Warren Murphy: Brain Storm

The killing had spread as far in the U.S. as Miami, San Francisco and Spokane. Outside of America, the silent war raged on into Mexico, Colombia and the Cayman Islands. A few bodies even turned up in London and Moscow. But when the smoke cleared, it was the late Don Pietro Scubisci's eldest son, Anselmo, who finally stepped in to fill the void, aided by his ruthless younger brother Dominic.

Remo had identified young Dominic Scubisci as the middle spaghetti-slurping thug, and though he would have loved to finish off the new don right then and there, he was only sanctioned to take out Dominic. Those were direct orders from Upstairs.

Remo's table was closest in the room to the rear booth, and he had pitched an ear to the hushed conversation since he had entered the small restaurant.

"We gotta get the nigga's outta here/' Dominic Scubisci was pleading with his older brother. Flecks of expelled tomato sauce speckled the tablecloth as he spoke, blending with the red squares and marking the already well-stained white.

"Your attitude is not progressive," Don Scubisci said. He spoke precisely, in barely accented English.

But here, as on television, he created the impression that the hood who lurked beneath the flashily dressed veneer would slip to the surface.

"Forget that crappola," Dominic whined.

"They're stealing us blind. They're killin' each other left and right. They ain't reliable."

"Aren't," Don Anselmo corrected. And by the way his brother cringed, he appeared to be used to such grammatical corrections. "They are as reliable as we need them to be. The high mortality rate among our youngest employees is handily offset by the level of protection their ignorance affords us.

With the system we have in place, we are virtually untouchable."

Though Remo couldn't see his face, he could tell by the confident set of the carefully tailored shoulders and the look of defeat on his brother's face that Don Anselmo considered the discussion closed.

"I just don't like them nigga's," his brother said, shaking his head. He attacked his plate more violently.

"Those," Don Anselmo corrected. "Those nigga's."

There was an awkward silence broken by the thug on Dominic's left. "Da gooks is da ones what scare me," he said with a wide-eyed nod not uncommon among those who would have a hard time spelling IQ. The others on the bench all nodded in wordless agreement at this particularly piquant observation.

Don Anselmo didn't even bother to correct the man's grammar.

Remo's attention was drawn from the rear table by the reappearance of his waiter. The squat man held a tray high above his balding head as he breezed up to Remo's table. Before he had even unloaded the contents, Remo knew that the rice was unacceptable.

The stench had preceded him.

The waiter dropped the steaming plate on the disposable paper place mat and stood back, awaiting approval. Remo suppressed an overwhelming urge to retch.

The rice was dripping with clumpy red tomato sauce. Bits of sliced mushroom and chopped peppers peeked out from between the pink-stained grains of rice, and the plate was garnished all around the edges with sprigs of parsley and a lone lemon wedge. Remo might have been able to eat the lemon slice if it hadn't been slathered with the sickly, oily, rancid-smelling sauce.

"What is this supposed to be?" he asked, indicating his plate.

The waiter seemed geared up for an argument.

"Didn't we go troo dis already? You ordered rice,"

he replied tartly.

"Apparently we didn't go 'troo it' enough. I ordered plain white rice. This is not plain white rice."

"Dere's white rice in it."

Because Remo didn't want to get into a fight, he asked the waiter to put the rice in a doggie bag and bring him his water. Plate in hand, the man vanished once more through the scratched kitchen door.

Remo had hoped to have supper before he went to work. Lamentably it was not to be. Rather than wait for a glass of tepid water that probably wouldn't arrive for another half hour, if ever, Remo stood. Cast-ing a mischievous glance at the trio of goons across from Don Scubisci, he casually crossed the area separating his table from the don's.

This stretch of floor had remained vacant the entire time Remo had been in the small restaurant, save for the occasional waiter who brought complimentary food and drinks to the great man. It was as if a hy-pothetical line had been drawn and stepping across it could only be accomplished on pain of death. Even though the rest rooms were in the back near the lone table, not one patron dared breach the danger zone.

Remo made as if he was heading for the bathroom, but at the last minute a twist dropped him into one of the vacant seats beside Don Anselmo.

There was another pair of Scubisci's men sitting at a tiny table near the main entrance, who couldn't have been more obvious if they had Thug 1

and Thug 2 tattooed to their broad foreheads. They rose, looking to Dominic for guidance. The younger Scubisci brother gestured ever so slightly to stay the hands of the henchmen who were even now reaching for their shoulder holsters. It was a surprisingly subtle warning from a man his size.

"Whadda you want?" Dominic asked. He ripped a crunchy slice of fresh Italian bread with his yellow incisors and attacked his plate once more.

Remo said only two words. "Guillermo Murietta."

Three forkfuls of coiled spaghetti paused halfway between table and mouths. Six dull eyes stared menacingly at Remo.

Remo smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. It was the smile of a skull.

"Youse better get outta here," Dominic threatened.

"Why?" Remo asked. "Is it time for you to go in the bathroom and untape a gun from the toilet tank now?"

Dominic placed his meaty palms against the chipped and cigarette-scarred side of the table. He was about to shove his way upright—an evolutionary milestone for his entire family—when a ring-laden hand pressed firmly against his thick forearm.

"Don't do anything, Dominic," Don Anselmo, silent until now, instructed softly. As Dominic seethed, the don addressed Remo. "An unfortunate accident, this Murietta," Don Anselmo said, nodding his sad agreement.

Remo looked at him and didn't even attempt to mask his contempt. "That's not what I hear."

"What is dis?" Dominic interrupted. "We're eatin' here. Do you see us goin' over and buggin' you when you is eatin'?"

Remo ignored Dominic. He continued speaking to the don. "There was only one legitimate accident.

Murietta wasn't to blame, the courts decided that.

But you decided he was."

Don Anselmo shrugged. "It's a rough world," he said vaguely. "There are many accidents. Some people are simply unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You got that right," Remo said, turning back to Dominic.

For an instant their eyes locked, and Scubisci seemed to read the promise of death in the depths of Remo's cold, deep-set eyes. A fat tendril of sloppy pasta hovered immobile before his open mouth as his free hand snaked carefully beneath his jacket. His fingers had barely brushed the steel butt of his concealed weapon when a commotion broke out at the door of the restaurant

There was a single shout of warning before the shooting started.

The table was immediately upended. A flurry of hands, Dominic Scubisci's included, grabbed Don Anselmo and yanked him to safety behind it.

Remo stood, peeved that his moment had been interrupted.

When he turned, he saw a half-dozen men had piled in through the main entrance to the restaurant.

They were exchanging fire with the pair of Scubisci bodyguards who had taken refuge behind a battered steel dessert cart. Occasionally a few shots were directed to the rear of the restaurant, where they plowed into the ancient Formica surface of Don Anselmo's table.