A Pound of Prevention td-121 Page 6

  The two men were sitting in a busy Bachsburg restaurant. The dining room was filled with the worst humanity had to offer. Nunzio recognized a few of the criminals from some of the many meetings he had recently attended. They were much seedier than the men he ordinarily associated with.

  The air in the cramped restaurant was thick. So many people in such a confined space. So, so hot. Nunzio wanted to scream. Either that or strip off his clothes and run outside. He'd seen a fountain down the street.

  He tried concentrating. Maybe if he thought hard enough, he could feel what it might be like to stand naked in the ankle-deep pool, cooling water dripping down his bony shoulders and running down his scrawny legs.

  But though he taxed his imagination to the limit, it was no good. The heat was just too great. He flung the sopped napkin to the checkered tablecloth, wrenching a fresh one from the stainless-steel dispenser.

  "Maybe it's the color," Piceno ventured as Nunzio ran the napkin around neck and chin.

  "White! I'm wearing white, for God's sake! I have it dry-cleaned every day and it's still knotted in the ass and stuck to my back. Any color suit is a damnable sponge in this humidity, so please keep your ridiculous suggestions to yourself and kindly shut up."

  Piceno ordinarily wouldn't be put off so easily by one of Nunzio's trademark outbursts. But today was different. Piceno dutifully fell mute.

  Nunzio flung another soaked napkin to the growing pile. The rattle of silver and china in the overcrowded restaurant assaulted his ears.

  "Damn climate," he muttered, tugging out the collar of his shirt. With a flapping menu, he tried to force some air down onto his sweaty chest.

  Nunzio had been plagued by perspiration since childhood. It was ironic, considering the fact that all the other men in the Spumoni family weighed over three hundred pounds and rarely broke a sweat. At six foot two, 140 pounds, Nunzio was the skinniest Spumoni in Napoli, yet he perspired like a man three times his size.

  At least back home in Italy he knew how to control his environment. From homes to cars to offices, he carefully mapped out his schedule to spend as much time as possible in the relative comfort afforded by air-conditioning. But since arriving in East Africa two weeks ago, he had been forced to spend more time in the natural air than he could bear. He'd lost ten pounds of sweat in the past fourteen days.

  "I cannot take much more of this," Nunzio breathed, flinging the menu to the table.

  The napkin dispenser was empty. Fishing a sopping wet handkerchief from his pocket, he began sponging the back of his pencil-thin neck.

  Piceno had been watching the front door. As his cousin smeared sweat with his hankie, the younger Spumoni sat at attention. "He is here," Piceno whispered gruffly.

  Limp rag hanging from his long fingers, Nunzio glanced at the door.

  The man who had just entered the restaurant was handsome enough to be called beautiful. Blond hair, grown long and greased back, framed a cover model's face. In spite of the years spent in the hot East African sun, his skin was pale and perfect. With eyes of rich green he searched the crowded room. When he spotted Nunzio, rosebud lips pouted a perfect smile. The man wended his way through the crowd to the back table where Nunzio and Piceno sat.

  Although the man was maddeningly handsome, Nunzio did not envy him his looks. The thing that bothered the Italian most was the fact that this man stubbornly refused to perspire. The white cotton suit he wore as he slipped in across the table from Nunzio was a perfect match to Nunzio's in every respect, save one. The infuriating man's suit was not tinged gray with sweat.

  "Nunzio, how good to see you." L. Vas Deferens smiled.

  Dentists had been known to weep openly at the sight of the man's naturally perfect white teeth. Nunzio waved a sweaty hand. "Vas," he said, nodding.

  Despite the fact that a handshake had not been offered him, Deferens extended a soft, manicured hand to Nunzio.

  Nunzio detested shaking hands. Especially with someone who did not sweat. Reluctantly wiping as much perspiration from his palm as his sopped handkerchief would accept, he took the offered hand.

  "Piceno, you are well?" Deferens smiled. He didn't wipe Nunzio's perspiration from his palm as he shook hands with the other man.

  Nunzio's cousin nodded.

  "Good, good. Would you mind excusing us?" Deferens suggested, his smile never wavering. "Your cousin and I have some important matters to discuss. You understand."

  Half out of his seat, Deferens extended an arm, ushering Piceno Spumoni from the napkin-covered table. At a nod from Nunzio, Piceno excused himself.

  Deferens waited until the big man was out of earshot before speaking. Once Nunzio's cousin was gone, the East African placed his dust-dry hands on the table, his fingers comfortably interlocked.

  Nunzio only wished his cool demeanor were contagious. The Italian continued swiping at pooling pockets of salty perspiration.

  "Don Vincenzo is pleased, I trust?" Deferens said in a cold voice. His eyes were cold, as well. Deep pools of green confidence.

  "He's satisfied. For now," Nunzio stressed. "He'll be happier when this dark business is over. As will I."

  Deferens tipped his head. "Nunzio, my old friend, is it possible after all this time that Camorra still does not trust me?"

  "Trust is not easy in our business," Nunzio admitted. He waved to a nearby waiter, pointing to the empty water pitcher nested among the discarded napkins. The waiter nodded and scurried off.

  Deferens was nodding. "I can't blame you." He sighed. "Camorra certainly has not had an easy time of it. Survival sometimes precludes trust."

  Of that, Nunzio couldn't disagree. The secret criminal organization for which he worked had spent much of the past century lurking in shadows. Once powerful, Mussolini's fascists had done their best to eradicate the syndicate after the First World War. Entire families had been dragged into the streets and slaughtered. Betrayed by their countrymen and attacked on every level by the Mafia, the survivors of the Camorra purges remained in hiding for eight decades. Licking wounds and plotting revenge.

  "Let's just say we do not do leaps of faith very well," Nunzio grunted.

  The waiter arrived with a fresh pitcher of ice water. Nunzio poured a glass and drank greedily. "That will end," L. Vas Deferens promised with icy assurance. "Camorra's future as the premier crime organization in the world is secure." His voice became a conspiratorial whisper. "By week's end, you will eclipse even the Mafia."

  Nunzio snorted through his water. Coming up out of his narrow throat, his laugh sounded like a donkey's bray. "We've nearly done that without your assistance."

  "Yakuza, then. Or the cartels. The Vietnamese or Chinese crime syndicates. The chorus will fall silent. All the voices that overpowered your own for so many years-all gone. Camorra will seize power like none has before."

  "We had better hope so," Nunzio warned. "For both our sakes. Don Vincenzo will not be pleased if we fail."

  Deferens waved a dismissive hand. He didn't deign to respond to such a ludicrous suggestion. Nunzio only wished he could share this ice man's utter confidence. Sweaty rivulets rolled from his underarms. Maybe if it wasn't so hot...

  "I have advised Don Vincenzo that you wish to do this thing at the end of the week," he said, careful to keep his voice low. "He agrees."

  Deferens nodded. "All of the delegations will have arrived by then."

  "The invitations are all out?"

  "The last were sent yesterday."

  "Any refusals?"

  Deferens grinned. "None. The celebrity stature of our leader has given us great credibility. No one wishes to be left out. There will be a weekend of grand meetings throughout the city, presided over by Mandobar. At least, that is the plan. Of course, we have a different plan."

  Sitting in his rumpled, sweat-stained white suit, Nunzio Spumoni pictured the familiar smiling face of Mandobar. That the former East Africa president was involved in something as nefarious as this was still almost too incredible to believe.

/>   "When will I finally get to meet him?" Nunzio asked.

  A thin smile. "If all goes well, never." Deferens's smile was oddly disconcerting; it gave the impression of a man with a secret. But then, he had conveyed that image since the first time they'd met. The pale man in the white suit seemed always to be guarding some precious, private thoughts. Thoughts he dared not speak aloud.

  As he was talking, Deferens had turned a curious, distracted eye across the restaurant.

  The main wall opened on a sidewalk cafe. A commotion seemed to be breaking out beneath the green-and-white-striped canopy. Three men in ill-fitting suits sitting at a wrought-iron table were exchanging hot words with the lone man at the adjoining table. For his part, the stranger they were speaking to seemed unnaturally calm.

  Even across the crowded restaurant, Deferens could see that the man's wrists were exceptionally thick.

  Nunzio Spumoni wasn't at all interested in the dispute. His thoughts had turned to his hotel airconditioning.

  "I should get back," he said, standing. "I must call Naples."

  Deferens only nodded. He was still watching the activity across the room. The thick-wristed man had just said something that seemed to upset the other men.

  "Oh, please say goodbye to Piceno for me," Deferens called absently to Nunzio's retreating back. He didn't hear Nunzio's reply. There was something coldly fascinating about the thin young man across the room. His presence alone seemed to chill the humid African air.

  Deferens crossed his legs neatly and leaned one elbow on the table. His instincts told him that something profoundly interesting was about to happen. And the instincts of L. Vas Deferens were never wrong.

  REMO HAD TRIED HIS BEST. No one could fault him. Not Smith, certainly not Chiun. Not anyone.

  He'd found the crowded restaurant after an intensely unpleasant cab ride from the airport. The cabbie had spent the bulk of the trip trying to interest him in the local narcotics and prostitution trades. Remo eventually had the driver drop him off in downtown Bachsburg.

  On the street, everyone seemed tied in with some kind of vice. Remo counted six of the seven deadly sins on the way to the restaurant. The last holdout was gluttony, which reared its ugly face the instant he was seated next to a trio of thugs in the outdoor cafd. They were all over six feet tall, weighed well over two hundred pounds and looked as if they could punch their way through a prison wall.

  The men had been loud already. It only got worse when Remo's meal arrived.

  "Hey, get a load a dat," one of them said to his companions as the waiter set a plate before Remo. His New Jersey accent was thick. "What kinda faggy shit is dat?" He turned his attention to Remo. "Hey, what kinda faggy shit is dat?"

  Remo did his best to ignore the question.

  The brown rice was clumpy. That was fine. But the steamed fish had a thin aroma of garlic. Remo had specifically requested no seasonings.

  "Hey, I'm talkin' to you," called the gangster at the next table.

  "And I'm ignoring you," Remo said absently as he frowned at his fish. He didn't look at the man. "And everything you say doesn't have to be prefaced with 'hey,'" he added.

  "Hey, what did he say?" the man asked his companions.

  "Says he's ignoring you," one of the others said. The first man's face grew at first shocked, then angry.

  "Do you know who I am?" he growled at Remo.

  Remo finally turned a bland eye to the man, looking him up, then down. "Homo erectus?" he said, uninterested.

  The man's face turned purple. "What the fuck did you call me?" Veins bulged on his broad forehead.

  The others had at last taken note. Their rat eyes trained fury at Remo.

  "He called you a queer hard-on, Johnny," one snarled.

  The face of Johnny "Books" Fungillo, of New Jersey's Renaldi crime family, went from fluorescent purple to rage-drained white. He clambered to his feet, flinging his table away. Chairs and pastafilled plates crashed to the floor. People in the immediate area scattered.

  Fat fingers ripped a heavy automatic pistol from beneath his jacket. Johnny aimed the gun at Remo, his hairy knuckle tickling the trigger.

  "Whaddaya gonna call me now?" he snapped. "Huh?" His eyes were wild.

  Now that he was standing-flanked on both sides by his Renaldi Family companions-Remo was far better able to get the full view of Johnny Fungillo.

  "I'm not sure now," Remo mused, thoughtful. "You are standing upright. But you look more like one of the great apes. Maybe you're Australopithecus."

  Johnny had no idea what that last word meant. But it didn't matter. The skinny little rice-eating fag had just gone from calling him a homo to an ape. It was more than Johnny Books could stand. Face contorting with raw fury, he pulled the trigger of his automatic.

  The explosion brought shrieks from the main restaurant area. Some people fled into the street, though many remained where they were.

  In the middle of the sidewalk cafe, Johnny Books was panting, sweating. He'd fired point-blank into the rat bastard's face. That'd teach him to call somebody a homo hard-on ape. He peered through the thin cloud of gunpowder smoke, looking for the body that would be sprawled on the ground.

  When the adrenaline haze cleared, however, he was shocked to find his target still seated in his chair, a contemplative expression on his face.

  "And yet you use tools," Remo commented. "Do true apes use tools? Maybe we could get Jane Goodall to classify you. You could be a whole new subspecies."

  Johnny Fungillo didn't know what was going on. He stood there in shock, staring at the distant smoking barrel of his gun. In all his professional life as a Renaldi Family enforcer, he'd never once had an instance where he used his weapon and the target he was pointing at didn't wind up dead. Yet there was the insulting little creep sitting before him, breathing and talking as if he hadn't a care in the world.

  He wouldn't miss a second time. Johnny took aim again-more carefully this time than before. He fired. This time when the explosion came, Johnny Books swore he saw movement, a blurry image of the skinny guy sliding to one side.

  It was impossible. Men just couldn't move fast enough to avoid a bullet fired point-blank.

  But to his shock, his target was still sitting calmly in his chair.

  "And now it's time for Lancelot Link to surrender his opposable thumbs," Remo Williams said coldly.

  He knew he shouldn't make a scene. Not in a crowded restaurant. Smith would go ballistic. On the other hand, the world sucked, Cluun had abandoned him and he was alone in a country that seemed to welcome depravity with open arms.

  As Johnny Books squeezed his trigger a third time, he thought he saw another blur. Then the world seemed to spin wildly and he was suddenly sighting down on Jimmy "Mooch" Muchelli, his tablemate and fellow Renaldi foot soldier.

  Jimmy's face grew shocked, there was a loud explosion and Jimmy's face turned very red.

  Mooch Muchelli's features were little more than a crimson smear as he toppled back onto their overturned table.

  "Bad pre-hominid," Remo chastised, very close to Johnny's ear.

  Johnny Books wheeled to the voice.

  Remo wasn't there. But Johnny's other companion was.

  Bobby DiGardino had apparently drawn his own gun at some point during the commotion. But the Browning was now planted smack-dab in the middle of Bobby's forehead, barrel shoved deep in the gangster's nonfunctioning brain. As Johnny watched-now with more horror than rage-Bobby dropped to his knees and plopped face first into a plate of scungilli.

  "Until you chimps can prove you've mastered fire and the wheel, no guns," Remo lectured them. Panicked now, Johnny whirled once more, his hand shaking as he met Remo's dark eyes.

  There were only two options open for Johnny "Books" Fungillo, as far as he could ascertain. He could try once more to shoot the skinny guy with those deep menacing eyes. But so far that hadn't exactly been a rousing success. The other option was the better bet. Made all the more so after he'd given the body of Bob
by DiGardino a quick glance.

  Turning from Remo, Johnny hauled back and heaved his automatic as far into the depths of the restaurant as he possibly could. Waiters covered their heads with trays to deflect the ricochet when the gun discharged on impact. Throwing up his hands in surrender, Johnny smiled sheepishly at Remo, a sheen of prickly sweat darkening his perpetual five-o'clock shadow.

  "Hey, you know somethin'?" Johnny Fungillo ventured. "You're right. I'm a monkey-fag-hard-on-ape-astroturf-pitcherpuss. You got anythin' else you wanna call me, you go right ahead, mister." Hairy knees knocked inside baggy pants legs.

  Standing before the trembling gangster, Remo was already regretting his actions. The three mobsters hadn't given him much of a choice, but that didn't matter. Killing in broad daylight in a crowded restaurant was a stupid thing to do.

  That was it. The mission was over. He had been depressed coming into it and had allowed his own problems to cloud his judgement.

  After this, Smith would probably make him slip quietly out of the country. If the CURE director wanted something done in East Africa, he would have to rely on Chiun to do it. Assuming he could find the Master of Sinanju. All of this passed through Remo's mind in one angry moment.

  But as he stood there, wishing he could melt into the background, a startling thing happened. Something he had never experienced in all his time as a professional assassin.

  A tiny trickle of applause rose softly from one corner of the restaurant. Someone else quickly joined in. And in a shocking instant, the entire restaurant erupted in thunderous applause.

  At the eye of the outburst of approval, Remo didn't know what to do.

  Johnny Books glanced to the main restaurant, a dumb expression on his sweating face. Hands still raised, he offered the crowd a shrug that turned into a confused bow. When he turned nervously to his assailant, he was surprised to find that Remo had disappeared.

  Johnny spun left, then right.

  No sign of the skinny name-caller anywhere. Great relief drained the blood from Johnny Fungillo's underused brain. Eyes roiling back in their sockets, the New Jersey mobster fainted face first onto his spilled plate of fettuccine. He fell so hard, he broke one of his opposable thumbs.