The wood splintered in a long vertical line. Gunsmoke tang overwhelmed the close, garlic-scented air.
Triumphantly Don Carmine Imbruglia threw open the door.
"Get a load of this," he said in disbelief. "He's wearin' a uniform." Don Carmine craned his thick neck up and down the narrow street. "I don't see no backup. Musta come alone. Hey, check this out!"
His bodyguards in tow, Don Carmine Imbruglia ambled over to the white van that was marked "FEDERAL EXPRESS."
"Look at this!" he muttered. "It says 'Federal' plain as day on the side. Some nerve these feds got. They even advertise. "
"I never saw nothin' so stupid in all my life," clucked Pauli (Pink Eye) Scanga.
"Hey, what the fug, right? It's the nineties. We use computertry and the feds advertise. It's a whole new fuggin' ballgame."
Everyone had a good laugh, except the Federal Express deliveryman, who moaned and rolled on the sidewalk, clutching his stomach as the blood pumped out of two bullet holes near his navel.
"Drag the sumbitch inside," ordered Don Carmine. "We gotta lam outta here."
When Tony Tollini was revived by the simple expedient of having his head thrust into the cold water of the Salem Street Social Club toilet, he sputtered, "What happened?"
"We gotta lam," said Don Carmine. "I clipped a fed. Soon the whole place will be swarmin' with them."
"That wasn't-"
"Don't tell me. The fuggers got 'Federal' written all over their van. We busted in and found this."
Don Carmine shook a black electronic device in one thick paw. Tony recognized it as a Federal Express package-tracking computer.
"This was the bug he was tryin' to plant," explained Don Carmine. "Some balls, huh? Walked right up to the door to do it, too. "
"But-"
Don Carmine suddenly looked up. A smile lit up his brutish face.
"Hey, I just realized somethin'!"
"What is it, boss?" asked Bruno.
"I just made my bones. With a fed, too. Ain't that somethin'?"
"Congratulations, boss," said Pink Eye.
"You done great," added the Maggot.
"I feel like celebratin'. Let's get this junk outta here. We'll find a new place later. Tonight is our night to fuggin' howl."
Chapter 19
"I cannot fathom it," said Dr. Aldace Gerling as he examined Remo's new face with practiced fingers. "There is minimal scarring, virtually no sign of a recent operation." He turned to Harold Smith. "Yet you gave me to understand that this patient underwent extensive facial reconstruction only two weeks ago."
Harold Smith thought fast. He said, "That was what I understood. Obviously there has been some mistake."
"There has been an abomination," spat Chiun in disgust.
"Oh, I don't know about that," said Remo airily. "I kinda like it."
"Bah!" said Chiun.
Dr. Smith turned to his chief staff physician.
"Dr. Gerling, could you excuse us? Obviously your services are no longer needed."
"As you wish."
Dr. Gerling withdrew from the room. Smith closed the door after him. He faced Remo.
"I do not know what to say," he said, tightening the knot in his tie, which threatened his skinny Adam's apple.
Remo, rubbing his jaw and regarding his new face in the upright mirror, said, "Guess the joke's on you, Smitty."
"This of course cannot be allowed to stand."
Remo's new face hardened. It hurt as the muscles realigned the face, but he didn't care. "Smith, it stands."
The Master of Sinanju drew Harold Smith off to one side.
"Emperor, how is this possible?"
"There is only one explanation," Smith said tiredly. "As you know, Remo underwent several of these procedures in the past, each one intended to make him unrecognizable.
Previous to this surgery, and at Remo's insistence, we restored certain of his natural facial contours. Just enough to satisfy him."
"I can hear every word you two are saying," Remo reminded them with no trace of rancor. He was looking at his chin, and liking what he saw.
"Obviously Dr. Axeworthy inadvertently restored the remaining components of the original face," Smith continued. "It makes sense. Remo's facial contours had been reduced over successive surgeries, to their absolute foundation. Dr. Axeworthy must have realized that and gone in the only direction the procedure could go. Building up. He simply restored the final pieces of the true Remo.
"Damn good job of it too," Remo said proudly. "It's the old me. A little more mature maybe, but I can live with that. Maybe I'll start using my old last name too."
"You will not," Smith snapped. "And you know this is a serious matter."
Remo turned to Harold Smith. His face was serious but there was a humorous light in his deep-set dark eyes. He was enjoying Smith's consternation.
"Hey," he pointed out, "you wanted this, not me. You wanted the face that I had wiped out. You got it. And now you got this. It's been twenty years since I walked a beat. I have no family, and all my so-called friends from those days have probably forgotten me. They think I died in the electric chair anyway. I still look younger than I would have if I hadn't been dragooned into the organization. So you're covered and I get to keep my true face." Remo smiled. It was his old smile. "I'd say it worked out."
Smith stood fuming, saying nothing.
The Master of Sinanju, his hands in the sleeves of his pale ivory kimono, drew close to Remo. His aged head tilted one way, then the other, as he examined Remo's face critically.