Warren Murphy - Mob Psychology

"It was a good thing we did, huh, boss?" said Bruno. "Otherwise they could find us anytime they want to."

"Damn right. It was a fate accompli. It was destiny. So now we're gonna buy back our hard-on disk and then we're gonna grab this Jap thief and whoever's with him. We're gonna grab him and we're gonna sweat him. Then we know. Once we know, we kill everybody." Don Carmine made a broad dismissive gesture. "End of fuggin' problem."

"You don't think it's that Japanese Mafia, do you?" Pink Eye wondered.

"How many times I gotta tell you? There's no Mafia. We don't use that word in my outfit."

"Not even a Japanese Mafia?"

"Okay, there's a Japanese Mafia. Everybody knows that. But no Italians. The Japs just purloined the word from us. Sure, this could be them." He snapped his fingers impatiently. "What do they call themselves? It's some Jap name. Kazoo or something."

"Yeah, Kazoo," said the Maggot, nodding. "I heard of the Kazoo. They cut their own fingers off when they screw up."

"And that's what we're gonna do to them when I get my hands on them," said Don Carmine Imbruglia fiercely. "I ain't afraid of no Kazoo. We're gonna give these robbers a call right after we eat."

"Oh, shit, boss," said the Chef.

"What?"

"I think I forgot to turn off the stove."

Chapter 24

One of the many phones arrayed around the office of Dr. Harold W. Smith began ringing at precisely 7:43 p.m.

Smith looked up from his computer. Remo looked around the room.

"Which one is it?" Remo wondered, trying to isolate the ringing.

It was the Master of Sinanju whose sharp ears picked out the correct telephone. He pointed. "That one." His smile was tight but pleased as Remo and Smith simultaneously lunged for the correct telephone.

Smith happened to be closer. He snatched up the receiver.

"Yes?"

He listened intently as Remo hovered at his elbow.

"Yes, I have your item. The price for its return is seventy-five thousand dollars. Take it or leave it."

Remo edged closer as Smith placed a hand over his free ear. "I am pleased we agree on its worth," he said brittlely. "Now, where do you wish to make the exchange?"

Smith frowned as he leaned into the earpiece.

"Yes. That is no problem. Midnight it shall be."

Smith hung up. "They want to take delivery at the Bartilucci Construction Company in Saugus, Massachusetts," he explained as he looked at a small black box attached to the base of the telephone. Every phone in the room was equipped with a similar box.

When he returned to his computer and input the telephone number the box had captured, Harold Smith pressd the Send key. He waited.

While the system hummed busily, Remo said, "That's it? All these freaking phones for a two-minute conversation?"

"Not exactly. I placed identical ads in every Massachusetts newspaper. A different phone number in each ad, a different phone for each number. It was a long shot. The Mafia prefers to conduct their phone business via pay-phone booths. But it should give us a geographical locale."

Smith waited for the automatic search localizer to read out the telephone number captured by the black box really a NYNEX Caller Identification box-and identify the locale.

"Ahh," he said. "A Massachusetts area code."

"Some breakthrough," Remo said sourly.

"The next three digits indicate the city of Quincy," Smith went on. "The northern section. Let us see if the final four digits represent a pay-phone location."

Smith frowned. "Odd. It's not a pay-phone. We may be able to trace this to a residence."

As Harold Smith's fingers flew, Remo glanced over to the Master of Sinanju. He was surreptitiously examining Remo's eyes. Remo put a hand over them and looked away. Chiun pretended to look out the two-way window.

"This is odd. This is very strange," Smith was saying.

"What is?" Remo asked, approaching Smith's terminal, his eyes curious.

"According to the phone-company data files, the number that answered the ad is not a working number.

"Is that possible?"

"If they are using pirated telephone connections, it is. It has been done before."

"So it's a dead end?"

Smith logged off. He brought up a wire-frame state map of Massachusetts and input the names "Quincy" and "Saugus."

"Hmmm. They are not remotely near one another at all. That may mean Quincy is a private residence." He looked up. "We will deal with this later. Master Chiun, I would like for you to meet these people at the place they named and give them back their hard disk."

"What of the seventy-five thousand dollars mentioned?" asked the Master of Sinanju.

"Of course, collect it if you can."

"There is no 'can' when Sinanju collects a debt," Chiun said loftily. "There is only 'must.' "

"You will of course return the money to me."

"Minus my finder's fee, of course," suggested the Master of Sinanju, his eyes twinkling.

Smith sighed. "Is ten percent acceptable?"

"Yes," said Chiun slowly. "I will allow you to retain ten percent. But only because you are my emperor. Otherwise it would be five.

Both Harold W. Smith and the Master of Sinanju glowered at Remo as he broke into gales of laughter.

Clearing his throat, Harold Smith returned to his computer. He had to finish maintaining the LANSCII hard disk before it was delivered to Saugus.

Chapter 25

It was supposed to be a simple errand, thought Nicolo "Nicky Kix" Stivaletta. Meet the Jap. Hand the Jap the payoff. Take the hard-on disk. Then whack out the Jap where he stood.

"Simple. In and out. Bing bang boom. And home in time for Hunter," as he told Vinnie (The Maggot) Maggiotto, who had earned his nickname because he'd once been arrested for the heinous crime of dumpster diving. The Maggot's hairless bullet of a head contributed to its longevity.

"What if the Jap ain't alone?" the Maggot wondered.

"Then you got somebody to clip too," said Nicky Kix, who had come by his street name because of his habit of kicking in the ribs and skulls of people after he had brought them down with a sawed-off shotgun.

"Okay, I got somebody to clip too," said the Maggot, who had often boasted to his fellow Deer Island inmates that he had clipped as many guys as he had fingers. In fact, the Maggot had never clipped anything. Including his nails. The Maggot was not renowned for his grooming skills.

The headlights of their Dodge raced ahead of them as they came off the Saugus exit of Route One, north of Boston. They threw the chain-link fence of the Bartilucci Construction Company into sharp relief as the car slid through the open gate.

"Okay," said Nicky Kix. "It's show time."

They got out.

"See anything?" Nicky asked uneasily.

"Nothing. Maybe he ain't showed yet. Maybe he ain't gonna show," the Maggot added, silently hoping he would not have to clip anyone.

Then a low, stern voice seemed to surround them.

" I am here, messengers of the dreaded boss."

"Where? Where is he?"

A figure detached itself from the shadow of the long storage building.

He stepped into the headlight beams, clad in a kimono of dull black silk, his eyes narrowing to slits, his hands unseen in the tunnels of his joined sleeves.

"Put your hands where I can see them," warned Nicky Kix, amazed that the old Jap wasn't blinded by the lights.

"Show me your ransom first," returned the old Jap.

"Okay," said Nicky. "Have it your way." He pulled a thick manila envelope from inside his jacket, fat with greenbacks.

He held them up to the lights so the edges of two twenties were visible. "All seventy-five grand," he added, keeping a straight face. There was actually less than fifty dollars in the envelope sandwiching a dollar-size sheaf of cut newsprint.

"Very well," said the Jap, bringing his hands into view.