"You dummies. I say 'Get me a Jap' in front of this mook, Remo. He lams. I say 'Get me a Jap' to Tony here. And what happens?"
"He sends up a Jap."
"Right."
"So?" Pink Eye pointed out in a reasonable voice. "You're the Kingpin of Boston. Of course he sends up a Jap. Who wouldn't?"
"But follow my thinkin'. He wasn't any old Jap. He's a fuggin' thief. He robs me blind. Now he wants to sell me back my hard-on disk. What does that tell you?"
"Japs are crooks?"
"No. This is something new. There's someone on to us. You, Tony. This Remo. Why'd you send him?"
"I thought he would work out."
"You were wrong," Don Carmine snapped. "Why else?"
"Because he wrote that he would be the answer to my problems on his resume."
"Ba boom," crowed Don Carmine Imbruglia. "There it is. This guy's a plant. They were both plants. You were conned, Tony my friend."
"I didn't mean to be."
"It's okay. You're new at this. Someone's trying to muscle in on our operation. Okay, it happens. Now we know. They don't know that we know, but we know. That gives us the edge."
"So what are we gonna do, boss?"
"So far we're okay. They may be cops. We don't know. They may be feds. We don't know that. They may be the fuggin' KGB. We don't know that either. They don't know where we are on account of I shot that Fedex guy accidentally on purpose and we hadda relocate."
"It was a good thing we did, huh, boss?" said Bruno. "Otherwise they could find us anytime they want to."
"Damn right. It was a fate accompli. It was destiny. So now we're gonna buy back our hard-on disk and then we're gonna grab this Jap thief and whoever's with him. We're gonna grab him and we're gonna sweat him. Then we know. Once we know, we kill everybody." Don Carmine made a broad dismissive gesture. "End of fuggin' problem."
"You don't think it's that Japanese Mafia, do you?" Pink Eye wondered.
"How many times I gotta tell you? There's no Mafia. We don't use that word in my outfit."
"Not even a Japanese Mafia?"
"Okay, there's a Japanese Mafia. Everybody knows that. But no Italians. The Japs just purloined the word from us. Sure, this could be them." He snapped his fingers impatiently. "What do they call themselves? It's some Jap name. Kazoo or something."
"Yeah, Kazoo," said the Maggot, nodding. "I heard of the Kazoo. They cut their own fingers off when they screw up."
"And that's what we're gonna do to them when I get my hands on them," said Don Carmine Imbruglia fiercely. "I ain't afraid of no Kazoo. We're gonna give these robbers a call right after we eat."
"Oh, shit, boss," said the Chef.
"What?"
"I think I forgot to turn off the stove."
Chapter 24
One of the many phones arrayed around the office of Dr. Harold W. Smith began ringing at precisely 7:43 p.m.
Smith looked up from his computer. Remo looked around the room.
"Which one is it?" Remo wondered, trying to isolate the ringing.
It was the Master of Sinanju whose sharp ears picked out the correct telephone. He pointed. "That one." His smile was tight but pleased as Remo and Smith simultaneously lunged for the correct telephone.
Smith happened to be closer. He snatched up the receiver.
"Yes?"
He listened intently as Remo hovered at his elbow.
"Yes, I have your item. The price for its return is seventy-five thousand dollars. Take it or leave it."
Remo edged closer as Smith placed a hand over his free ear. "I am pleased we agree on its worth," he said brittlely. "Now, where do you wish to make the exchange?"
Smith frowned as he leaned into the earpiece.
"Yes. That is no problem. Midnight it shall be."
Smith hung up. "They want to take delivery at the Bartilucci Construction Company in Saugus, Massachusetts," he explained as he looked at a small black box attached to the base of the telephone. Every phone in the room was equipped with a similar box.
When he returned to his computer and input the telephone number the box had captured, Harold Smith pressd the Send key. He waited.
While the system hummed busily, Remo said, "That's it? All these freaking phones for a two-minute conversation?"
"Not exactly. I placed identical ads in every Massachusetts newspaper. A different phone number in each ad, a different phone for each number. It was a long shot. The Mafia prefers to conduct their phone business via pay-phone booths. But it should give us a geographical locale."
Smith waited for the automatic search localizer to read out the telephone number captured by the black box really a NYNEX Caller Identification box-and identify the locale.
"Ahh," he said. "A Massachusetts area code."
"Some breakthrough," Remo said sourly.
"The next three digits indicate the city of Quincy," Smith went on. "The northern section. Let us see if the final four digits represent a pay-phone location."
Smith frowned. "Odd. It's not a pay-phone. We may be able to trace this to a residence."
As Harold Smith's fingers flew, Remo glanced over to the Master of Sinanju. He was surreptitiously examining Remo's eyes. Remo put a hand over them and looked away. Chiun pretended to look out the two-way window.
"This is odd. This is very strange," Smith was saying.