Warren Murphy - Mob Psychology

"Chink tea?"

"Ginseng," said Don Fiavorante politely. He was a polite man. Unctuousness exuded from his bronzed skin like suntan lotion. He was unfailingly genteel.

"Maybe you have been wondering about Don Pietro," he inquired.

"Sometimes," Carmine admitted. In fact, he had nightmares about him. They all involved Carmine being stuffed with cod and consigned to a watery grave.

"Don Pietro resides at Mount Sinai, not living, not dying. He is a how you say . . ?"

"A vegetable," a bodyguard growled.

"Such a crude word," said Don Fiavorante. "He is a melone. A melon. I do not know what kind." The don allowed a wan smile to wreathe his healthy features. "He eats through a tube, and drinks through the same tube. He excretes through another tube. He has more tubes coming out of him than Frankenstein the monster. And from what? Eating a piece of fish."

Don Fiavorante smiled like an ivory-toothed Buddha. He leaned closer, his dark eyes glittering.

"You ever bring me a piece of fish, my friend, I will bring the fish a piece of you. Capisce?"

"Never, Don Fiavorante," promised Carmine solemnly, touching his heart.

"From today, you are with me."

"I am with you."

"I am protecting you. You are now a sottocapo under me."

"Sottocapo?" blurted Carmine Imbruglia. "Me?"

"Starting now. While you have been away, we have had many troubles. Here in New York. In Chicago. Up in Providence and Boston. It is Rico here and Rico there."

"Those damn Puerto Ricans!" snarled Carmine Imbruglia. "I knew they would get too big for their breeches one day."

Don Fiavorante reared back his head and laughed good-naturedly, his teeth as polished and perfect as piano keys.

When he had control of himself, he sobered.

"Up in New England, we have troubles. Patriarca senior is dead. Junior is in Danbury. We have no one we can trust up there. All is disarray. I am making you my underboss in New England. You will pick up the pieces. You will put them back together. You will make Boston hum again."

"Boston? I just got back to fuggin' Brooklyn! I don't know from Boston. Where is this Boston, anyways?"

"It is in Massachusetts," explained Don Fiavorante.

Don Carmine's eyes narrowed craftily.

"Isn't that the place where that Greek who ran for President comes from?" Don Carmine asked slowly.

"The very same."

"The one who kept talkin' about the Massachusetts Miracle?"

Don Fiavorante nodded patiently.

"It is an honor," said Carmine, who had voted for the Greek governor who had promised to share the wealth and prosperity he had created in his home state with the entire country.

"It will be work. I hope you are a worker."

Don Carmine Imbruglia, aka Fuggin, took Don Fiavorante's hand in his and kissed it once in gratitude.

"This is too good to be true," he said, tears starting from his eyes. He was going to be rich. He was going to be a kingpin. At last. And he would make his fortune in the fabulously prosperous wealthy place called Massachusetts.

Chapter 8

"The Mafia?" said Harold W. Smith in surprise. "Are you absolutely certain, Remo?"

" I couldn't swear to it in court, no, but everything I saw had all the earmarks of the outfit."

"Why would IDC be in business with the underworld?"

"Why don't you ask IDC?"

The line hummed. That meant that Harold Smith was thinking. Remo leaned an arm against the stainless-steel acoustical shield of the pay phone. His face, showing in the polished steel, was reflected as if in a crazy house mirror. The warped effect was not enough to hide the fact that there was a lump in the center of Remo's forehead as big as a walnut. Remo touched it. It felt firm, but with a trace of rubberiness. He hoped it wasn't a tumor. He had had the thing ever since returning from the Gulf. He knew something strange had happened to him there. He didn't know what. It was like there was a blank spot in his memory. But somehow he had gotten the lump-whatever the hell it was-during that blank period.

Presently Harold Smith asked a question.

"You say all you saw was a personal computer?"

"That's right. Like yours, except it had an IDC plate on it. "

"And you destroyed it?"

"I think the technical term is 'shitcanning,' " Remo said dryly.

"Whatever. And you have no idea what this may be about?"

"IDC did give me a book, but I barely glanced at it. It was written in some dialect of English I never saw before."

"A software manual."

"If you say so," Remo said, fingering the lump on his forehead absently. "I left that with the goon squad."

"Do you recall the program title?" asked Smith.

"It began with an L and ended with two capital I's. Or maybe they were the Roman numeral two, I couldn't tell. When I saw that, I knew the rest of the book was hopeless."

"Two I's as in Ascii?"

"Spell it."

".A-s-c-i-i,"

"Yeah, like that, only it began with an L."

"That makes no sense. Ascii is a technical term for a plain-text file."

"I don't understand plain-text file," Remo admitted, "and it sounds almost like English."

Remo detected the sounds of keystrokes coming over the wire. Then Smith said, "Remo, according to my data base, the Boston Mafia is in disarray. I do not even have a record of a capo currently in charge."

"His name is Fuggin," Remo said dryly.

"Spell that."

"Your guess is as good as mine," Remo said.

More keystrokes. Then Smith said, " I have no name remotely like that in my files. It's inconceivable that the Mafia would allow an unknown person to assume leadership of their New England operation."

"That's the name I got."

"Remo," said Smith, "can you find your way back to this place?"

"I think so. It's near the airport."

"Attempt to penetrate the place tonight. Recover the computer. Alert me once you have possession. And above all, leave no trace of your penetration.

"Gotcha. By the way, I may need your help."

"In what way?"

"In placating Chiun. IDC hustled me to the airport so fast I couldn't get word to him. The line was tied up. His soap operas, I figure."

"Actually, Chiun and I were consulting," Smith said vaguely.

"Really? Care to fill me in?"

"You'll be briefed once you have executed your mission."

"You're a pal. But do me a favor. Tell Chiun I tried."

" I will communicate your concerns to the Master of Sinanju."

"Let's hope he's still talking to me when I get back," Remo said, hanging up the phone.

Remo scouted for a taxicab. He spotted one that was painted a strange robin's-egg blue and maroon and flagged it down.

The cabby asked, "Where to, pal?"

"What do you call the Italian part of town?" Remo asked.

"The North End."

"Take me to the North End."

The cab whisked Remo to the most congested stretch of traffic he had ever had the misfortune to experience. Cars raced in and out of lanes as if at the Daytona 500.

Traffic settled down to a crawl once they entered a long tunnel whose white titles were gray from years of engine exhaust.

"What do you call this thing?" Remo asked after almost being sideswiped by a patrol car.

"'The Sumner Tunnel' seems to be everyone's favorite. Although 'this fucking bottleneck' comes a close second."

"I'll go with option two. What are the odds of us surviving it?" Remo asked, feeling his brain go dead from carbon monoxide fumes.

"Poor."

"I tip better for honest. Your tip just doubled. Consider that an incentive to drive safely."

Eventually the cab emerged into sunlight and fresh air. It whipped out of the traffic flow like a pinball caroming off the side of a pinball machine. The force of it should have thrown Remo into the right-hand door, but he centered his balance, righting himself like a compass needle pointing toward the north pole.