"I'm not kidding," Remo said firmly. "I'm a professional. I can tell by looking that this computer is broken beyond repair. "
"None of the other guys said that."
"None of them have my background. I'm a certified genius. I invented the world's first Korean keyboard."
"Korean? What's that got to do with this?"
"You ever see Korean? They got a million characters for everything. Forget the twenty-six letters. A Korean keyboard, even a small one, is twenty feet long and has thirty rows of keys. To operate it you need roller skates and a photographic memory."
"He's kiddin'," the chauffeur said, his eyes going sick. "Tell them you're kiddin'."
"I am not kidding," Remo said, folding his arms. He made no move toward the keyboard.
His back to the three security men, the chauffeur mouthed a single word. The word was "Try. " To which he added a silent "Please."
Because he was getting tired waiting for something to happen, Remo shrugged and said, "Okay, I guess a quick looksee won't hurt anything. Who knows? I might get lucky."
"What'd I tell you?" the chauffeur said, facing the security team once more. He grinned nervously. "He was kiddin'. A little joke. To relieve the tension. He's a good guy. I like him. Go to it, Remo. Show us your stuff."
Remo addressed the silent PC terminal, lifted it in both strong hands, examined his own reflection for a moment, and then brought the screen to his ear. He began shaking the terminal briskly.
"Hey, none of the other guys done that," one of the security men pointed out.
"This is an advanced technique," Remo told him. "We shake until we hear something rattling around in here. You'd be surprised how often the trouble is a paperclip that got in through a vent."
This made perfect sense to the assembled F and L Importing employees. They all went very quiet, listening.
Soon, something rattled.
"Hey, I heard it!" the chauffeur cried. "You hear that? Remo found it. Attaboy, Remo."
"Shhhh," said Remo, still shaking the PC terminal.
Another element began to rattle. Then a third. Pretty soon, under his relentless shaking, the PC began to sound like a majolica rattle.
Remo stopped.
"What's the verdict?" Bruno the chauffeur asked.
Balancing the PC in one hand experimentally, Remo frowned. Then he lofted the PC over their heads. It seemed to float in a shallow arc. Every eye in the room followed it like ball bearings drawn to a horseshoe magnet.
"Hey!" one yelled.
The four men lunged for the floating PC like startled linebackers. They were too late. The PC landed in a wastebasket in one corner, where its picture tube shattered.
The quartet froze in place, looking at the shattered PC in disbelief.
Only when Remo coolly said, "What'd I tell you? Beyond repair. "
Slowly they turned around. Their faces were bone-white. Their eyes were hard and glittering. Their limp-with-helplessness fingers made slow, determined fists.
Mechanically three of the men surrounded Remo. The fourth-the chauffeur-lurched to a plain door as if his legs had turned to wood.
"The box is broke," he called in.
A raspy voice said, " I know it's broke."
"Now it's really, really broke."
"What happened?"
"Guy broke it.'
"Break him."
"He's a paisan."
" I don't care if he's Frank fuggin' Sinatra! Get rid of him. And get on the phone to that Tollini. Tell him no more screwups. Send me a Jap. I heard Japs are good at computer-try. I want a Jap."
"You got it, boss."
The chauffeur came back. Woodenly he said, "The boss says you gotta go."
Remo shrugged unconcernedly. "So I go."
They went. Remo didn't bother to wait for the car door to be opened for him. He got ahead of the escort and opened the rear door himself.
The others hesitated. One said, "What the fuck. From the look of him he'd probably just pee in the trunk." Two of them got in on either side, sandwiching Remo between them.
The remaining pair took the front seat. The car backed out of the alley.
"You know," Remo said, "this kinda reminds me of Little Italy, down in New York."
"It should," said one of the security men.
"Too bad about that computer," Remo said sympathetically. "But broke is broke."
"Yeah," a second man growled. "I'll always remember you for sayin' that."
They didn't take him back to the airport. Not that Remo expected that. Remo didn't know where they were taking him and he didn't care. He hoped it was secluded, wherever it was.
He assumed it would be. They weren't about to try to kill him on Boston Common. And he didn't want their screams to attract attention.
The exit said: East Boston.
Remo knew they were close to the airport because the thunder of jet engines came with monotonous regularity.
As the black Cadillac pulled into the back lot of a Ramada Inn, Remo asked innocently, "What's this?"
"Your lodgings," said the man at Remo's right.
"Where you're going to sleep tonight," said the man to Remo's left.
They both laughed with the humorless rattle of windup toys.
I expected better accommodations," Remo remarked. "After all, I am a treasured IDC employee."
"You wait here," said the man to Remo's right. "We gotta make sure the accommodations are satisfactory."
All three security men left the car. Bruno the chauffeur turned around in his seat with a sad look in his eyes. Remo could tell by the way his right-shoulder-muscle group was bunched under his tight coat that his hand was wrapped around a pistol. In case Remo tried to escape.
Remo had no intention of escaping. The Ramada Inn would do just fine. He waited.
"Why'd you go and do that, Remo?" Bruno asked mournfully.
"Do what?" Remo asked, his face innocent.
The door opened and one of the trio waved for them to come in.
"Guess my room's ready," Remo said, sliding out of the car.
The man who had waved fell in behind Remo as he approached the partly ajar door.
Remo whistled amiably. This was ridiculously obvious. The only question in his mind was whether they were going to shoot, stab, or bludgeon him to death.
They did none of those.
The moment Remo stepped across the threshold, the third man wrapped his thick arms around Remo's torso, pinioning his arms.
That told Remo that they were going to use the infamous Italian rope trick on him.
Confidently Remo walked in.
The rope was held loose in the hands of the man standing off to the left of the open door. He looped the heavy coil around Remo's exposed neck. It felt like a scratchy python.
The other end was caught by the man standing behind the door. He kicked the door closed with his foot as he hauled back on his end of the rope like a sailor securing a docked boat.
The other man did the same.
As the loose loop of heavy hemp tightened around Remo's throat, he tensed his throat muscles. He didn't bother fighting back. He just held his breath.
"Arggh!" Remo said in a choking rush of air.
"Tighter," a voice hissed. "Don't let him get a peep out."
The hemp constricted like a noose around Remo's throat muscles. It was strong, but his training was stronger.
"Arrghh!" Remo repeated, forcing blood up his carotid artery so his face turned an appropriate shade of red.
"Tighter," the voice repeated. "This ain't no fuckin' taffy pull.'
Remo said "Urggg" this time, for variety.
"Jeez, this guy's stubborn," the third man said at Remo 's ear, digging his chin into Remo's shoulder. The smell of garlic was enough to make a man pass out-even one who was not allowing air to enter his nostrils.
The man on the left started to pant. His face was going purple, making Remo wonder who was strangling whom.