“I tried to tell him that we needed to take the system into a clean room, have it checked over by media recovery specialists. But he refused to listen.”

  “My friend Carmine is funny that way. He does not wish that other people know his business. This is understandable.”

  Tony Tollini relaxed. “Then I’m not in trouble?”

  “But someone has removed his property.”

  “What?”

  “A Japanese gentleman. He came, he saw, and he took. He promised to return with a new part.”

  “What part?”

  “This wily Japanese called it a record. But from what Carmine described to me, it was the hard disk over which there is so much trouble. This was yesterday. Yesterday, and this Japanese gentleman promised to return yesterday. No Japanese gentleman yesterday. No Japanese gentleman today. Don Carmine is very upset. He called me. He asked me, “Don Fiavorante, my friend, how can I pay you rent when I have no financial records? All is on the stolen disk.’”

  Don Fiavorante shrugged as if it were a small matter.

  “I told Don Carmine that I would give him, how you say, grace on his rent. He pays me next Friday and I ask only that he pay double.”

  “Double?” Tony gulped. He took a hit of the ginseng tea.

  “That is what my friend Carmine said. He does not like to pay double. He prefers to have his records so he can pay me on time. Without these records, he does not know who owes him and when. It is bad business not to know these things.”

  “I never saw the guy again!” Tony protested, “I thought he was still up there, doing good work.”

  Don Fiavorante Pubescio leaned across the black walnut table, which bore a faint scar of an old bullet furrow. “This is what you want me to tell Don Carmine? That you never saw this Japanese again?”

  Tears were starting to race down Tony Tollini’s pale cheeks.

  “No. No. Give me another day. Please, Uncle Fiavorante.”

  Don Fiavorante eased back in his chair. “I tell you what,” he said, pursing his lips. “I think you are not, how you say, complicit in the stealing of this disk. I think this Jap was a crook. So I will make you a proposition.”

  “Anything,” Tony said tearfully.

  “Go to Boston. Meet with Carmine, who is a friend of mine. You will work for him, help him get on his feet. You know many things. He needs help.” Don Fiavorante tapped his temple. “He is not smart, like us.”

  “But I have a job. At IDC.”

  “Where they treat you like a buffone. No, you go to Boston. You make Carmine happy. If he is happy, I will be happy. If both of us remain happy, your continued happiness is assured.”

  “He won’t kill me, will he?”

  “A very good question. You are very bright to ask that question. I will ask my friend Carmine.”

  Don Fiavorante snapped his fingers and a telephone was brought to the alcove and set before him. Picking up the shiny receiver, he dialed a number.

  “Carmine!” he said, after a brief pause. “How are you? Good, good. Yes, he is here. I have spoken to him. He knows nothing about the unfortunate theft, and I believe him. What can I say? He is my wife’s sister’s son. I have told him he must work with you now, but he has a question. He wants to know if you intend to, how you say, kill him.”

  Don Fiavorante listened. Finally he said, “Good, I will tell my nephew.”

  Tony looked expectantly at his uncle as Don Fiavorante replaced the receiver.

  “My friend Carmine, in answer to your question, said, “I’m gonna fuggin’ kill the cogsugger if he don’t make it right with me. After that, I’ll fuggin’ see.’”

  “I’ll take the job,” said Tony Tollini instantly.

  Don Fiavorante Pubescio smiled broadly. “I knew you would. Now, go. Carmine is waiting. Give my regards to your mother, such a sweet woman. There are so few like her anymore. Addio.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Remo Williams woke up with his face on fire.

  Not knowing where he was, unable to see, he found his center, in Sinanju believed to be the solar plexus.

  The long years of training came into play. Remo got his breathing under control first. Letting the pumping of his lungs serve as a focus point, Remo willed the fear of the unknown to drain from his mind. His adrenals stopped flooding his system. He redirected the blood to his face, the only portion of his anatomy that hurt.

  At first, the agony increased. His facial nerves felt like traceries of acid. That told Remo he was injured. Then the pain began to ebb and he concentrated on controlling it.

  In a way Remo could not understand, but which was as familiar to him as walking, he sent the pain signals coursing out of his facial nerves and down his neck to his torso, and then, radiating in ever-diminishing waves, to his extremities.

  The burning of his face ebbed like fading music. He felt a dull ache in his arms and legs. When his fingertips and toes tingled as if mildly burned, he knew he had his nervous system under control.

  Remo lay supine a moment, listening. There were no sounds of consequence. He tried to move.

  His arms came up. No bones broken. He brought them to his face. His fingertips hovered over his stiff throbbing features momentarily, as if afraid to touch the wounded flesh.

  Remo brought them down.

  Touching a rough but soft material, he felt around his face. Bandages!

  Then he remembered. Smith’s office. The ambush. Oblivion.

  Remo bolted to his feet.

  “Chiun! Goddamm it, Smith! Where are you?”

  Outside, through a door or a wall, a worried voice cried, “Summon Dr. Smith. The patient has wakened.”

  Feet ran away, making the slippery sounds of soft shoes on polished tile.

  Remo assumed he was in Folcroft, somewhere.

  Sitting up on the side of his bed, he folded his arms and waited. He was not happy.

  · · ·

  When the Master of Sinanju and Harold Smith finally arrived, they were accompanied by a doctor or a nurse. Remo couldn’t be certain. His ears registered the unique heartbeats of Chiun and Smith, but the third was unfamiliar.

  “How do you feel?” asked a self-assured male voice.

  “Like breaking the necks of certain parties,” Remo growled.

  Harold Smith spoke up. “Would you excuse us, doctor?”

  “Of course. I will be outside.” The unfamiliar heartbeat went away.

  “Remo,” Chiun squeaked plaintively, “thank the gods you have survived your ordeal unharmed. When Emperor Smith informed me that he had gone ahead with this horrible thing despite our express wishes, I was stricken as never before.”

  “Cut the crap, Chiun. I know you were in on it.”

  “Never!”

  “I didn’t keel over in Smith’s office because I caught a chill from the open window,” Remo said bitterly.

  “It is possible. One never knows,” returned Chiun in a subdued tone.

  “Smith, do you have anything to offer to this?” asked Remo tightly.

  “The tumor has been successfully removed,” said Smith.

  “Then why am I tricked out like Claude Raines?” Remo wanted to know.

  “Since you were under,” Harold Smith explained in a voice that was not comfortable with itself, “we saw the necessity of going ahead with the surgical adjustment of your features.”

  “I prefer to think of it as an improvement,” Chiun sniffed. Behind his gauze mask, Remo’s eyes widened in shock.

  “You didn’t! Tell me you didn’t!”

  “The procedure was done according to my express instructions,” Smith said levelly.

  “But I assisted,” added Chiun pointedly.

  “Smith, did you stay for the operation?” Remo demanded.

  “Actually, no,” Smith admitted. “I saw no need.”

  “Has anybody peered under these mummy wrappings and checked out my face lately?” Remo asked worriedly.

  Smith replied, “The truth is, Remo, that you’ve been out for almost two weeks now. It was a precaution we felt necessary so that your face could heal more quickly.”

  “In other words,” Remo said sourly, “for all you know, I look like Sonny Chiba.”

  “I hardly think that-–”

  “Emperor Smith,” Chiun said loudly, “if my son has been burdened with the face of a Son of Chiba, I will insist upon a new doctor of plastics. This is not acceptable.”

  “Oh, no,” Remo groaned. “You didn’t tell the doctor what to do, did you, Chiun? Tell the truth.”

  “I...advised him,” Chiun admitted slowly.

  “He was under strict instructions not to do anything unorthodox,” Smith insisted.

  “I hope you got that in writing in case we have to sue for malpractice.”

  Smith said nothing.

  “You did get it in writing, didn’t you?” Remo asked.

  “Er, the doctor in question has already...departed Folcroft.”

  “Covering our tracks, were we?”

  “There were complications.”

  “To what?”

  “To...the doctor.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that you’re hiding something here?” Remo said edgily.

  “Because we are not,” said Chiun. “And your backward white mind predictably insists that we are.”

  Remo sighed into his bandages, smelling his stale breath. He had a fierce case of morning mouth. “When do the bandages come off?” he asked slowly.

  “The attending doctor believes that the healing should have started by now,” Smith told him. “The bandages can be changed. Of course, you should not expect complete facial mobility just yet. Even though your healing powers are quite accelerated.”

  “Okay, I guess we might as well get it over with.”

  Smith opened the door and called out into the corridor, “Ask Dr. Gerling to come here. The patient is ready.”

  Chiun piped up, saying, “You will like the new you, Remo.”

  “So help me, Chiun, if I end up looking like a refugee from a Hong Kong chopsocky movie–”

  “It is better than looking like King Kong, as you formerly did,” the Master of Sinanju sniffed.

  The doctor arrived a minute later and asked genially, “How is the patient?”

  “Angry enough to chew nails,” Remo said.

  “Well, this should not take long.”

  Remo listened as the doctor rolled some kind of wheeled object probably a tray of instruments–up to the side of the bed.

  “I am bringing a mirror up to your face,” the doctor told Remo. “Is that all right with you?”

  “Just let’s get this over with,” Remo said testily.

  The doctor began to snip away the gauze, pausing often to unwind the long strips. As successive layers came away, Remo saw two patches of light emerge. He made his pupils compensate for the brightness. If he had not been lied to, it had been a while since they had been subjected to light.

  More gauze came away. Finally the last layer was peeled from his eyes and Remo could see them reflected in the mirror.

  Dr. Harold Smith and Chiun stood out of range of his vision, somewhere behind him, so they were unable to see Remo’s face.

  Only a patch of pale skin showed here and there through the gauze. The doctor continued snipping and unwinding busily.

  The nose emerged. Then the rounded plane of one cheek. And the point of the jaw.

  Finally, as if a key thread had been yanked, the gauze abruptly dropped away and Remo Williams was staring at his naked, dumbfounded face.

  The silence in the room was thick.

  All at once Remo threw his head back and began laughing uproariously.

  “What is it, Remo?” Smith demanded hoarsely.

  “He’s hysterical,” said the doctor.

  “I must see this,” cried Chiun.

  Before anyone could move, Remo turned around, jumping off the bed. He spread his arms like a stage performer, saying, “Behold the new Remo!”

  Harold Smith gasped and turned as pale as the walls.

  Chiun’s tiny mouth made a circle of shock, his eyes narrowing into walnuts of inscrutability.

  And although it hurt like hell, Remo Williams grinned from ear to ear, enjoying their horror-struck expressions.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The first thing that Antony Tollini did upon being ushered into the glowering presence of Don Carmine Imbruglia was to fall down on his knees and beg for his life.

  “Anything you want,” he said, his voice twisted with raw emotion. “I’ll do it, Don Carmine. Please.”

  Tony Tollini shut his eyes. He hoped if they shot him, it would be in the head. Quick.

  Don Carmine Imbruglia was seated at the Formica-topped table not far from the great black stove on which a tiny saucepan of basil cream sauce bubbled pungently.

  “You cost me fuggin’ money,” he roared.

  “I’m sorry,” Tony said, squeezing his eyes. A single transparent worm of a tear crawled from one corner and scooted down into the relative safety of his mustache.

  “‘Sorry’ don’t fuggin’ pay the piper,” pointed out Don Carmine. “I ask for repair guys, I get stiffs. I ask for better repair guys, and I lose wise guys. Then I lose the hard-on disk. Now I gotta fuggin’ hard-on. And because you’re Don Fiavorante’s nephew, I can’t whack you out, which is a perfectly natural thing to do under the circumstances.”

  “Thank God.”

  “But I can bust your balls,” added Don Carmine. “Where’s that testicle crusher?”

  “Out bein’ fixed,” reported Bruno the Chef. “You broke it on Manny the Fink, remember?”

  “That’s right. I did.” Carmine frowned down on Tony Tollini. “Okay, you can keep your balls. For now. But I gotta have satisfaction.”

  “What can I do to make it up to you?” Tony pleased.

  “I owe Don Fiavorante forty G’s. You got forty G’s?”

  Tony Tollini’s black eyes snapped open. “Yes, yes, in my bank account. As a matter of fact, I have almost sixty thousand.”

  “Okay,” said Don Carmine in a mollified voice. “I get all sixty.”

  “But you said forty!”

  “That didn’t include the money I can’t collect from the dough I put out on the street at twenty percent on account of that fuggin’ hard-on disk.”

  “Can I write you a check?” said Tony.

  “After you gimme your watch,” said Don Carmine.

  Tony blinked. “Why?”

  “You’re a sharp fuggin’ dresser. I figure you got a sharp fuggin’ watch I can hock for another grand.”

  Morosely, Tony Tollini removed his Tissot watch and handed it over.

  Don Carmine Imbruglia accepted the proffered tribute. He looked at it with blinking eyes.

  “What the fug is this? A fuggin’ joke?”

  “What?”

  “You holding out on me, you yubbie bastid?”

  “No, I swear!”

  Don Carmine held up the watch for all to see, saying, “Look at this watch! He palmed the fuggin’ numbers. I never heard of anything so brazen.”

  “Numbers?” said Tony blankly.

  Don Carmine passed the watch to his lieutenants. It was passed from hand to hand.

  “Hey, it’s made out of a rock,” exclaimed Bruno (The Chef) Boyardi.

  “What do you take me for?” snarled Don Carmine Imbruglia. “Stupid? Tryin’ to hoist a rock off on me?”

  “It’s a Tissot,” Tony explained. “It’s supposed to be made from a rock. It cost me almost two hundred dollars.”

  Don Carmine took the watch back and looked at it again.

  “You got rooked, smart guy.” He tossed the watch back. “Here, I can’t do nothing with this. The fences’ll laugh me right out of town.”

  Tony Tollini caught the watch.

  “You and I,” said Carmine. “We’re gonna make some money together.”

  “How?”

  “You’re a smart guy. You know computers. Don Fiavorante says you’re gonna fix me up with the best computers money can buy. Only they ain’t gonna cost me nothing.”

  “They ain’t? I mean, they aren’t?”

  “Naw. ’Cause you’re gonna filch ’em from IDC.”

  “Oh,” said Tony, getting the picture.

  Then Don Carmine explained his needs.

  “I got runners, see? You understand runners and numbers slips? What can you do about that?”

  “We’ll bring in faxes,” Tony said quickly.

  “I don’t hire queers. That’s out.”

  “No, I said a fax. It’s a telephone that transmits sheets of paper.”

  Don Carmine looked blank.

  “With the writing on it,” Tony added.

  “They got those now?” said Don Carmine, his beetling brows lifting in surprise.

  “I can have this room filled with plain paper copiers, faxes, beepers, dedicated phones, word processors, and PC’s equal to all your needs,” said Tony Tollini, suddenly on familiar ground. Sales. “What’s more I can get you fault-tolerant systems. They’re completely bulletproof. You’ll never have a hard disk failure again, Mr. Imbruglia.”

  “Call me Cadillac. Everybody does.”

  “Yes, Mr. Cadillac.”

  “Now you’re talkin’ my language. Boys, help Tony here set this up.”

  They helped Tony Tollini off his knees. He made a call to IDC and ordered an open system.

  “I want our best stuff,” he told customer service. “And program everything to run LANSCII.”

  · · ·

  Within two days Don Carmine was on line. The Salem Street Social Club was crammed with equipment. He stood blinking at the big black fax that had been placed on a dead burner of the black stove for lack of a better place.

  “Looks like a fat phone,” he said doubtfully.

  “I’ll show you how it works,” said Tony Tollini eagerly. “There’s a restaurant near here that accepts fax orders. Here’s the menu.”

  Frowning, Don Carmine looked over the folded paper menu.

  “I’ll have the clam chowder,” he said.

  “Great,” said Tony Tollini, who typed a brief letter on the word processor, printing it out and sending it through the fax machine.

  Don Carmine watched as the sheet of paper hummed in one slot and came out the other to the accompaniment of startled beeps.