settle for his mailing address."

  "I don't squeal for anybody."

  "Suit yourself," said Remo, his back to the well-punctured brick wall.

  Bruno saw his chance. He sent the nibbler lurching ahead. The blunt point touched the man's shirt front, pinning him to the wall.

  Bruno's hand swept for the on switch. It clicked. Bruno grinned with relief. He had him.

  And as the electricity flowed to the jackhammer arm, Bruno the Chef felt the nibbler cab vibrate in sympathy. He closed his eyes because he wasn't interested in seeing all the blood and guts that were about to be spattered in all directions.

  Because he closed his eyes, he missed the whole thing.

  The pneumatic chisel started to hammer. Bruno found himself holding on to the cab for dear life. The nibbler chassis was really vibrating, like it was going to shake itself apart.

  Hearing no screams, Bruno opened one eye.

  He saw Remo standing there, his arms lifted, his hands actually clamped around the nibbler point, as if trying to ward it off. He looked like he was being shaken apart.

  The trouble was, Remo was still grinning that cold confident grin.

  Bruno the Chef experienced a moment of unreality. The nibbler began to buck and twist. Suddenly he was pitched out of the cab and onto the concrete.

  After he had air in his lungs again, Bruno looked up.

  His eyes no longer vibrating, he saw clearly again.

  Somehow, impossible as it seemed, Remo was holding the nibbler off the ground by its wildly hammering point. He wasn't fazed by this in the least, Bruno saw. He wasn't even vibrating. It was the nibbler that was shaking like a cocktail shaker. It was shaking because Remo was holding the bit perfectly still in his two seemingly irresistible hands.

  "Oh, my God," said Bruno, making the sign of the cross as Remo let the bit go. The nibbler bounced on its four fat tires and continued to chatter and smoke impotently.

  Casually Remo sauntered up and dropped to one knee.

  "Now, that wasn't nice, Bruno," Remo said. "I thought we were buddies."

  "The money was just a story, huh?"

  "And you fell for it."

  "As I knew he would," added a squeaky voice. The Jap, Bruno saw. He had padded up curiously.

  "You two were in it together, huh?" Bruno asked.

  "All the time. Now, where can we find Carmine?"

  "No offense, but I swore an oath never to rat on my don."

  "I understand perfectly," Remo said in a reasonable voice.

  "You in the life?"

  "You might say that."

  "What family you with?"

  "The Milli
Vanilli Mob. Ever heard of them?"

  "Yeah," Bruno said vaguely. "I think so. Somewheres."

  "When we talk, people really listen. Now, point us to LCN. "

  Bruno the Chef started to protest again, but a long-nailed finger simply reached down and seemed to impale his left earlobe.

  The pain was instant, extreme, and unendurable. Bruno's eyeballs exploded like hot flashbulbs. At least, that was how it looked to Bruno's brain. He grabbed up a hunk of concrete and shattered several front teeth while biting hard in a vain attempt to control the excruciating pain.

  When the seemingly white-hot fingernail withdrew, Bruno was surprised that his fingers came away from his earlobe entirely free of blood.

  "That was just your earlobe," Remo said. "I'll bet you have more sensitive parts."

  Tears in his eyes, Bruno the Chef violated omerta, giving up his don, his familiy, and his honor. After he had answered every question put to him, Bruno the Chef looked up sadly.

  "I guess you're gonna kill me, huh?"

  "That's the biz, sweetheart," said the one called Remo, grabbing him by the hair and literally dragging him in front of the idle nibbler.

  Bruno the Chef, feeling no strength in his still-spasming muscles, and no steel in his bones, simply lay there and begged, "Please don't turn that thing on me. Be a pal."

  " I can do that," said Remo, reaching up to take the articulated arm. "After all, what are friends for?" He brought the arm down with cold suddenness.

  When the blunt nib silently flattened Bruno (The Chef) Boyardi's throat like a garden hose, his arms and legs flew up and crashed down again. Then he lay still.

  "Not bad, huh, Little Father?" Remo asked, walking the Master of Sinanju to their car.

  "Not good," said Chiun coolly. "Not anything. It was adequate. But you are young and relatively unschooled. You will learn."

  "Bruno said Don Carmine's surrounded by motion-sensitive alarms like the one that ambushed me at his old headquarters. This is your chance to show me how it's done."

  "No," returned Chiun. "This is my opportunity to show you up. Heh-heh-heh."

  Chapter 38

  Cadillac Carmine Imbruglia was the most secure kingpin in the history of organized crime.

  He sat in a windowless room on the fifth floor of LCN headquarters in Quincy, Massachusetts, a fully loaded Thompson submachine gun at his elbow. There was only one exit, a veneer door with a chilled steel core. Beyond the armored door the many terminals of the LCN network glowed in the darkness, their screens like amber jack-o'-lanterns.