And promptly spat it on the linoleum floor.
"What'd they fill these things with-used toothpaste?"
"This is Boston, boss. It's not like New York. They do things a little different up here."
"They don't do them good at all! Get rid of this junk and get me some real food."
"What kind?"
Don Carmine jerked a thumb at the heavy black stove.
"You're the fuggin' chef. Fuggin' surprise me."
Over a puffy calzone bursting with pinkish-gray tentacles salvaged from the pizza, Don Carmine began to feel better about Boston.
"So where are my soldiers?" he asked, shoving a rubbery tendril of squid into his mouth with a greasy thumb.
"I'm it."
Carmine's apish jaw dropped. The tentacle slithered back onto the plate. "Where's the rest of my fuggin' crew?" he demanded hotly.
"Dead or in jail. Rico."
"Them fuggin' Puerto Ricans are everywhere. Hey, what am I worried about? I can make guys now. I'm a fuggin' don. I'm absolute boss of Boston. I need soldiers, I'll just make 'em."
I know some guys. Vinnie the Maggot. Bugs. Toe Biter-" Carmine's face assumed a doubtful expression. "With names like those, make sure they got all their shots before you bring 'em around," he said. "Got that?"
At that moment the phone rang.
As Don Carmine resumed his meal, Chef Boyardi went to answer the phone.
"This squid tastes a little gamy," Don Carmine muttered. "You sure they didn't stick you with octopus?"
"I asked for squid."
"Tastes like fuggin' octopus."
"Yeah?" Bruno (The Chef) Boyardi said into the telephone. "Yeah, he is. Boss, it's for you." The Chef clapped a hand over the ancient black Bakelite mouthpiece. "It's Don Fiavorante."
Carmine grabbed the phone.
"Hello?" he said through a mouthful of tentacular matter.
"Don Carmine. How is my friend this day?" came Don Fiavorante's smooth-as-suntan-oil voice.
"It's great up here," Carmine lied. "Really wonderful."
"You have seen the computer?"
"Yeah, yeah. Nice. Appreciate it. Always wanted one of my own."
"Good, good. You will need it to keep track of your rent payments. "
Carmine stopped chewing. "Rent?"
"Rent is due Friday. Every Friday you must pay me twenty thousand dollars for the privilege of running Boston."
Don Carmine gulped. "I may need a few weeks to get on the ball here-" ,
"Every Friday. The next Friday is two days from now."
"But I don't got that kind of money. I just got here!"
"If you cannot pay me twenty thousand dollars on this first Friday," said Don Fiavorante, "I will understand."
"That's good, because I barely blew into town."
"However, if you cannot pay your first week's rent, then you must pay me forty thousand on the following Friday."
"Forty!"
"Plus, of course, your second week's rent of twenty thousand dollars."
"But that's sixty thousand bucks!" exploded Don Carmine Imbruglia. He wiped spittle off the mouthpiece with his sleeve.
"And if you cannot pay on the second Friday, that, too, I will understand. So on the following Friday after that, your combined rent will be, for the first two Fridays, eighty thousand dollars. Plus of course the third-Friday rent."
Don Carmine felt the room spinning. He had never seen that kind of money in his entire life. "What if I can't pay on the third Friday?" he wailed.
"This is not done, and I know you will not fail to repay the trust I have placed in you, Don Carmine, my good friend, to whom I owe my current high estate."
Carmine swallowed a tentacle tip that his tongue discovered wedged between two loose molars.
"I will do as you say, Don Fiavorante," he gulped.
"I know that you will, Don Carmine. I know that you will. Now, all you need to get started you will find in the blue book called 'LANSCII.' "
"That name sounds kind of familiar," Carmine muttered vaguely.
"It should. You have any trouble with the system, you just call the number inside the cover. Ask for Tony."
"Tony. Got that."
"Tony is a friend of mine. He will help you."
"Any friend of yours is a friend of mine too. You know that. "
"You are a good boy, Don Carmine," said Don Fiavorante. "I know you will not let me down. The future of this thing of ours is in your hands."
The line went dead.
Don Carmine Imbruglia hung up. Woodenly he walked over to his unfinished meal. With a sweep of his arms he cleared it from the table.
"You don't like my calzone?" asked Bruno (the Chef) Boyardi.
"It tastes like fuggin' octopus," snarled Carmine Imbruglia, dragging the computer terminal over to the place where his plate had been. "I got no time to eat anyway. I just hit town and I'm already twenty G's in the fuggin hole.
He squinted at his brutish reflection in the terminal screen.
"Oh, mother of God," he said hoarsely.
"What? What?"
"I don't see any channel changer on this thing. I think we got a defective computer. Where did Don Fiavorante get this pile of junk anyway?"
"Maybe the changer fell off when it fell off the truck."
Chapter 12
Dr. Rance Axeworthy made the unpleasant discovery less than an hour into the operation.
"This man has had plastic surgery before," he muttered, discovering the telltale scars behind the ears.
"Many times," said the tiny Oriental.
"Then I shouldn't be doing this. Repeating the procedure can have a catastrophic effect on the plastic tissues. Odd that there is so little scarring."
"He heals well."
Dr. Axeworthy paused. He attempted to calculate the risks of facial scarring. High. The chance of a malpractice suit. Low. This was too irregular an arrangement for anyone to sue. Then he recalled the exact sum of his fee.
"I was going to bring out the cheeks," he said thoughtfully, "but I see that this has been done. I will instead fill out the face somewhat. Resculpture the ears. Ears are a telltale identifying mark."
" I am more concerned with the eyes," said the old Oriental.
"I have my orders," Dr. Axeworthy said stiffly.
"A slight tightening of the corners would not be noticed," the tiny man said hopefully.
"I'm going to have to do something to effect an overall change," said Dr. Axeworthy, as if he had not heard.
He stared at the strong face in repose. He could not believe that he was operating without qualified assistance. Still, the fee more than made up for that slight inconvenience.
The patient's earlier history created enormous problems. This required more time. And because there was no time, he remarked, "I'm going to remove the tumor while I think this through."
He injected a strong nerve block into the lump, to further ensure no regrettable complications, such as the patient waking up in hysterics. Tracing the blue ink marking, he made a simple X with the scalpel, bringing forth surprisingly little blood. Using a Metzenbaum scissors, he laid the four triangular flaps of skin aside.
What he saw made him gasp and nearly drop the scalpel.
"Good Lord!"
The old Oriental leaned in to peer at the exposed anomaly.
"Ah, the orb of Shiva," he breathed.
"My God. That can't be a tumor. Can it?"
"It is not."
"It looks almost like . . . an organ."
Using a blunt probe, Dr. Axeworthy touched the thing.
It was soft, like a human eye. Only it was as black as a gelatinous marble. There was no retina or iris. No white at all. No sign of veining. It could not be an eye, he told himself. It looked more like a great black fish egg.
Still, Dr. Axeworthy held his breath as he painstakingly extracted the black orblike thing from its raw pink cavity, looking for the telltale grayish eye-controlling rictus muscles he would have to sever if his worst fears were true.