Mob Psychology td-87 Page 5

  "I'm Irish too," lied Remo, who was finding this easier than he had thought. So far, none of the questions had been hard. He had boned up on computer terminology while waiting for his application to be processed. He hoped it would get him through.

  "Irish? With a name like Remo?"

  "Half-Irish," Remo said quickly, realizing the man meant some other Old Country.

  "Great, great," Tollini was saying. He looked at the resume again. His head lifted and met Remo's eyes with a shine that was almost worshipful. "You're hired."

  " I am?" said Remo, eyebrows quirking upward.

  "Can you start today?"

  "Sure.

  "Right now?"

  "Yeah."

  "Good. You're on the next flight to Boston. The car is waiting."

  "Boston? What's up there?" ,

  "Our most important client. Their system is down."

  "Down where?" asked Remo, frowning.

  "Broken," said Antony Tollini. "Don't you know what down means?"

  Remo suddenly remembered what "down" meant in the world of data processing. It had been on the list. Right under CPU.

  "Where I come from, we don't say 'down,' we say 'flat.'

  " 'Flat'?"

  "Yeah, like a tire. All computer talk is like that in Detroit., When our computers crash, people get glass in their faces.'

  "Now that you're with IDC,' Antony Tollini said, rising from his desk, "you say 'down.' Can you say 'down'?"

  "Down," said Remo, suddenly noticing Tollini's arm across his shoulder. Remo allowed himself to be hustled from the office. This was happening awfully fast, he thought.

  "Good. I can see you have a bright future with us, Mr. Mercurio."

  Out by the secretary's desk, Antony Tollini was simultaneously congratulating Remo with a frantic two-handed handshake and telling his secretary to provide Remo with the proper documentation.

  It was under his arm when Remo was hustled into a waiting company car. They had to wait while the paramedics finished loading a gurney into the back of an ambulance.

  "Someone get hurt?" Remo asked the company driver.

  "Lobby security guard. Fainted."

  "Imagine that."

  "Yeah, and they found him in his shorts. No sign of his clothes. Poor bastard will be reassigned to Siberia.

  "IDC have a Russian office?"

  "Siberia," the driver explained, getting the car going, "is defined at IDC as anyplace other than Mamaroneck."

  "What does that make Boston?" Remo wondered.

  "You going to Boston?" the driver asked sharply, looking up into the rearview mirror. ,

  "That's what my airline ticket says.'

  "I've driven a lot of new employees to the Boston gate," said the driver thoughtfully. "I can't remember ever picking one up again."

  "I'm the exception that proves the rule," Remo told him smugly.

  "I'll bet you are. I've been with IDC going on twenty years. I've never seen a new man dressed like you."

  "Didn't you hear? They've relaxed the dress code. All they expect now is clean underwear."

  "Who told you that?"

  "That security guard, as a matter of fact. Guess the shock was too much for him."

  At the airport, Remo checked in and sought a pay phone. He called his hotel and got a busy signal.

  "Dammit," Remo said, hanging up. He walked the waiting area impatiently and tried again. The line remained busy. He couldn't understand it. Chiun hated telephones.

  When they called for final boarding on his flight, Remo was listening to another busy signal.

  He was the last one on the plane. What the hell was Chiun doing on the phone all this time? Remo wondered as he took his seat.

  Then he remembered. During the months when Chiun had been presumed dead, Harold Smith had stopped taping Chiun's latest passion, British soap operas. The Master of Sinanju had hectored Smith unmercifully until he had promised to acquire the complete backlog.

  No doubt a fresh shipment had arrived and Chiun was catching up. He usually left the phone off the hook while he watched his soaps. When he didn't rip it out of the wall entirely, that was.

  " I hope they're especially good episodes," Remo muttered as the 727 engines began to whine preparatory to takeoff, "because when I get back, Chiun's going to kill me."

  Chapter 6

  At Boston's Logan Airport terminal, Remo looked around for a payphone.

  He was halfway there when an upright hulk in a sharkskin suit got in front of him and asked, "You the guy from IDC?"

  "How'd you guess?" Remo asked.

  "You got the blue book. They all come with the blue book. We got a lot of blue books now, and we still got our problem."

  "Yeah," Remo said, looking around the terminal distractedly. "And if I don't make a quick call, I'm going to have a problem. "

  "It can wait," the chauffeur said, placing a meaty paw on Remo's shoulder.

  "No, it can't," Remo said, heading for the pay phone. The chauffeur was stubborn. He refused to release Remo. And so he found himself being frog-marched to the pay phone, his expression a mixture of surprise and respect.

  Casually Remo dropped a quarter into the pay-phone slot and punched in the number. While he was waiting, he absently reached up to pry the heavy hand off his shoulder.

  Remo got another busy signal. He hung up. "Okay, lead me to the car."

  "You know," the chauffeur said, looking at his numb hand with vague disbelief, "you're not like the stiffs they sent before. " , The classified I answered specifically said 'No Stiffs.' '

  The chauffeur's thick features brightened. " I got a good feeling about you. What'd you say your name was?"

  "Remo. "

  The chauffeur's broad face broke out into a broad grin. "No kiddin'? Remo. I'm Bruno. Come on, Remo. You might be just what the doctor ordered."

  "That's what Tollini said."

  "That Tollini, now there's a stiff. Keeps sending us stiffs, even though we keep tellin' him not to."

  "I think he got the message," said Remo.

  "I think he did, at that."

  The car was a black Cadillac, Remo saw. It was parked in the middle of a line of cabs. None of the cabbies seemed to mind.

  "Hey, Remo," the driver said once they were in traffic.

  "Yeah?"

  "Do yourself a big favor."

  "What's that?"

  "If you can't fix the boss's box, don't come out and say so right away. Know what I mean?"

  "No."

  "Don't give up so easy. We don't like quitters in our outfit. Catch me?"

  "What happens if I can't fix it?" Remo asked.

  "Never say never. That's all I got to say."

  At the offices of F and L Importing, Remo took one look at the lonely personal computer sitting on the Formica card table in the dim room surrounded by husky security men in sharkskin suits and without preamble broke the bad news.

  "It's hopeless."

  "What'd I tell you!" Bruno the chauffeur moaned. "Ain't you got ears? Don't you listen?" He got between Remo and the three security men, and waving his arms, said, "He's kiddin' us. He's a kidder, see? I was talking to him on the ride over, gettin' him wise." The chauffeur turned to Remo and said, "Tell them you're kiddin', Remo. His name is Remo, see?" he called over his shoulder.

  "I'm not kidding," Remo said firmly. "I'm a professional. I can tell by looking that this computer is broken beyond repair. "

  "None of the other guys said that."

  "None of them have my background. I'm a certified genius. I invented the world's first Korean keyboard."

  "Korean? What's that got to do with this?"

  "You ever see Korean? They got a million characters for everything. Forget the twenty-six letters. A Korean keyboard, even a small one, is twenty feet long and has thirty rows of keys. To operate it you need roller skates and a photographic memory."

  "He's kiddin'," the chauffeur said, his eyes going sick. "Tell them you're kiddin'."

  "I
am not kidding," Remo said, folding his arms. He made no move toward the keyboard.

  His back to the three security men, the chauffeur mouthed a single word. The word was "Try. " To which he added a silent "Please."

  Because he was getting tired waiting for something to happen, Remo shrugged and said, "Okay, I guess a quick looksee won't hurt anything. Who knows? I might get lucky."

  "What'd I tell you?" the chauffeur said, facing the security team once more. He grinned nervously. "He was kiddin'. A little joke. To relieve the tension. He's a good guy. I like him. Go to it, Remo. Show us your stuff."

  Remo addressed the silent PC terminal, lifted it in both strong hands, examined his own reflection for a moment, and then brought the screen to his ear. He began shaking the terminal briskly.

  "Hey, none of the other guys done that," one of the security men pointed out.

  "This is an advanced technique," Remo told him. "We shake until we hear something rattling around in here. You'd be surprised how often the trouble is a paperclip that got in through a vent."

  This made perfect sense to the assembled F and L Importing employees. They all went very quiet, listening.

  Soon, something rattled.

  "Hey, I heard it!" the chauffeur cried. "You hear that? Remo found it. Attaboy, Remo."

  "Shhhh," said Remo, still shaking the PC terminal.

  Another element began to rattle. Then a third. Pretty soon, under his relentless shaking, the PC began to sound like a majolica rattle.

  Remo stopped.

  "What's the verdict?" Bruno the chauffeur asked.

  Balancing the PC in one hand experimentally, Remo frowned. Then he lofted the PC over their heads. It seemed to float in a shallow arc. Every eye in the room followed it like ball bearings drawn to a horseshoe magnet.

  "Hey!" one yelled.

  The four men lunged for the floating PC like startled linebackers. They were too late. The PC landed in a wastebasket in one corner, where its picture tube shattered.

  The quartet froze in place, looking at the shattered PC in disbelief.

  Only when Remo coolly said, "What'd I tell you? Beyond repair. "

  Slowly they turned around. Their faces were bone-white. Their eyes were hard and glittering. Their limp-with-helplessness fingers made slow, determined fists.

  Mechanically three of the men surrounded Remo. The fourth-the chauffeur-lurched to a plain door as if his legs had turned to wood.

  "The box is broke," he called in.

  A raspy voice said, " I know it's broke."

  "Now it's really, really broke."

  "What happened?"

  "Guy broke it.'

  "Break him."

  "He's a paisan."

  " I don't care if he's Frank fuggin' Sinatra! Get rid of him. And get on the phone to that Tollini. Tell him no more screwups. Send me a Jap. I heard Japs are good at computer-try. I want a Jap."

  "You got it, boss."

  The chauffeur came back. Woodenly he said, "The boss says you gotta go."

  Remo shrugged unconcernedly. "So I go."

  They went. Remo didn't bother to wait for the car door to be opened for him. He got ahead of the escort and opened the rear door himself.

  The others hesitated. One said, "What the fuck. From the look of him he'd probably just pee in the trunk." Two of them got in on either side, sandwiching Remo between them.

  The remaining pair took the front seat. The car backed out of the alley.

  "You know," Remo said, "this kinda reminds me of Little Italy, down in New York."

  "It should," said one of the security men.

  "Too bad about that computer," Remo said sympathetically. "But broke is broke."

  "Yeah," a second man growled. "I'll always remember you for sayin' that."

  They didn't take him back to the airport. Not that Remo expected that. Remo didn't know where they were taking him and he didn't care. He hoped it was secluded, wherever it was.

  He assumed it would be. They weren't about to try to kill him on Boston Common. And he didn't want their screams to attract attention.

  The exit said: East Boston.

  Remo knew they were close to the airport because the thunder of jet engines came with monotonous regularity.

  As the black Cadillac pulled into the back lot of a Ramada Inn, Remo asked innocently, "What's this?"

  "Your lodgings," said the man at Remo's right.

  "Where you're going to sleep tonight," said the man to Remo's left.

  They both laughed with the humorless rattle of windup toys.

  I expected better accommodations," Remo remarked. "After all, I am a treasured IDC employee."

  "You wait here," said the man to Remo's right. "We gotta make sure the accommodations are satisfactory."

  All three security men left the car. Bruno the chauffeur turned around in his seat with a sad look in his eyes. Remo could tell by the way his right-shoulder-muscle group was bunched under his tight coat that his hand was wrapped around a pistol. In case Remo tried to escape.

  Remo had no intention of escaping. The Ramada Inn would do just fine. He waited.

  "Why'd you go and do that, Remo?" Bruno asked mournfully.

  "Do what?" Remo asked, his face innocent.

  The door opened and one of the trio waved for them to come in.

  "Guess my room's ready," Remo said, sliding out of the car.

  The man who had waved fell in behind Remo as he approached the partly ajar door.

  Remo whistled amiably. This was ridiculously obvious. The only question in his mind was whether they were going to shoot, stab, or bludgeon him to death.

  They did none of those.

  The moment Remo stepped across the threshold, the third man wrapped his thick arms around Remo's torso, pinioning his arms.

  That told Remo that they were going to use the infamous Italian rope trick on him.

  Confidently Remo walked in.

  The rope was held loose in the hands of the man standing off to the left of the open door. He looped the heavy coil around Remo's exposed neck. It felt like a scratchy python.

  The other end was caught by the man standing behind the door. He kicked the door closed with his foot as he hauled back on his end of the rope like a sailor securing a docked boat.

  The other man did the same.

  As the loose loop of heavy hemp tightened around Remo's throat, he tensed his throat muscles. He didn't bother fighting back. He just held his breath.

  "Arggh!" Remo said in a choking rush of air.

  "Tighter," a voice hissed. "Don't let him get a peep out."

  The hemp constricted like a noose around Remo's throat muscles. It was strong, but his training was stronger.

  "Arrghh!" Remo repeated, forcing blood up his carotid artery so his face turned an appropriate shade of red.

  "Tighter," the voice repeated. "This ain't no fuckin' taffy pull.'

  Remo said "Urggg" this time, for variety.

  "Jeez, this guy's stubborn," the third man said at Remo 's ear, digging his chin into Remo's shoulder. The smell of garlic was enough to make a man pass out-even one who was not allowing air to enter his nostrils.

  The man on the left started to pant. His face was going purple, making Remo wonder who was strangling whom.

  The opposite man, straining on his end of the rope, kept losing his grip.

  "I'm gettin' friggin' rope burns," he said through clenched teeth.

  "How're we doin', Frank?"

  The man called Frank lifted his chin and said, "His face is turning red. I think he's almost done."

  At that moment the room phone rang.

  "I'll get it," Remo said in a crystal clear voice. He strode toward the nightstand, dragging the three men with him. One man lost his grip on the rope and snarled a curse as his palms were singed by the sudden friction.

  When Remo casually reached out for the receiver, the one called Frank was forced to relinquish his bear hug.

  "Hello?" Remo said into the
phone. "Yes, everything's just dandy. Thank you." He hung up.

  "The guy in the next room complained about the noise," Remo told the one thug still holding on to his end of the rope and what was left of his composure. "Said it sounded like someone was being strangled. Imagine that."

  That brought out the guns. The rope dropped to the floor. Frank gathered Remo up into another bear hug.

  Remo swept one foot up and around. Corkscrewing, he left the floor, taking Frank with him. The man was stubborn. He held on.

  It happened so fast it didn't seem to happen at all. One second Remo was in the cross hairs of two revolvers, and the next, the revolvers were embedded in the cracked plaster of the ceiling like misplaced doorknobs.

  The two thugs stared at their stung hands, blinking the way people blink when something is not quite right.

  Frank landed on the bed and went "Whoof!" gustily. He didn't get up immediately. His head had somehow gotten jammed in a pillowcase with a pillow.

  Remo let him be. His perpendicular toe returned to the rug, braking his spin. His kicking foot joined it smartly.

  Then he had both thugs by the throat and his fingers dug in like blunt drill bits.

  "Let's see if you can do red," Remo said airily.

  He squeezed.

  The faces above Remo's hands became like thermometers in August. The red color just suffused upward like mercury.

  "Nice healthy shades," Remo said, changing his grip. "How's your purple?"

  The man in Remo's right hand could manage only a pale smoky lavender. But the one on his left achieved true purple.

  "Fair enough," said Remo. He made his voice sound like Mr. Rogers. "Now, can we say 'Argghh'?"

  Neither man could, it seemed. One did leak a little drool out of his mouth in trying, which Remo thought unacceptable.

  He broke the man's neck with a sharp leftward twist. It was easier than it looked. Remo could feel the flexing of his neck vertebrae, felt the pulsing of his carotid, and sensed the cartilage of his larynx as it struggled to make sounds. He knew exactly where to apply the pressure that would turn the two adjacent vertebrae into exploding bone fragments.

  Remo let go when he sensed the lack of electrical current running down the man's severed spinal cord.

  "Now you," Remo said, turning to the other man. "Who do you work for?" He let the man get a tiny sip of air.

  "Don't . . . do . . . this," the man said. It was a warning, not a plea.