UPSTAIRS, REMO DISCOVERED that Bindle and Marmelstein were indeed nowhere to be found. Their office wasn't empty, however. Carpenters and plasterers were working feverishly around the room creating an all-new retro art-deco look.
He didn't see al Khobar anywhere.
Remo wondered briefly how Chiun was doing. The Master of Sinanju had secured a promise from Remo that he would shepherd Chiun's script through Bindle and Marmelstein's offices. Otherwise he would not go. Remo had agreed.
For now, Remo had a long wait before he had to worry about his own end of the mission.
At one point while he was waiting he glanced out the window. He saw Susan Saranrap and a very obvious Tom Roberts dressed in Arab garb down in the parking lot. They were on the back of a bizarre-looking mechanical creature that moved with all the elegance of a broken can opener. The massive artificial animal squeaked and smoked its way toward the Taurus Studios main gate.
"I can't wait to get out of this town," Remo complained.
He sank into a chair to watch the workmen rebuild the office.
Chapter 24
Reggio "Lips" Cagliari had made his bones at the ripe old age of eighteen. He became a made man in California's Pubescio crime family at twenty-five. He had a great future in the West Coast Mafia until the mysterious disappearance of Don Fiavorante Pubescio back in 1992.
At twenty-six Reggio became a man without a family.
Once Don Fiavorante was gone, the Pubescio territory had been up for grabs. Mafiosi swooped in like ravenous jackals ripping at the carcass of the once mighty Pubescio empire.
When the feeding frenzy was over, Reggio was one of the few goodfellas left out in the cold. He was still alive. But none of the California families wanted to take him in. It took a while, but he finally found a lowly position with the Vaggliosi Family of Los Angeles.
The Vaggliosis worked the Teamsters for most of the big Hollywood studios. Reggio was put in place as a small-time union organizer.
He knew he'd never move any further up the Mafia chain. When he was with the Pubescio Family he had been on an inside track. Murder, extortion, explosives, arson, prostitution. Here he'd languish in his minor union post until he retired or dropped dead of a heart attack. Considering the way he had taken to eating pasta to drown his sorrows, the latter would claim him first. Reggio had ballooned up from a slim 182 pounds to more than 300 since switching allegiances.
After sitting at the same desk and gorging himself on the same cuisine for a number of wasted years, an opportunity to earn a few extra dollars had presented itself to Reggio Cagliari. He was approached by Jimmy Fitzsimmons, a minor figure from Rhode Island's Patriconne Family. "Fits" Fitzsimmons wanted Reggio to help out with a video-distribution business the East Coast family was setting up. He'd also help funnel drugs back to the film capital.
Of course Reggio knew there were rumors that an East Coast family-possibly the Scubiscis or Patriconnes-had been responsible for Don Fiavorante Pubescio's death. But money was money. He'd gotten in bed with the Patriconnes, using his Hollywood connections to set up the pirated-video scheme between the Rhode Island syndicate and Taurus Studios.
The deal earned Reggio a nice, neat and, above all, quiet little paycheck. He wanted to keep it that way. He didn't need someone blabbing to the Vaggliosis that he had his own little profit-skimming business going on under their crooked Sicilian noses. The scheme had been set up specifically to minimize Reggio's own personal risks. Therefore, "Lips" Cagliari was surprised when the threat to this cozy little arrangement came from the least-likely quarter.
Reggio was eating Italian takeout behind the desk of his small Culver City office when there came a timid knock at his door. He looked up, noodles hanging from his mouth. He was puzzled to see the Taurus management team of Hank Bindle and Bruce Marmelstein framed in the open doorway.
"Hello, Reg," Bruce Marmelstein said. He was clearly a man attempting to keep his disdain in check. It wasn't just the gooey cheese sauce of Reggio's fettucine Alfredo that was off-putting to him, but the office decor, as well. It was a motif Bruce liked to call "larval seventies plastic dreadful."
Marmelstein entered the office, followed by a more timid Hank Bindle.
Reggio knew that it wasn't an easy thing to safely negotiate the streets of the motion-picture capital of the world these days. But then, as friends of Ebla's invading army, Bindle and Marmelstein would surely have a special dispensation.
"May we come in?" Marmelstein asked.
"You're already in," Reggio mumbled, his mouth full. He bit down on his cheesy pasta. Fat strips dropped back to the desk beside his greasy paper plate. He'd get them later. Nothing was wasted when it came to feeding his great bulk.
The union man continued eating while Bindle and Marmelstein found metal folding-chairs before his desk. Hank Bindle put down a handkerchief before sitting.
"Have you heard from back east yet, Reggio?" Bruce Marmelstein asked, knowing full well that he hadn't.
Reggio chewed languidly as he stared at the men. "I ain't heard nothin' yet," he replied.
"Ian read in the paper that there was trouble with Mr. Fitzsimmons," Marmelstein noted. "He said the police have kind of connected him to Bernardo Patriconne."
"Ian's a faggot," Reggio mumbled. But the look in the back of his eyes registered his concern.
"Yes, but be that as it may," Marmelstein continued. "If they make the West Coast connection, the person on this end most likely to be damaged is you. Everything filters through you. Mr. Vaggliosi will be pretty upset when he finds out you've been freelancing. Especially after taking you in from the Pubescio Family. I'd say you're looking at a .45-caliber enema."
Reggio's eyes narrowed. "How do you know so much about the business?" he asked.
Marmelstein shrugged. "I'm a movie executive." Reggio accepted the explanation. He settled farther down in his chair. His great bulk shifted out over the arms.
"Yeah, well, you guys ain't all rosy in this," he countered.
"We're safe," Hank Bindle boasted proudly. He withered visibly from the instant dirty looks of both Bruce Marmelstein and Reggio Cagliari.
"Let's just say we're protected," Marmelstein said, pulling his annoyed eyes away from his partner.
"What, you set someone else up to take the fall for you again?" Reggio snarled.
"Insurance is important, Reggio," Marmelstein replied noncommittally. "It could be for you, too," he added with sudden earnestness.
Reggio was still eating. He chewed for a full twenty seconds before speaking. "What do you got?"
Bruce Marmelstein knew in that instant that he had Cagliari. The fish was on the line. All he had to do was haul him in and whack him with the oar.
Marmelstein reached in his pocket and removed a small square of folded paper. He placed it on the desk between them, near a pastel-pink box of cannoli Reggio was planning to have for dessert. The paper blossomed of its own accord into a familiar rectangular shape.
"This is a check for 750,000 dollars," Marmelstein said. He licked his lips in nervous excitement. "We'd like you to perform a service for us."
"What kind of service?" Reggio asked. He poked at the check with his fork, making sure all the numbers were there. They were. Leaving the check, he returned to his plate.
"Have you seen what they call the 'news' on TV?" Marmelstein asked, making quotation marks in the air with his fingers. "It's usually on sometime between Ricki Lake and prime time."
"The news," Reggio said evenly, as if talking to an idiot. "Of course I seen the news."
"Excellent," Marmelstein said. "Then you know about what's going on out there." He pointed over his shoulder to where, presumably, "there" was. "All those Arabs and stuff?"
"Of course I do," Reggio said, now certain that he was talking to an idiot.