Warren Murphy: Mob Psychology

"He's getting rich up in Boston," Tony pleaded. "I can make you rich too. Give me a chance to show you, and I'll have you interfacing with every node of your heirarchy. You'll be completely on-line, networked, integrated and paperless. That means no incriminating backup disks."

"What is this you're talkin'? I've been out of action a few years, yeah, but people don't talk like this now, do they?"

"Not that I heard, Don Pietro," said a guard from behind Tony.

Don Pietro Scubisci reached for another fried pepper. His watery eyes narrowed.

"Tell you what I'm gonna do for you," he offered.

"Anything," Tony said, wiping sweat off his mustache.

"I give you back your gun, and I let you shoot yourself in the mouth."

Tony paled. He gripped the table edge. "Why?"

"On account of you talk too much."

Tony blinked. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you do it this way, I don't make you dig your own grave first," explained Don Pietro. "None of my guys gotta take the rap for whacking you out, and you don't die all sweaty and out of breath. Get me?"

"That's an absurd offer!" Tony Tollini said in protest.

Don Pietro shrugged. "It's the best one you're gonna get."

Tony Tollini stared at the old don as a fried pepper like a bright green grasshopper disappeared into his mouth. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He couldn't comprehend how a simple pilot program, the most brilliant in IDC history, could bring him to this terrible crossroads in his life.

"I ain't gonna wait for your answer till I grow old," Don Pietro warned through his careful chewing.

It was then that Tony Tollini, a former rising star of International Data Corporation, realized that he had been made an offer he could not refuse.

Tremblingly he accepted the offered Beretta. It was cold to his touch. His eyes began to mist over.

Across the battle-scarred walnut tale, the don of Little Italy watched him with vague interest as Tony brought the muzzle of the Beretta into his mouth.

Tony tasted the bitter tang of machined steel on his tongue.

Closing his eyes, he pulled the trigger.

The trigger refused to budge. Tony's eyes popped open.

"Someone help this poor guy. He forgot to release the safety," said Don Pietro in a bored voice, reaching into the greasy paper bag.

And while that cold fact was sinking into Tony Tollini's mind, someone placed the muzzle of a larger weapon to his right temple and splashed the organized receptacle of his thoughts across a dozen hung saints.

Dispassionately Don Pietro watched Tony Tollini slump forward. A dollop of curdlike brain matter oozed out of his shattered forehead. A gleam entered the old don's tired eyes.

Slowly Don Pietro Scubisci dipped the chewed edge of a fried pepper into the matter and tasted it carefully.

While his guards urgently covered their mouths with their hands to keep the vomit in, Don Pietro dipped a fresh pepper into the oozing mass while smacking his lips with relish.

"Needs more garlic," he decided.

Chapter 35

Harold W. Smith was saying, "If my plan has worked, both Don Carmine and Don Fiavorante are dead by now, victims of their own distrust and greed."

Smith was logging onto the LANSCII files as Remo and Chiun gathered around the CURE terminal.

"Explain it to me again," said Remo, reading the LANSCII sign-on screen.

"You, Remo, have set Don Fiavorante against Don Carmine. Meanwhile, Chiun and I have revived Don Pietro and installed him in Little Italy."

"What happened to Don Fiavorante?"

"Master Chiun eliminated him after you delivered your friendly warning. In the resulting power vacuum, it was a simple matter for Don Pietro to install himself "

Remo frowned back at the Master of Sinanju's tiny beaming face.

"Since when are we in the business of putting Mafia dons back in business?"

"When they are old, weak, and senile," explained Harold Smith, "they are preferable to the likes of innovators such as Don Fiavorante and Don Carmine. It is certain that Don Pietro will not see any advantage to computerization of illicit-"

Smith stopped, frowning.

"What is it?" Remo asked.

"It appears that Don Carmine is still in business," Smith said unhappily. "Even as we speak, he is maintaining his usury file."

"I guess Don Fiavorante's hit didn't go down," Remo said.

"No doubt he employed amateurs," Chiun sniffed.

"Great," Remo said sourly. "We have a direct line to his computer, but no clue to where it is. Usually your computers are more on the ball than this, Smitty. Maybe you need fresh batteries. "

"It is obvious that we are dealing with a criminal genius," said Smith unhappily. "He has set up his operation perfectly. Every move we make against him, he counters with the brilliance of a chess player. He may well be the most brilliant criminal mind of our time."

"So we're checkmated?" Remo asked, watching the numbers on the screen change, actuated by unseen fingers hundreds of miles away.

Smith leaned back in his chair. "We know that he is headquartered in Quincy, Massachusetts. But we do not know where. Thus far, the key to thwarting him lies in an understanding of the psychology of the mob. We need to lure him out into the open."

"Any ideas?" asked Remo.

"None," admitted Smith. "I am stymied."

"I have a suggestion, O Emperor," put in Chiun.

Both men regarded the Master of Sinanju in surprise.

"What have you to add, Master Chiun?" Smith asked, his glum voice lifting.

"Merely wisdom," said Chiun smugly, eyeing Remo. Remo frowned but said nothing.

"Go ahead," said Smith.

"Offer this moneylender the thing that most appeals to him."

"And that is?"

"Money," said Chiun, raising a wise finger.

"Do you mean to bribe him?" asked Smith.

"No," said Chiun. "I mean offer this man a generous amount of money, but insist that he accept it in person. Tell him it is in repayment of an old debt that troubles your conscience."

"Never work," said Remo.

"It cannot hurt to try," countered Smith, logging off LANSCII and quickly pecking out a fax message.

He programmed his computer to dial the fax number of LCN. When he was satisfied with the text, he pressed the Send key.

The system hummed.

"What's happening?" Remo asked.

"Emperor Smith is following my wise and brilliant counsel," said the Master of Sinanju in a smug tone.

"I have just faxed my offer to Don Carmine," explained Smith.

"Can you fax straight from a computer like that?" Remo wanted to know.

Smith nodded absently. "It is a common application."

"News to me."

"You have much to learn, round eyes," sniffed Chiun. "Such as how to penetrate so-called secure rooms."

"I'd like to be a fly on the wall watching you get through one of those," Remo said, stealing a worried glance at the reflection of his eyes in the terminal screen.

"You would undoubtedly repeat your earlier error, even as an insignificant fly." The Master of Sinanju beamed. "Heh-heh. Even as an insignificant round-eyed fly. Heh-heh."

When Remo refused to join in the Master of Sinanju's amused laughter, Chiun went on.

"Emperor Smith has explained how the alert machines work. They are very simple. Like you."

"I'm all ears," said Remo.

"One moment," Smith said as his desk fax began to ring.

Out of the port streamed a long sheet a slick paper. Smith tore it off.

"What's he say?" Remo asked.

"He's very anxious to receive the sixty thousand dollars offered him."

"No surprise there. Did he ask what it was for?"

"He did not. I simply said it was an old debt."

"And he didn't question it?"

"No," said Smith, worrying his lower lip in a puzzled way. "But he made a strange request. He asked me to fax him a check." Harold Smith turned to the Master of Sinanju.