"I will do as you say, Don Fiavorante," he gulped.
"I know that you will, Don Carmine. I know that you will. Now, all you need to get started you will find in the blue book called 'LANSCII.' "
"That name sounds kind of familiar," Carmine muttered vaguely.
"It should. You have any trouble with the system, you just call the number inside the cover. Ask for Tony."
"Tony. Got that."
"Tony is a friend of mine. He will help you."
"Any friend of yours is a friend of mine too. You know that. "
"You are a good boy, Don Carmine," said Don Fiavorante. "I know you will not let me down. The future of this thing of ours is in your hands."
The line went dead.
Don Carmine Imbruglia hung up. Woodenly he walked over to his unfinished meal. With a sweep of his arms he cleared it from the table.
"You don't like my calzone?" asked Bruno (the Chef) Boyardi.
"It tastes like fuggin' octopus," snarled Carmine Imbruglia, dragging the computer terminal over to the place where his plate had been. "I got no time to eat anyway. I just hit town and I'm already twenty G's in the fuggin hole.
He squinted at his brutish reflection in the terminal screen.
"Oh, mother of God," he said hoarsely.
"What? What?"
"I don't see any channel changer on this thing. I think we got a defective computer. Where did Don Fiavorante get this pile of junk anyway?"
"Maybe the changer fell off when it fell off the truck."
Chapter 12
Dr. Rance Axeworthy made the unpleasant discovery less than an hour into the operation.
"This man has had plastic surgery before," he muttered, discovering the telltale scars behind the ears.
"Many times," said the tiny Oriental.
"Then I shouldn't be doing this. Repeating the procedure can have a catastrophic effect on the plastic tissues. Odd that there is so little scarring."
"He heals well."
Dr. Axeworthy paused. He attempted to calculate the risks of facial scarring. High. The chance of a malpractice suit. Low. This was too irregular an arrangement for anyone to sue. Then he recalled the exact sum of his fee.
"I was going to bring out the cheeks," he said thoughtfully, "but I see that this has been done. I will instead fill out the face somewhat. Resculpture the ears. Ears are a telltale identifying mark."
" I am more concerned with the eyes," said the old Oriental.
"I have my orders," Dr. Axeworthy said stiffly.
"A slight tightening of the corners would not be noticed," the tiny man said hopefully.
"I'm going to have to do something to effect an overall change," said Dr. Axeworthy, as if he had not heard.
He stared at the strong face in repose. He could not believe that he was operating without qualified assistance. Still, the fee more than made up for that slight inconvenience.
The patient's earlier history created enormous problems. This required more time. And because there was no time, he remarked, "I'm going to remove the tumor while I think this through."
He injected a strong nerve block into the lump, to further ensure no regrettable complications, such as the patient waking up in hysterics. Tracing the blue ink marking, he made a simple X with the scalpel, bringing forth surprisingly little blood. Using a Metzenbaum scissors, he laid the four triangular flaps of skin aside.
What he saw made him gasp and nearly drop the scalpel.
"Good Lord!"
The old Oriental leaned in to peer at the exposed anomaly.
"Ah, the orb of Shiva," he breathed.
"My God. That can't be a tumor. Can it?"
"It is not."
"It looks almost like . . . an organ."
Using a blunt probe, Dr. Axeworthy touched the thing.
It was soft, like a human eye. Only it was as black as a gelatinous marble. There was no retina or iris. No white at all. No sign of veining. It could not be an eye, he told himself. It looked more like a great black fish egg.
Still, Dr. Axeworthy held his breath as he painstakingly extracted the black orblike thing from its raw pink cavity, looking for the telltale grayish eye-controlling rictus muscles he would have to sever if his worst fears were true.
They were not. Once the thing was out, the clean flat bone of the forehead showed underneath. There was no socket.
Dr. Axeworthy laid the black orb on a stainless-steel tray, dripping with bright red blood.
Carefully he sutured the expert X in the patient's forehead, keeping his worried eyes averted from the extracted orb. He could not bear to look at it, and because of his unprofessional timidity, he failed to notice that the orb had begun to glow a faint violet color.
Dawn had turned Long Island Sound into a quaking lake of burning red and orange by the time Dr. Axeworthy had laid down his bloody scalpel and had begun bandaging the patient's new face.
"It is done?" asked the old Oriental curiously.
"I did the best that I could."
"The eyes must be just so."