"A million dollars, if he wants it. They're amateurs running this shakedown," said Don Fiavorante.
"Amateurs. Pros are going to move in now. And a million for the secret is chickenfeed."
"And suppose I can get it without money?" Musso asked.
"Fine. But get everything he knows. I don't want excuses. I want the way he does it and if you do not get so simple a thing, I might have cause to believe that you are holding out on me."
The wax face did not move. Only the palms of Manny the Pick Musso became damp. Musso would get the information from Curpwell or spend the rest of his life running from Don Fiavorante's men.
It was not lost on him that his personal situation was comparable to that which Don Fiavorante said faced the entire organization. Be conquerors or victims. But wasn't that the lesson of life, the lesson of Sicily?
To Gummo the Pipe Barussio, Don Fiavorante gave the problem of the Gromucci vineyards. Don Fiavorante was sure it could be solved by putting some men on the Gromucci ranch to work on the pickers a little bit.
Gummo the Pipe Barussio lowered his head. He whispered in an even lower voice than normal. He whispered so that his own consigliore sitting in the back of the room would not hear.
"Don Fiavorante, I have worked well with you, yes?"
"Yes, Gummo, my friend. You have."
"I have never before refused an offer of good work?"
"You have not."
"Don Fiavorante, I ask then a favor. I have premonitions. Fears. Dreams. I seek less danger this time. Is there something less that I can do?"
Don Fiavorante nodded.
"As you will. Less danger is less rewards, although convincing wetbacks to work is not exactly armed robbery. Still, you have a right to ask. There is another way to do it. In San Aquino, there are two newcomers. The grape pickers are frightened of these men. Superstition. Go to see the men. Tell them to talk to the workers at the Gromucci farm and tell them that there is no superstition that the workers need fear. Let the workers see these two men. Let them see that the two men are afraid of you. Then, when that is done, I think there will be no more trouble at the Gromucci farms."
Gummo the Pipe Barussio smiled. He kissed Don Fiavorante's hand lavishly.
"This may seem like a flippancy, Don Fiavorante, but I have a premonition of a swift death. And I believe it. Thank you. I had dreams of hands moving faster than arrows in the air. Faster than that. Thank you."
"Each man's foolishness on the outside is his real truth on the inside," said Don Fiavorante. And before he discharged Gummo the Pipe Barussio, he gave him the names of the two men he must talk to.
One was an ancient, dying Oriental. His name was Chiun.
The other was a department store owner. If the stories could be believed, a-how-you-say?-fairy.
His name was Remo.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The custom-built Cadillac convertible spewed gravel as it rolled up the winding driveway to the home of Remo Blomberg, department store entrepreneur.
The car's white nylon top was up, warding off the California sun. The air conditioning was on full blast, chilling the left knee of Freddy Palermo, the driver, and the right knee of Marty Albanese, the front seat passenger.
Nevertheless, Gummo the Pipe Barussio, sitting alone on the soft glove leather of the back seat, was sweating. He was a big man and wrinkled, but his wrinkles had the character of prunes and his bigness was not the fat of pork. His hair was cut close to his head and even though he was in his early fifties, there was not a single gray strand. His hair was still shiny and blue-black and his skin was tanned, the olive-tan of Mediterranean people who know how to tan without drying out.
But still he sweated. He wiped his forehead carefully with an expensive white linen handkerchief which had been pressed into knife-sharp edges when they had left, but which was now sodden and damp with the sweat of one hundred nervous miles.
He was pretty sure now that he had made a mistake in bringing along Freddy Palermo and Marty Albanese. Sure, they were street tough, but they were young, inclined to be flip and to look for trouble when trouble was not really inevitable. They would have been fine in the old days in Chicago. But this wasn't Chicago and today the Mafia flourished by avoiding trouble.
But could you tell that to these punks? Could you tell them that it was better to convince someone with talk than with muscle-even though Gummo the Pipe Barussio was not afraid to use muscle? His nickname did not refer to his smoking habits.
You could try to tell them that, but they didn't listen. None of the old ways, the old beliefs, was good enough for them. He had made the mistake on the drive over of telling them about his premonition of hands moving faster than arrows and they had both chuckled. Someday they might learn, but for today they were the wrong men.
Yet they were still the sons of his two sisters, and family meant something when you picked the people for the good jobs-the big, important jobs.
Barussio was grateful that Don Fiavorante had seen fit to change his assignment. That premonition had been very real. But even with his new assignment- the old Oriental and the fairy department store owner-he felt a vague unease. He would be very happy to be back home at poolside.
"Listen," he said, leaning forward over the soft red leather of the front seat. "Keep your mouths closed. No wiseass stuff. I'll do the talking."
"Okay, Uncle Gummo," said Palermo. Albanese just grunted.
The car rolled to a stop in front of the large double doors that were the front entrance to the Blomberg home.
He slid out. He did not hold the door for Barussio. The door slipped back, and Barussio stopped it with his foot, pushing it open again to get out. Yes, Albanese was a mistake. Not only hot-tempered, but no manners, no discipline. As he got out, Barussio hissed to Palermo: "Keep an eye on Marty, so he don't cause no trouble,"
"Gotcha," Palermo said.
Palermo got out on his side of the car and joined Barussio in the walk to the front door. Albanese had already jabbed the bell nervously and Barussio elbowed him away from the front of the door.
Gummo the Pipe rang the bell again. He heard it tingle inside. He listened closely but heard no footsteps. Then, noiselessly, the door swung open and he was faced by an aged Oriental, wearing a long, blue, brocaded robe.
The Pipe suppressed a smile of relief. He was glad he had asked not to have to hassle the wet backs. This way would be easier. This old man? Why, he was easily eighty years old and could be no more than five feet tall. He would never see one hundred pounds again.
His nails were long and pointy. Little tufts of hair on top of his head and stringing from his chin made him look like the owner of a curio shop in a cheap movie.
"Did you come on the sightseeing bus? Is that why you gawk?" the old man said.
"I'm sorry," Barussio said quickly. "I was expecting someone else."
"I am no one else; I am only me."
Albanese snickered loudly and Barussio glared at him before speaking again.
"Is your name Chan?"
"My name is Chiun. Chan is a Chinese name." The old man spit into the gravel alongside the front porch, barely missing the toe of Albanese's right shoe. Barussio blinked in surprise.
"I have business to discuss with you. May we come in? It's hot out here," Barussio asked.
"You are the leader of this group?"
"Yes."