"Catchy. And your snooping computers caught him ripping off his own people, huh?"
"Not exactly," Smith said flatly. "Even as we speak, I am doctoring the LANSCII data base to show conclusive skimming of LCN profits for diversion into the Boston don's pockets."
"You play pretty hard ball, Smitty."
" I play to win," said Smith, hanging up. He reached for his Zantac, hoping there was enough left to quell his sour stomach.
Chapter 30
In his black walnut alcove in Little Italy, Don Fiavorante Pubescio waited for word from his soldier.
"He should have called back by now," he said worriedly. "This thing should have been done by this time." He took a sip of lukewarm ginseng tea. It tasted bitter.
But not as bitter as the taste of betrayal, he reflected.
Don Fiavorante would not have believed it, but the proof lay before his eyes. Computer printouts. Unmistakable computer printouts. They had been laid on the walnut table by a soldier from Boston who called himself Remo Mercurio.
"Check 'em out," had said the soldier, of whom Don Fiavorante had not heard.
He had only to glance over the bottom-line figures to see the truth. Don Fiavorante looked up, his placid gentlemanly expression unchanged.
"You have done me a good turn, my friend," said the don, meeting the hard gaze of Remo Mercurio with his own frank regard.
"Skip it," said Remo casually.
"The contract is yours, if you want it."
"I don't. "
Don Fiavorante's manicured hands had lifted questioningly. "That is it? You want nothing in return?"
"You have Don Carmine clipped," Remo had replied, "and I'll have all I want."
"Perhaps you would like to take his place, eh?"
"I'm available," said Remo coolly.
"Ah, now I understand. I will consider this. Once the irritant has been removed from the scene. Go now. With my blessing."
And so Don Fiavorante had sent one of his own soldiers to do the necessary but regrettable.
The plan was perfect. Don Carmine was moving heroin through commercial courier delivery services. The soldier would appear in the guise of a UPS deliveryman, the better to enter the LCN building without difficulty.
But there had been no call. What could have happened? wondered Don Fiavorante in the coolness of his walnut alcove.
Chapter 31
When Carmine Imbruglia read of the fate of Nicky Kix and his fellow soldiers in the Boston Herald, he threw the paper across the room and howled, "They were ready for us. Someone tipped them off?"
"But who?" asked Bruno the Chef, his face characteristically blank.
"I dunno. I dunno. Let me think."
Carmine Imbruglia screwed up his face into a homely knot. He chewed on one knuckle.
"I see two possibilities here," he said, swallowing a fragment of dry skin. "One, it was that Tony. He was the only one who knew we were makin' a move, except you and me."
"What's two?" said the Chef quickly, hoping to steer his don away from the delicate subject of personal loyalty.
"Two is if we can't make more money to pay off Don Fiavorante, we gotta figure out a way that Don Fiavorante gets less."
"Don Fiavorante don't think that way."
"Maybe," said Don Carmine slowly, "Don Fiavorante shouldn't think at all."
Bruno (The Chef) Boyardi's dull eyes grew very, very worried as Don Carmine got to his feet and strode over to a bank of windows along one side of the LCN conference room.
His knotted expression melted into one of open surprise as his gaze went through the dark windows.
"Look what we got here!" he said.
"What?" asked Bruno the Chef, peering out.
He saw a step van the color of dried mud.
"It ain't got no markin's," growled Don Carmine.
"Sure, it has. See the little gold shield on the side?"
"Looks like a fuggin' badge," muttered Don Carmine. "Can you make out the letters?"
"U . . . P . . S."
"The military! They sent the fuggin' army after us," howled Don Carmine, lunging for his tommy gun. He yanked back the charging bolt and waited.
When a man in a drab uniform identical in color to the step van's paint job emerged from the driver's side, Don Carmine opened up through the windows.
The racket was calamitous. Glass shards cascaded like glacial ice letting go. Smoking brass shell casings sprinkled and rolled about the floor.
Struggling to hold the bucking muzzle on his target, Don Carmine Imbruglia laughed with whooping joy.
"Take that, army cogsugger! You ain't takin' Cadillac Carmine, the Kingpin of Boston!"
"I think he's dead," said the Chef when the drum ran empty.
"Sure, he's dead," Carmine said, smacking the smoking weapon lustily. "This is a tommy. A good American weapon. It kills better than anythin'."