"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 18
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.
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."