Petito took a book of matches he'd filched from a restaurant the night before and set the bills alight. The chimney grate was a fine wire mesh. Even if a wispy, incriminating ember made it to the top, it wouldn't escape into the neighborhood. When the flames had consumed the bills completely, he closed the chimney door.
These first ones had only been a test. He hadn't even tried to get the color right yet, let alone the paper.
As he pulled himself to his feet, Paul Petito wished briefly for it to be as easy for him in this modern age as it had been for the counterfeiters of old. Twenty years ago, it was a cakewalk. Now everything was tougher.
The Federal Reserve had begun to issue new multicolored bills with larger pictures, watermarks, special paper grains and identifying emblems visible only under certain light.
For Paul Petito, government meddling had become an almost unbearable nuisance. To make matters worse, the new wave of funny-money manufacturers working with computers and scanners were crowding the traditionalists off the field.
Feeling the pressure when he'd gotten out of prison two months before, Paul had approached several local crime figures in the hope of striking up a business partnership. Unfortunately, everyone was either tapped out, locked away or not even interested. Without someone to pony up the start-up costs, Petito was out of luck. Then strange fortune struck.
One afternoon as he was lying on his elderly mother's plaid sofa watching Court TV, the old rotary phone rang.
"Mr. Petito?" the voice on the phone had asked. "You don't know me, but I represent a party who is interested in helping you with the business difficulties you're having."
He spoke in a patronizing nasal whine, overpronouncing words in a vain attempt to smooth his New York accent.
Paul picked some gunk from his ear as he talked. "Pal, the only difficulty I got is that I don't have a business."
"And I understand it's not from lack of trying." The caller was cool and efficient and wasted no time in telling Paul that his employer would gladly send him the cash he'd need to get his presses rolling. There was only one small favor he would have to do in return.
"I'll do anything short of murder," Petito enthused.
"Please don't say such things," the man he would come to know as Mr. Sweet said "Not even in jest. Ever. As for the rest, I'll be in touch."
Sweet was true to his word. Within two days, the money was sent to Paul. Per his instructions, he used some of it to buy the Boston Raffair building; the balance he kept. The arrangement was perfect except for one thing. The people Mr. Sweet sent up from New York to guard his building.
From the start, they were always hovering around. They hadn't left him alone in weeks. Until last night. Paul didn't know whether or not he should be relieved for those two men from the surveillance tape. Because of them, Sweet's thugs had finally left him to work in peace.
They had stopped back briefly to say they'd tracked the young one as far as Quincy. A cabbie who'd driven him from the airport wasn't quite sure where exactly he'd dropped his fare. Somewhere near a church.
Johnny Fungillo had been nervous that evening when they'd gone back out. He kept warning the others that the young one was something special even as he brushed at his bruised forehead with his shaking fingertips.
Petito didn't need to be told that they were dangerous. He'd seen with his own eyes what the old one had done to Bear DiGrotti. As he worked, Paul tried to put all of the unpleasantness out of his mind.
There were still a few of the blue-tinged bills lying on a table near his photocopying machine. He had only just begun to sweep them up when he heard the noise. A popping crack of wood followed by the scattering tinkle of metal.
It had come from upstairs.
For Paul Petito, the panic grabbed hold at once. Someone had just broken down his door.
The bills were still clutched in his hands. No time to burn them. He looked left, then right, then down. Before he even knew what he was doing, he did the first thing that his frightened instinct commanded.
Hands flashing in desperation, he began stuffing the bills into his mouth. He was chewing frantically even as the cellar door opened. He almost choked when he saw who came floating down the stairs.
It was the two men from the surveillance camera at the Boston Raffair office. In real life, the old one's fingernails looked even sharper than they did on video. Petito's eyes bugged even as he continued chewing on the vile-tasting wad of paper.
"It smells funny down here," Chiun complained as he and Remo glided across the basement floor.
"You could have waited in the car," Remo replied.
"And allow you to sneak away on foot?" Chiun said blandly. "Oh, wipe that look of innocence off your face. You are as predictable as a two-year-old."
Remo's expression grew glumly guilty. "I would've left you the keys," he grumbled.
Before them, Paul Petito was rooted in place by fear. Dark blue saliva was dribbling down his chin when the two intruders stopped before him.
Remo stood toe to toe with Petito. "You gonna eat your printing press next?" he asked.
This bit of incriminating evidence hadn't occurred to Petito. His eyes grew wider above his puffed-out cheeks.
"Mmggmmm," Petito said, shaking his head as he chewed.
"Mommy forgot to tell you not to talk with your mouth full. Probably was too busy teaching you not to steal."
Reaching over, he cuffed Petito in the back of the head.
A fat wad of pulpy blue paper launched like a soggy cannonball from between his stained lips. It flattened with a wet splat against the cellar wall.
"Don't kill me!" Petito begged. His frightened mouth was a dark blue cave. It grew wider as Chiun swept forward. "Ahhhh!" the counterfeiter screeched, flinging his hands protectively in front of his face.
But instead of a decapitating pressure at his neck, he felt a gentle tugging at his hands. Before he knew what was happening, the remaining counterfeit bills he hadn't had a chance to chew were being pulled from his knotted fingers.
"Chiun, what are you doing?" the young one said wearily.
"Hush," the old one admonished. "I am counting."
Petito peeked out from behind his hands. The Master of Sinanju was laying out the bogus bills in one wrinkled palm.
"That stuff won't even buy a hotel on Baltic Avenue," Remo warned.
"Do not think you can trick me into giving you half," Chiun replied as he carefully flattened the bills.
Remo turned to Petito. "Okay, what's with that building you bought? And the first lie I smell gets you a one-way ticket through that." He pointed to the printing press.
Petito couldn't talk fast enough. "They mailed me the money from New York. I was the front so whoever really owns everything wouldn't show up on paper. Guy who contacted me was Mr. Sweet. I don't know his first name, uh, uh..." His mouth and brain struggled to keep pace. "Oh, some of the New York guys stay here. They saw him kill that guy at the office yesterday." He pointed to the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun had one bill loose and was examining it in the light. He seemed oblivious to the quivering counterfeiter.
Remo's face soured at the mention of the events at Boston Raffair. "Where'd that satellite dish go?" he demanded.
"The picture came here. They rigged it to a receiver in the yard. I've got the tape upstairs. Oh, and they sent a copy to Mr. Sweet back in New York. That's it."
Remo was about to ask more when Chiun broke in. "These bills are flawed," the old Asian announced, his brow creased.
Terrified eyes darted to Chiun. "I don't think so," Petito apologized. "They took months to engrave."