"I have made several designs," he confided, "all of which are usable. We have only to select the most suitable one."
"If you don't mind," said Dr. Axeworthy, "my fee is being paid by Dr. Smith. I will follow his wishes."
The old oriental drew closer. He tugged on Dr. Axeworthy's white gown conspiratorially.
"Name your price. I will double what Smith has promised you."
"Sorry."
"What I have in mind calls for subtlety. No one will ever know . . . ."
Chapter 11
Carmine (Fuggin) Imbruglia first arrived in Boston with a spring in his step, a smile on his face, and an ancient brass key clamped in one beefy hand.
A car was waiting to meet him outside the Rumpp Shuttle terminal. It was a Cadillac. As black as caviar. A present from Don Fiavorante.
There was a cop hovering by the Cadillac, looking unhappy.
"Is this your vehicle, sir?" he asked.
"What of it, Irish?" The guy looked Irish. Carmine hated Irish cops. They were all drunk with power.
"It shouldn't be here. This is a bus stop."
"So I'm a fuggin' scofflaw. Sue me."
Silently the cop carefully wrote out a ticket and slipped it under a windshield wiper. He started away.
Carmine wadded it up and tossed it past the Irish cop's shoulder and into a green wire trash basket.
" I laugh at parkin' tickets, copper. Back in Brooklyn, I usta wallpaper my john with these things. And when I ran out of wall, I'd tape 'em together and hang 'em up on a hook by the commode. Get the picture?"
The cop kept walking.
"I'm gonna rule this town," Carmine said as he settled into the back of the Caddy.
"First thing we're gonna do," he told his driver during the ride in, "is muscle in on the construction. I hear this town is positively booming."
"Not no more."
"Whatdya mean?"
"There's no construction."
"What is it-the fuggin' off season? Like huntin'? They only build when the weather's nice?"
The driver shrugged his side-of-beef shoulders. "They just stopped building."
"When the fug did this calamity happen?" ,
"After the last governor lost the presidential election."
"The Greek? Okay, so there's no construction. It'll come back after the shock wears off. So can we get in on the ponies? Set up a nice horse parlor?"
"No horses up here. Only trotters. And they stopped runnin' the trotters a couple of years back when they closed Suffolk Downs."
"No horses? What kinda burg is this?"
"The dogs are still runnin', though. Over at Wonderland."
"Dogs! Who the hell plays the dogs?"
"Up here," said the driver, "all the guys that used to play the ponies."
"You can't fix a dog race. No jockeys. What about the sports book? I hear this is a big, big sports town."
"Well, the Red Sox are in the cellar, where they've been for the last hundred years, the Celtics are losers, the Patriots are threatening to leave the state, but the Bruins are playin good."
"I never heard of these Broons. What are they-jai alai?"
"They're hockey."
"I never head of a hockey book in my entire life. What about shylocking?" asked a suddenly subdued Carmine Imbruglia. "Surely that ain't dead."
"You can shylock all you want up here. Lots of guys need the dough."
"Great. It's settled. We shylock."
"Of course, with unemployment bein' what it is, collectin' is gonna be another matter entirely."
"Don't you worry. I know how to collect," said Carmine Imbruglia. "By the way, what's your name, pal?"
"Bruno. Bruno Boyardi. They call me 'Chef.' "
"Chef, huh? Can you cook?"
"That's how I been supportin' myself until I got the word you were takin' over."
"Hey, that's pretty funny," chortled Carmine Imbruglia. "I like a guy with a sensa humor."
Behind the wheel, Bruno (The Chef) Boyardi sat with a stony expression. He hoped there was money in shylocking. He hated restaurant work. It made his hair greasy.
They had emerged from a long tunnel that seemed to be perfumed with carbon monoxide. Carmine looked around. The storefronts were surprisingly bare. Many were empty.
"How's the restaurant trade doin'?" he wondered aloud. "Can we get in on that? Do a little shakedown on the side?"
"What little there's left of it is sucked dry."
Carmine leaned over the front seat. "What you mean, 'what little there's left of it'? This is fuggin' Massachusetts, land of fuggin' Miracles."
"Not no more, it ain't," said Chef Boyardi.
Carmine watched the endless blocks of vacant storefronts pass by his window. Two in three had windows that were papered in faded newsprint and hung with "CLOSED" or "FOR LEASE" signs.
"What happened to this town. An earthquake?"
"No one's sure," said Bruno the Chef. "Ever since the Greek lost the election, this whole territory has gone to hell. It was like a balloon that had been pumped up too much and exploded. "
Carmine made shooing motions with both hands. "It'll come back. It'll come back. Don't you worry. I'm kingpin of this town and I'm tellin' you it'll come back."
Carmine Imbruglia's first sight of the North End brought the broad smile back to his face. It was a slice of Little Italy. Even the pungent aromas were identical.
"Say, this is more like it," he said happily.
The Salem Street Social Club was more to his liking too.
Carmine strode up to the front door, and after inserting the ancient brass key in the lock, turned it.
He stepped in. His heart swelled. It was just like the old Neighborhood Improvement Association. Only it was his, and his alone.
The back room was simply furnished. There were a card table and a great black four-burner stove with a double oven. The kind they had in restaurants.
Carmine Imbruglia's pig eyes fell on the computer terminal that sat square in the middle of the card table.
"What the fug is that thing doin' there?" he wanted to know.
"It's a computer, boss."
"I know it's a fuggin' computer. I asked what the fug is it doin' here, not what its species was."
"It's a present from Don Fiavorante. Here's the instruction book."
Don Carmine accepted the blue leather notebook. He squinted at the cover, which had stamped in silver the strange word "LANSCII."
"Is this Pilgrim, or what?" he muttered.
"I think it's computerese."
"Computerese? What does Don Fiavorante think we're runnin' up here, fuggin' IDC? Get rid of it."
"Can't. Don Fiavorante's orders."
Don Carmine tossed the book back onto the table. "Ah, I'll worry about it later. Go hustle me some lunch."
"What'll you have?"
"Pizza. A nice hot pizza. Everything on it."
"Squid rings too?"
Carmine turned like a tugboat coming around. "Squid rings? Whoever heard of squid rings on pizza? Hell, if that's how they do it in Boston, pile 'em on. I'll try anything once. Some vino. And some cannoli. Fresh ones. Don't let em give you day-old."
"Don't worry. I'm going to the restaurant where I work nights. "
After you get the food, give 'em your notice. Nobody moonlights anymore. This ain't the fuggin' merchant marine I'm runnin' here."
When the food came, Don Carmine Imbruglia took one look at the pizza and went white with rage.
"What the fug is this? Where's the tomato sauce? And the cheese? Don't they have cows up here? Look at that crust. This fuggin' pie is all crust."
"That's how they do pizzas up here. Taste it. You might like it."
Carmine tore off the point of one dripping slice with his teeth. He spat it out again.
"Tastes like cardboard!" he said between explosions of dry crust.
"Sorry. Have some vino," said Bruno the Chef, pouring.
Carmine waved him away. "I can always drink later. I'm hungry." He lifted a cannoli to his mouth. He bit down. The brittle shell cracked apart. He tasted the sickly green filling.