"The patient has been rendered insensate by nonchemical means," Smith said coldly. "I am assured that he will remain in this state for the duration of the operation. Any use of anesthetic is strictly forbidden."
Dr. Rance Axeworthy nodded. "Allergic. I understand."
"If you fail, you will be punished severely," warned the Asian man.
Dr. Axeworthy drew himself up stiffly. "I resent that! What do you think I am? A butcher?"
"No," said Smith hastily. "You are the finest plastic surgeon in the country, if not the world."
Dr. Axeworthy assumed a pained expression. "Please. I am a cosmetic surgeon. 'Plastic' sounds so . . . tacky."
"That is why you have been summoned here," Smith continued. "And that is why you are being paid handsomely for your services. If you require me for any reason, I will be in my office."
Dr. Axeworthy looked down at the tiny Oriental, who stood resolute on the other side of the operating table.
"And you?"
"I will assist."
"You are a doctor?"
"No. But I will guide you to correctness."
"I work only with colleagues of my own choosing," Dr. Axeworthy said firmly.
Smith paused at the door. "Chiun administered the anesthetic. He will be responsible for the patient's continued state of unconsciousness."
"Acupuncture? asked Dr. Axeworthy, suddenly understanding.
"Perhaps," said the old Oriental, looking away.
Dr. Axeworthy whispered, "I've used it myself, you know. My patients love being on the cutting edge of exotic procedures."
"Please keep me informed," said Smith, closing the doors after him.
After Smith had gone, Dr. Axeworthy took up a blue surgical marking pen and began marking the patient's face, an X over the lump on the forehead and other lines to indicate preliminary incisions.
"We will start with the nose," said the tiny Oriental.
"Have you anything particular in mind?"
His hazel eyes darting to the closed double doors through which Harold Smith had disappeared, the old Asian withdrew a rolled tube of parchment from one colorful sleeve.
"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."