"No horses up here. Only trotters. And they stopped runnin' the trotters a couple of years back when they closed Suffolk Downs."
"No horses? What kinda burg is this?"
"The dogs are still runnin', though. Over at Wonderland."
"Dogs! Who the hell plays the dogs?"
"Up here," said the driver, "all the guys that used to play the ponies."
"You can't fix a dog race. No jockeys. What about the sports book? I hear this is a big, big sports town."
"Well, the Red Sox are in the cellar, where they've been for the last hundred years, the Celtics are losers, the Patriots are threatening to leave the state, but the Bruins are playin good."
"I never heard of these Broons. What are they-jai alai?"
"They're hockey."
"I never head of a hockey book in my entire life. What about shylocking?" asked a suddenly subdued Carmine Imbruglia. "Surely that ain't dead."
"You can shylock all you want up here. Lots of guys need the dough."
"Great. It's settled. We shylock."
"Of course, with unemployment bein' what it is, collectin' is gonna be another matter entirely."
"Don't you worry. I know how to collect," said Carmine Imbruglia. "By the way, what's your name, pal?"
"Bruno. Bruno Boyardi. They call me 'Chef.' "
"Chef, huh? Can you cook?"
"That's how I been supportin' myself until I got the word you were takin' over."
"Hey, that's pretty funny," chortled Carmine Imbruglia. "I like a guy with a sensa humor."
Behind the wheel, Bruno (The Chef) Boyardi sat with a stony expression. He hoped there was money in shylocking. He hated restaurant work. It made his hair greasy.
They had emerged from a long tunnel that seemed to be perfumed with carbon monoxide. Carmine looked around. The storefronts were surprisingly bare. Many were empty.
"How's the restaurant trade doin'?" he wondered aloud. "Can we get in on that? Do a little shakedown on the side?"
"What little there's left of it is sucked dry."
Carmine leaned over the front seat. "What you mean, 'what little there's left of it'? This is fuggin' Massachusetts, land of fuggin' Miracles."
"Not no more, it ain't," said Chef Boyardi.
Carmine watched the endless blocks of vacant storefronts pass by his window. Two in three had windows that were papered in faded newsprint and hung with "CLOSED" or "FOR LEASE" signs.
"What happened to this town. An earthquake?"
"No one's sure," said Bruno the Chef. "Ever since the Greek lost the election, this whole territory has gone to hell. It was like a balloon that had been pumped up too much and exploded. "
Carmine made shooing motions with both hands. "It'll come back. It'll come back. Don't you worry. I'm kingpin of this town and I'm tellin' you it'll come back."
Carmine Imbruglia's first sight of the North End brought the broad smile back to his face. It was a slice of Little Italy. Even the pungent aromas were identical.
"Say, this is more like it," he said happily.
The Salem Street Social Club was more to his liking too.
Carmine strode up to the front door, and after inserting the ancient brass key in the lock, turned it.
He stepped in. His heart swelled. It was just like the old Neighborhood Improvement Association. Only it was his, and his alone.
The back room was simply furnished. There were a card table and a great black four-burner stove with a double oven. The kind they had in restaurants.
Carmine Imbruglia's pig eyes fell on the computer terminal that sat square in the middle of the card table.
"What the fug is that thing doin' there?" he wanted to know.
"It's a computer, boss."
"I know it's a fuggin' computer. I asked what the fug is it doin' here, not what its species was."
"It's a present from Don Fiavorante. Here's the instruction book."
Don Carmine accepted the blue leather notebook. He squinted at the cover, which had stamped in silver the strange word "LANSCII."
"Is this Pilgrim, or what?" he muttered.
"I think it's computerese."
"Computerese? What does Don Fiavorante think we're runnin' up here, fuggin' IDC? Get rid of it."
"Can't. Don Fiavorante's orders."
Don Carmine tossed the book back onto the table. "Ah, I'll worry about it later. Go hustle me some lunch."
"What'll you have?"
"Pizza. A nice hot pizza. Everything on it."
"Squid rings too?"
Carmine turned like a tugboat coming around. "Squid rings? Whoever heard of squid rings on pizza? Hell, if that's how they do it in Boston, pile 'em on. I'll try anything once. Some vino. And some cannoli. Fresh ones. Don't let em give you day-old."