He ripped the sheet free and looked at it.

  Turning to Tony Tollini, he said, “It’s still fuggin’ here. What is it, broke?”

  “Just wait.”

  Minutes later, there came a knock at the front door.

  Instantly Pauli (Pink Eye) Scanga and Vinnie (The Maggot) Maggiotto drew automatics as Bruno the Chef answered the door.

  “It’s okay,” he called back. “I got it.”

  He came back with a paper bag and handed it to Don Carmine.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your eats, boss,” said Bruno confidently.

  Don Carmine broke open the bag and pulled out a plastic container. He lifted the lid, sniffed experimentally, and looked inside.

  “This stuff is all white!” he roared.

  Bruno looked.

  “It’s clam chowder. Ain’t it?”

  “This stuff looks like fuggin’ baby puke. Where’s the tomato soup?”

  “They don’t put tomato soup in clam chowder up here,” said Bruno.

  “Then what do they put in, fuggin’ cream? Send this back. I want clam chowder with tomato sauce in it.”

  And as an expression of his wrath, Don Carmine picked up a heavy cellular phone and threw it at a nearby computer screen.

  The glass cracked, seemingly sucking in the rows of amber columns. Silence followed.

  Don Carmine turned to a cringing Tony Tollini. “What happened to bulletproof!” he roared.

  Eyes widening, Tony sputtered, “They’re not literally bulletproof!”

  “What other kind is there!”

  “It’s just a technical term,” Tony bleated. “The system is built of arrayed redundant mirror components. If some break down, the others take over.”

  “Oh,” said Don Carmine slowly. “Now I understand perfectly.”

  “You do?”

  “No wonder these computer things work like they’re magic. It’s all done with fuggin’ mirrors.”

  His eyes sick, Tony Tollini swallowed his reply.

  While Bruno ran the errand, Don Carmine demanded of Tony, “Got any other things you want to show me, genius?”

  The phone rang then. The Maggot answered it. He called over to Don Carmine, “It’s Don Fiavorante. He wants his money.”

  “Tell him I got it.”

  “He wants it now.”

  Don Carmine frowned. His eyes lit up suddenly. “Ask him if he’s gotta fax.”

  “He’s says he does.”

  “Tell him to hang up. I’ll give him his money in no time.”

  Don Carmine pointed to Tony Tollini. “You, genius. You write that check for forty G’s now.”

  Tony sat down at the Formica table and pulled out his checkbook.

  “Make the check out to Fiavorante Pubescio, the crook. Only leave out ‘the crook’ part, okay?”

  Obediently Tony began writing.

  When he was done, Don Carmine looked at the check and handed it back, grinning.

  “Fax this to Don Fiavorante,” he said.

  Tony swallowed. “But I can’t….”

  “Why not? Won’t checks fax?”

  “They will, but….”

  “No buts. Fax the fugger.”

  An unhappy look on his face, Tony Tollini trudged over to the fax machine, inserted the check sideways, and dialed the number Pink Eye read off to him.

  The check went in. And then it came out again.

  Don Carmine plucked it free.

  “You know,” he said, pocketing the check, “modern technology is fuggin’ wonderful.”

  He was so pleased with his new computerized office that when Bruno the Chef came back and said, “They say they don’t know how to make tomato clam chowder up here,

  Don Carmine simply shrugged and said, “Screw it. We’ll go out to eat. Maybe we’ll take over one of these joints. Make ’em do chowder right and join the fuggin’ human race for a change.”

  “Why don’t I stay here?” said Tony quickly.

  Carmine paused, his expression becoming suspicious. “Why you wanna do that?”

  “Somebody should stay here to answer the phone,” said Tony, who knew that Don Fiavorante was sure to call back about his non-negotiable check.

  “Good thinkin. You stay by the phone. We’ll get you a doggy bag if you promise not to go on the fuggin’ rug while we’re out,” Carmine said, laughing.

  When Don Fiavorante did call minutes later, Tony Tollini was profuse in his apologies.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Fiavorante,” he explained. “Don Carmine hasn’t mastered the modern office system yet. I’ll drive the check down tonight, okay?”

  “You are a good boy, Tony. I trust you. Why don’t you send it Federal Express?” Don Fiavorante’s voice sank to an unctuous growl. “But if I don’t have my rent money by ten-thirty sharp tomorrow morning, it will not be a good thing, capisce?”

  “Capisco,” said Tony Tollini, who called Federal Express the minute he got off the phone with his uncle.

  · · ·

  In the weeks that followed Tony Tollini almost forgot he was in league with the Mafia.

  Business hummed. Carmine Imbruglia hummed.

  From the Salem Street Social Club, the bettor slips came in by fax. Tony logged them onto the PC system. Any incidental paper was destroyed once it had served its purpose or the information was entered into the LANSCII program.

  There were a few incidents, to be sure, such as the time an odds list immolated itself while passing through the fax.

  “What’s with this fuggin’ fax?” demanded Don Carmine. “It’s trying to sabotage me.”

  “It’s the paper,” complained Tony. “I told you, you don’t need to use flash paper anymore. Its outdated.”

  “What if the feds bust in?”

  “You just erase the computer records.”

  Don Carmine squinted at the glowing amber lines on the PC screen.

  “How do you erase light?”

  “By typing star-asterisk-star. It wipes the hard disk clean.”

  “Star-asterisk-star,” muttered Don Carmine, making a mental note to look up the spelling of asterisk. “Got it. Can I get it back afterward?”

  “Maybe. Unlikely.”

  Carmine shrugged. “What the hell, it’s better than twenty-five to thirty in the pen,” he said philosophically. “We’re making money hand over fist, although we’re barely making rent.”

  “You should think about expanding,” said Tony, who, although he was still working off his debt to Don Carmine at thirty-six percent interest, felt a flush of pride in his work.

  “Whatchu mean?”

  “You need larger quarters. And you should think about incorporating.”

  “You mean, go legit?”

  “Not that exactly. But create a corporate shield around yourself.”

  Don Carmine waved to his ever-present bodyguards, Pink Eye Scanga and Vinnie the Maggot.

  “I got all the shield I need right here. Ain’t that right, boys?”

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  “You know,” Carmine said slowly, “I hear there’s fast money in heroin up here. Maybe we should get into that.”

  “I thought the Mafia–”

  “Hey! We don’t use that word around here,” Carmine snapped. “There’s no such thing as the Mafia. This is just Our Thing. Got that?”

  “Got it,” said Tony Tollini. “I thought the, you know, didn’t get involved in drug trafficking.”

  “What joik told you that?”

  “My Uncle Fiavorante,” said Tony truthfully.

  “He was pullin’ your fuggin’ leg. If there’s a dishonest buck in it, we do it. Now, how do we move drugs without it gettin’ back to us?”

  Tony Tollini considered this business problem seriously. “You could Fedex them, I suppose.”

  “Fedex? Is that like faxin’?”

  “Not exactly. It’s slower. Takes a day or two.”

  Don Carmine nodded sagely. “That makes sense. It’s one thing to send paper through the telephone. Sending drugs is harder. We should start with cocaine, though.”

  “Why is that?” Tony wondered.

  “What are you, retarded or somethin’?” Carmine jerked a nubby thumb at Tony Tollini. “Listen to this guy. He’s askin’ why we should start Fedexin’ coke and not smack.”

  Don Carmine’s underlings laughed on cue.

  “You dink,” said Don Carmine, lifting the fax receiver and holding it up to Tony Tollini’s suddenly white face. “Cocaine is powder. Like salt. It’s the best thing for sending through the little holes,” said Carmine, stabbing at the receiver mouthpiece with a blunt finger.

  “That’s not how Fedexing works,” said Tony woodenly.

  Don Carmine looked at the phone receiver.

  “You know,” he said slowly, “I’m thinkin’ maybe we should try Fedexin’ salt first. You know, in case we dial a wrong number. It could be embarrassin’, not to mention expensive. Coke ain’t cheap.”

  There were no dissenting opinions to this observation. Tony bit his tongue.

  The next day, Vinnie the Maggot showed up with a suitcase filled with cocaine in one-ounce plastic bags. The case was opened under Tony Tollini’s eager eyes.

  “Where did this come from?” Tony wondered.

  “Got it off a guy,” said the Maggot casually.

  “Just like that?”

  “Well, I had to shoot him first, of course.”

  “Oh.”

  “Okay,” said Don Carmine briskly. “I got a customer to send it to. Get to Fedexin’.”

  Tony Tollini looked at the small lake of pure white coke under his nose.

  “Maybe someone should sample it,” he suggested eagerly.

  “Good idea. We mighta got took. You wanna do the honors?”

  “Gladly,” said Tony Tollini.

  He popped a bag and sifted a small pile of white powder onto the table. Unscrewing his solid silver ball-point pen, he emptied it of its ink reservoir and used the hollow lower end to inhale a line.

  “Whew! Great!” said Tony, his eyes acquiring a shine.

  “Good stuff?” asked Don Carmine gruffly.

  “The best,” said Tony, grinning.

  “Great. You now owe me three hundred little ones.”

  The shine went out like a wet match. “Three hundred!”

  “Street price. What–you think I’d give you a free hit? Hah, I don’t give nothin’ free out of the goodness of my own heart. Is that pen silver?”

  “Yeah,” said Tony unhappily.

  Don Carmine snapped his fingers twice. “Give it here. My price just went up. Three hundred and a silver pen. Nice doin’ business with you, joik. Now, get the phone number from Pink Eye and Fedex an ounce to the guy what lives there.”

  “I need the address too.”

  “Makes sense,” said Don Carmine. “You gonna move somethin’ heavy like coke you need the address too. It’s only reasonable.”

  Tony picked up the fax receiver.

  Don Carmine watched him carefully. If he had to whack out this guy, he would want to know exactly how to Fedex coke.

  To Don Carmine’s surprise, Tony Tollini simply dialed a number, spoke briefly, and then hung up.

  “It’s all set,” Tony said, turning to Don Carmine.

  “Whatchu mean, it’s all set? You never moved the coke. It’s still fuggin’ in the case there!”

  “They pick it up.”

  Don Carmine pushed out a thick lower lip. “Who does?”

  “The Fedex people.”

  “Oh. Oh. This I gotta see. What’s their cut?”

  “They usually charge about twenty dollars a delivery.”

  “Fine. It comes outta your end.

  “Why?”

  “On account of you didn’t tell me first,” Don Carmine snarled. “You wanna spend my money, you tell me first. The double sawbuck comes outta you. Consider it an object lesson. A cheap one.”

  Less than a half-hour later there came a knock at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” said Bruno the Chef casually.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Don Carmine said with hushed urgency. “Everybody wait one fuggin’ minute here. I smell a rat.”

  “What?” asked Bruno, dropping into a crouch.

  “Check out the window. Look past the curtain. What d’you see? Tell me what you see.”

  Bruno stopped dead in his tracks and scrunched down. He looked over the green chintz curtain that blocked off the lower part of the storefront windows.

  “I see a van,” Bruno said, eyeing the street.

  “Right. What’s on the side of the van?”

  “Words. I can make one out. Says ‘Federal.’ Wait a minute! ‘Federal’!”

  “That’s just–” Tony Tollini started to say.

  “The feds!” hissed Carmine Imbruglia. “You. Maggot. Toss me your piece.”

  A .38 revolver went sailing into Carmine Imbruglia’s meaty hand.

  “Cover me. I’ll show those feds not to mess with the Kingpin of Boston.”

  “No, wait,” Tony tried to say, waving his hands frantically.

  “Shut him up,” Carmine barked.

  A hand went smack against Tony Tollini’s face and he crumpled in a corner.

  Carmine Imbruglia stepped up to the door, placed the stubby muzzle of the .38 to the wood panel, and fired twice.

  The wood splintered in a long vertical line. Gunsmoke tang overwhelmed the close, garlic-scented air.

  Triumphantly Don Carmine Imbruglia threw open the door.

  “Get a load of this,” he said in disbelief. “He’s wearin’ a uniform.” Don Carmine craned his thick neck up and down the narrow street. “I don’t see no backup. Musta come alone. Hey, check this out!”

  His bodyguards in tow, Don Carmine Imbruglia ambled over to the white van that was marked “FEDERAL EXPRESS.”

  “Look at this!” he muttered. “It says ‘Federal’ plain as day on the side. Some nerve these feds got. They even advertise.”

  “I never saw nothin’ so stupid in all my life,” clucked Pauli (Pink Eye) Scanga.

  “Hey, what the fug, right? It’s the nineties. We use computertry and the feds advertise. It’s a whole new fuggin’ ballgame.”

  Everyone had a good laugh, except the Federal Express deliveryman, who moaned and rolled on the sidewalk, clutching his stomach as the blood pumped out of two bullet holes near his navel.

  “Drag the sumbitch inside,” ordered Don Carmine. “We gotta lam outta here.”

  When Tony Tollini was revived by the simple expedient of having his head thrust into the cold water of the Salem Street Social Club toilet, he sputtered, “What happened?”

  “We gotta lam,” said Don Carmine. “I clipped a fed. Soon the whole place will be swarmin’ with them.”

  “That wasn’t–”

  “Don’t tell me. The fuggers got ‘Federal’ written all over their van. We busted in and found this.”

  Don Carmine shook a black electronic device in one thick paw. Tony recognized it as a Federal Express package-tracking computer.

  “This was the bug he was tryin’ to plant,” explained Don Carmine. “Some balls, huh? Walked right up to the door to do it, too.”

  “But–”

  Don Carmine suddenly looked up. A smile lit up his brutish face.

  “Hey, I just realized somethin’!”

  “What is it, boss?” asked Bruno.

  “I just made my bones. With a fed, too. Ain’t that somethin’?”

  “Congratulations, boss,” said Pink Eye.

  “You done great,” added the Maggot.

  “I feel like celebratin’. Let’s get this junk outta here. We’ll find a new place later. Tonight is our night to fuggin’ howl.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I cannot fathom it,” said Dr. Aldace Gerling as he examined Remo’s new face with practiced fingers. “There is minimal scarring, virtually no sign of a recent operation.” He turned to Harold Smith. “Yet you gave me to understand that this patient underwent extensive facial reconstruction only two weeks ago.”

  Harold Smith thought fast. He said, “That was what I understood. Obviously there has been some mistake.”

  “There has been an abomination,” spat Chiun in disgust.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Remo airily. “I kinda like it.”

  “Bah!” said Chiun.

  Dr. Smith turned to his chief staff physician.

  “Dr. Gerling, could you excuse us? Obviously your services are no longer needed.”

  “As you wish.”

  Dr. Gerling withdrew from the room. Smith closed the door after him. He faced Remo.

  “I do not know what to say,” he said, tightening the knot in his tie, which threatened his skinny Adam’s apple.

  Remo, rubbing his jaw and regarding his new face in the upright mirror, said, “Guess the joke’s on you, Smitty.”

  “This of course cannot be allowed to stand.”

  Remo’s new face hardened. It hurt as the muscles realigned the face, but he didn’t care. “Smith, it stands.”

  The Master of Sinanju drew Harold Smith off to one side.

  “Emperor, how is this possible?”

  “There is only one explanation,” Smith said tiredly. “As you know, Remo underwent several of these procedures in the past, each one intended to make him unrecognizable. Previous to this surgery, and at Remo’s insistence, we restored certain of his natural facial contours. Just enough to satisfy him.”

  “I can hear every word you two are saying,” Remo reminded them with no trace of rancor. He was looking at his chin, and liking what he saw.

  “Obviously Dr. Axeworthy inadvertently restored the remaining components of the original face,” Smith continued. “It makes sense. Remo’s facial contours had been reduced over successive surgeries, to their absolute foundation. Dr. Axeworthy must have realized that and gone in the only direction the procedure could go. Building up. He simply restored the final pieces of the true Remo.”

  “Damn good job of it too,” Remo said proudly. “It’s the old me. A little more mature maybe, but I can live with that. Maybe I’ll start using my old last name too.”

  “You will not,” Smith snapped. “And you know this is a serious matter.”

  Remo turned to Harold Smith. His face was serious but there was a humorous light in his deep-set dark eyes. He was enjoying Smith’s consternation.