Warren Murphy - Mob Psychology

A spongy green hand grabbed him by his Brylereemed hair and led him over to a microwave parked on a corner table.

"In you go," said a casual male voice.

Nicky thought that he sounded nothing like the real Aramis. He also thought that he was in no danger. Sure, his head was in a microwave oven. But everybody knew they wouldn't work unless the door was closed. And this couldn't happen as long as his neck was in the way.

The male voice asked, "Care to do the honors, Little Father?"

"Normally I do not sully my hands with machines," said a strangely familiar squeaky voice, "but this one is guilty of cruelty to reptiles."

Then came the funny noises. Bangings and crunchings. A piece of the oven wall pierced Nicky Kix's unshaven cheek and he realized that the oven was being compacted. He couldn't imagine how. A steel shard embedded itself in his forehead next. His ears were mashed against the sides of his head. The noises wouldn't stop, and when Nicky reached out for the microwave to pull his head loose, it felt like he had got hold of a crashed sputnik.

"I'd say he's about ready, wouldn't you?" the guy said.

"Let us see if the device still functions," said the squeaky voice.

Despite his predicament, Nicky Kix managed a raucous laugh.

"You guys ain't shit, you know that? It'll never work. There's a contact in the door that has to touch another contact to complete the circuit."

"Thanks for reminding me."

He heard the scrape of a mangled timer dial and the tenative toiling of the timer mechanism itself. Then a sound like a coin dropping into a cigarette-machine slot.

Then Nicky Kix enjoyed the exquisite agony of having every water molecule in his cranium boil under an intense microwave bombardment.

He came erect as if impelled by a cattle prod.

He was dead before a three-fingered greenish hand slam-dunked the compacted microwave, Nicky's head and body following, into a trash barrel, incidentally yanking the plug from the socket.

"I thought those things wouldn't work unless the door was shut," said Jeter Baird, eyeing the dead body partially stuffed into a small Transformed Tae Kwon Do Teen Terrapin kiddie wastebaket.

"They will if you rip the contact off the door and jam it into the other contact," said the tall green figure of Aramis.

"Who are you guys?" asked Devin.

"You know how some people have guardian angels?" Aramis asked.

"Yeah."

"You two have guardian Terrapins. Congratulations."

This made perfect sense to Jeter and Devin, who had grown up on a steady diet of comic books.

"How can we ever repay you?" asked a relieved Jeter.

"You are allowed to tip," said the squeaky voice of Porthos.

"Don't listen to him," said Aramis. "We work for free. You won't be bothered again."

"Although we do not guarantee untipped work," Porthos added darkly.

Jeter and Devin hastily brought out their wallets and gave all their personal cash to their guardian Terrapin, Porthos.

"Pass," said Aramis when they offered him a plush D'Artagnan doll. "Just do us all a favor. Don't mention this to anyone."

"Not even our mothers?" asked Devin.

"Of course you should inform your mothers," said the squeaky-voiced Porthos. "One always tells one's mother of good fortune."

After the pair had gone, Devin turned to Jeter.

"You don't suppose it's true . . . "

"If you think about it," said Jeter, "we have been having an unusual streak of luck since this whole thing started."

For the rest of their days Jeter and Devin were never again visited by the guardian Terrapins. But they did discover the Hong Kong actors who usually played Aramis and Porthos. They were snoring, in full costume, in the back of the extortionists' car. They were unable to explain how they got there, nor why Aramis woke up wearing Porthos' head and vice versa.

Chapter 29

Dr. Harold W. Smith was attempting to do three things at once and was on the verge of succeeding.

He was monitoring the LANSCII file as distant defeated fingers wiped clean the "TERRAPIN SKIM" heading. He was attempting to take his Zantac, a prescription ulcer medicine, and he was listening to Remo's brief report through the blue contact telephone.

"Reptiles everywhere can snuggle in their shells in safety tonight," Remo was saying dryly.

"Er, yes."

"What's next?" Remo wondered.

The office intercom buzzed. Reflexively Smith reached for the switch, inadvertently spilling his medicine.

Suppressing his annoyance, he said, "Excuse me," as he depressed the switch while attempting to swallow a hot splash of stomach acid that had leapt up his esophagus.

"Yes?" Smith said sourly.

His secretary said, "The transfer patient has arrived, Dr. Smith. "

"Excellent. Thank you."

Smith returned to the blue phone. "Remo. Please ask Master Chiun to return to Folcroft."

"What about me?"

"I want you to go to New York City."

"What's down there? Besides muggers?"

"Don Fiavorante Pubescio. I want you to deliver a message to him."

"What's the message?"

"Cadillac Carmine Imbruglia is cheating on his rent."

"Who's Cadillac Carmine Imbruglia?" Remo wanted to know.

"The Boston don."

"How'd you find out his name?" Remo asked, interested.

"He foolishly listed himself on a payroll spreadsheet under the title of 'crime minister.' "

"Catchy. And your snooping computers caught him ripping off his own people, huh?"

"Not exactly," Smith said flatly. "Even as we speak, I am doctoring the LANSCII data base to show conclusive skimming of LCN profits for diversion into the Boston don's pockets."

"You play pretty hard ball, Smitty."

" I play to win," said Smith, hanging up. He reached for his Zantac, hoping there was enough left to quell his sour stomach.

Chapter 30

In his black walnut alcove in Little Italy, Don Fiavorante Pubescio waited for word from his soldier.

"He should have called back by now," he said worriedly. "This thing should have been done by this time." He took a sip of lukewarm ginseng tea. It tasted bitter.

But not as bitter as the taste of betrayal, he reflected.

Don Fiavorante would not have believed it, but the proof lay before his eyes. Computer printouts. Unmistakable computer printouts. They had been laid on the walnut table by a soldier from Boston who called himself Remo Mercurio.

"Check 'em out," had said the soldier, of whom Don Fiavorante had not heard.

He had only to glance over the bottom-line figures to see the truth. Don Fiavorante looked up, his placid gentlemanly expression unchanged.

"You have done me a good turn, my friend," said the don, meeting the hard gaze of Remo Mercurio with his own frank regard.

"Skip it," said Remo casually.

"The contract is yours, if you want it."

"I don't. "

Don Fiavorante's manicured hands had lifted questioningly. "That is it? You want nothing in return?"

"You have Don Carmine clipped," Remo had replied, "and I'll have all I want."

"Perhaps you would like to take his place, eh?"

"I'm available," said Remo coolly.

"Ah, now I understand. I will consider this. Once the irritant has been removed from the scene. Go now. With my blessing."

And so Don Fiavorante had sent one of his own soldiers to do the necessary but regrettable.

The plan was perfect. Don Carmine was moving heroin through commercial courier delivery services. The soldier would appear in the guise of a UPS deliveryman, the better to enter the LCN building without difficulty.

But there had been no call. What could have happened? wondered Don Fiavorante in the coolness of his walnut alcove.

Chapter 31

When Carmine Imbruglia read of the fate of Nicky Kix and his fellow soldiers in the Boston Herald, he threw the paper across the room and howled, "They were ready for us. Someone tipped them off?"