As he reached for another, Remo said casually, "When I run out of pencils, I might start thinking about using fingers."
The secretary hid her hands behind her back and raced for the door, which she drew quietly closed.
Remo turned to Wendy and said, "Guess no one told her they make the pencil holes too small for fingers." He smiled. No lights of humor lit his flat deadly eyes, Wendy saw.
"Heimlich?" Wendy asked, touching her throat. Her esophagus felt like a balloon that had been stretched too tight.
"Call it what you want. I hear you were tight with Tony Tollini. "
"We were in the same boat together, if that's what you mean."
"Same boat?"
Remo eased Wendy off the desk and into her chair. She looked up at him. He looked exactly like she pictured the real Frank Nitti would look. She wondered if he was an enforcer.
She decided not to ask. No point in setting him off.
"We're both IDC orphans," she said.
The man's eyebrows drew together in perplexity. He winced as if the act of thinking hurt. Definitely an enforcer, she decided.
"This is the south wing, where they dump us," Wendy added.
The man looked around. "Nice office."
"Sure, if you like sixty-watt bulbs and eating from a brown paper bag instead of the subsidized company cafeteria."
"Tsk-tsk. How terrible. But enough of your problems. I want to know everything there is to know about Tony Tollini. "
"He's missing."
"I know."
"The Mafia got him."
"I know that too. But what I don't know is why."
Wendy frowned. "You don't know why?"
"Would I be wasting my breath if I did?" asked the man, shooting his cuffs absently. She noticed his shirt sleeves were too long for his jacket. Typical hood. All he needed was a snap-brim fedora.
"Aren't you from Boston?" she asked.
"Hardly."
"New York, then?"
"I sorta kick around, actually."
Wendy's frown deepened. Maybe he wasn't a typical hood after all.
She decided to take a chance.
"Are you from the board?" she asked.
"No, but I'm getting bored. And I want some answers or I'll try to replace that wedge of apple with another." He hefted the chewed Granny Smith in one hand menacingly.
Normally Wendy Wilkerson would not be frightened by a mere apple, but inasmuch as she had nearly succumbed to a piece of one, she found herself suitably intimidated.
"Why don't I start at the beginning?" she said quickly.
"Go," said the man, taking a ferocious bite from the apple.
Wendy took a deep breath and plunged in. "They transferred me here from accounting. I had misplaced a decimal."
The man stopped chewing. "Aren't they kinda common? Like paper clips."
"In an electronic ledger," Wendy explained. "It meant our bottom line was worse than had been thought. They . . " She hesitated. Her voice sank to a whisper. "They actually had to terminate some people to cover the shortfall in projected revenue."
"You mean lay off?"
"Shhh! Don't say that word around here!"
"Why not?"
"International Data Corporation never-repeat, never-lays off employees," Wendy explained. "They may terminate for cause, attrit positions, or deploy into the out-of-IDC work force, but we do not lay people off. In so many words."
"If you've been tossed out on the street," asked Remo, "what's the difference?"
"Ask Tony Tollini-if he's still alive."
"Meaning?"
"The week after I got promoted to director of product placement, Tony was promoted to VP of systems outreach."
Wendy Wilkerson looked away as if ashamed. She swallowed hard while trying to compose herself.
"Yeah?" Remo prompted.
"He was promoted because as director of sales he had had to let some staff go. Unfortunately, he used the L word."
"L?"
"Lay," said Wendy, "off." She said it as if enunciating two disconnected words not having any remote coincidence in nature or commerce.
"He used that word in public," she went on, "in a press release. When the board heard about it, they promoted him to the south wing so fast he was still in shock when they were moving his personal effects in."
"Time out. You say he screwed up, but then they promoted him?"
"At IDC," said Wendy, "if you screw up, one of two things happens. You get shipped out of Mamaroneck, never to be heard of again, completely derailed from the fast track. Or they promote you to the south wing, which is like a second chance."
"Other than the weak light, how bad can it be?"
Wendy sighed, giving her red hair a toss. "It's hell. First, they give you a title that has no meaning and no concrete job description. Then they ignore you, all the while expecting you to produce for the firm. If you don't, it's like being buried alive, fast-track-wise."
"But you get paid, right?"
"There's more to life than money, I'll have you know," Wendy said tartly. "I lost my secured parking spot and my secretary. I have no perks. The other wings pretend I don't even exist. And worst of all, I've been director of product placement for almost six months and I have no idea what I should be doing. What is product placement, anyway? Do you know?"
Remo frowned. "Isn't it where they sneak things like billboards and soda cans into movies? Kinda like hidden advertising. "
Wendy Wilkerson's green eyes went as wide as if they had detonated. She grabbed Remo's arms in shock.
"You know! I mean, are you sure? Where can I verify this? Oh, my God. In six horrible months you're the first person who has had so much as a clue."
Remo shook off the grasping claws and said, "Let's stick with the subject. Okay, you've been exiled to the dipshit wing of IDC. Where does the Mafia come into this?"
Wendy Wilkerson folded her arms under her breasts, hugging herself. "Tony was made VP of systems outreach. You should have seen him that first week, with a stack of dictionaries, trying to figure out his job description. Finally he gave up. He decided to make things happen, hoping something would click."
"And?"
"Nothing did. At first. We were having lunch one day in his office, just commiserating. You know?"
"Sure. I commiserate all the time. Keeps me from nodding off."
Wendy nodded understandingly. Remo rolled his eyes.
Wendy went on. "The firm had been taking a beating. They announced a new policy. Market-driven. It was revolutionary. Unprecedented. Before this, IDC created systems and then tailored them to customer needs. But the market was too soft to go on that way. The board decided that the customer should dictate his own needs and IDC should try to fill them. Amazing, huh?"
"Isn't that just another way of saying the customer is always right?" Remo asked.
Wendy blinked. "I hadn't thought of that. Maybe it wasn't so revolutionary, after all."
"Guess not," Remo said dryly.
"Anyway," Wendy continued, "Tony and I were discussing the impact this would have on us. I had been watching the Geraldo show that morning. He had on these horrid people from the witness-protection program. Former hitmen and informers. They all wore silly hats and wigs and fake beards."
"Sounds like every other episode," Remo remarked.
"Geraldo asked one if he wasn't afraid of the Mafia catching up to him one day, and the man laughed, you know. He scoffed at the idea. I still remember what he said. He said, 'The Mafia can't do nothing to me. They're still back in the fifties. They got no computers. They cant run license plates. They can't even file their taxes by electronic mail.' The man was very smug about it."
"You don't mean-"
Wendy's green eyes grew reflective as bicycle flashers. "As a joke, I repeated this to Tony. I said the Mafia is a hundred billion-dollar-a-year organization. They need computers. They need faxes. They need word processing. It was a joke, you know? I was just trying to break up the
monotony of our corporate exile."
"Don't tell me-"
Wendy nodded. "Tony didn't think it was a joke at all. He immediately saw the possibilities. And he had this uncle, whom he barely knew.
"Uncle?"
"Uncle Fiavorante. He was big in California. Now he's in New York, running things down there."
"Not Don Fiavorante Pubescio?" said Remo, jaw dropping.
"I think that's the name."
"Let me get this straight. The Mafia didn't come to IDC. IDC went to the Mafia?"
"Shhh," said Wendy. "Not so loud. The board still doesn't know. "
"They don't?"
"They always ignore the south wing until it generates revenue or screws up completely. Tony went to his uncle, got an agreement to participate in a pilot program, and the uncle picked Boston as they first city to try out the program."
"LANSCII?"
"That's right." Wendy frowned in surprise. "How did you know? It's supposed to be a trade secret."
"Word is getting out," Remo said dryly.
"Tony had the programmers come up with a super-userfriendly software. It was kind of a joke. Easier to use than VMS. They named it after Meyer Lansky, the old-time mob financial genius."
Remo snapped his fingers. "I knew I'd heard the name before."
"Everything was going fine until the Boston hard disk crashed. It took all their bookkeeping records. Can you imagine those people? Not making backup copies? What could they have been thinking of?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Remo airily. "Maybe they didn't see it as data."
Wendy frowned. "What else would it be?"
"Evidence. "
Slow realization made Wendy Wilkerson's features go slack.
"Oh. That's right. They would see it that way, wouldn't they?"
"Up in Boston, you get hard time for possession of backup copies," Remo said.
"No need to get smart. This is serious."
"This is loony tunes," Remo snapped. "Let me see if I can piece the rest together. When the disk crashed, Tollini sent people to fix the disk. Only it wouldn't fix. And they never came back. How did he keep all those missing people from attracting too much attention?"
"He only sent south wing CE's. When they started to balk, he hired fresh faces off the street, and then shredded their resumes and denied they had ever shown up in the first place. What were the police to do? This is IDC."
"Their jobs, for one thing."
"Oh, I know it sounds horrible," Wendy said quickly.
"It is horrible. People have died."
Wendy threw up her hands. "I know. But what could we do? Tony hoped to get it straightened out, and then he was going to take the pilot program to the board. A foothold in a billion-dollar-a-year business enterprise. They would have made him a board member for sure."
"You don't mean to tell me the IDC board would have signed on to servicing the Mafia?" Remo asked.
"Why not? They're an untapped market and we're marketdriven. Besides, we have a saying here. IDC can do no wrong. Corporately speaking, of course."
"One last question and I'll leave you to the horrors of sixtywatts bulbs and brown-bagging it."
"You mean you're not going to rub me out?" Wendy said in surprise.
"Maybe next visit," Remo said dryly. "Any idea where this Boston outfit is now?"
"No. And I'd rather not know."
"Spoken like a true corporate tool."
"You probably consider that an insult, right?"
Chapter 21
Harold Smith sat in stunned silence as Remo Williams finished his account of Wendy Wilkerson's story.
Remo lounged on a long couch by the Folcroft office door, which was closed. Chiun stood off to one side, coolly ignoring his pupil.
"IDC actually approached the Mafia?" Smith blurted when he finally found his tongue.
"That's what she told me," Remo said. "I'd say that's reason enough to shut them down for good."
Smith shook his gray head. "No. Not IDC. They're too big. Besides, this is a clearly rogue operation. The board appears not to be involved."
"From what I heard," Remo said dryly, "the board doesn't exactly go out of its way to police their own backyard."
"We must locate the current Boston Mafia headquarters," Smith decided.
"What's the big deal? You've got your handy computer. Get on it."
"It is not possible, I am afraid. If I had a phone number, I could enter their system. But we have no idea where they are. And believe me, I have been searching. Wherever they are headquartered, it is not an obvious place."
"Okay. Then Chiun and I will go to Boston and start turning the town upside down. We fish out a few wise guys, shake them up, and get them to lead us to the main nest.
Smith fingered his immaculately shaven chin in thought. Behind the transparent lenses of his rimless glasses, his weak gray eyes were reflective.
"If we go in and destroy them, even to the last man, that would not be enough," Smith said.
"Of course it would," snorted Remo.
"Silence, round eyes," snapped Chiun, addressing Remo for the first time. "Of course it would not be enough."
"Oh, yeah?" Remo growled turning. "Since when are you against solving a problem by laying waste to an enemy?"
"When my emperor gleans a better way," Chiun retorted. "Tell the round eyes, Emperor. Bestow upon him the virtue of your brilliant sunlight."
"Oh, brother," Remo groaned.
Smith said, "From what you tell me, Remo, this is being sanctioned and directed by Don Fiavorante Pubescio, out of New York City. If we simply annihilate the Boston Mafia, Don Fiavorante will move the LANSCII pilot program elsewhere or rebuild in Massachusetts." Smith made a thoughtful face. "No, we must first so discredit the LANSCII system in Pubescio's eyes that he abandons it completely. Then we can swoop down on the Boston mob."
"I vote first a preemptive sweep," said Remo.
"I vote against," said Chiun.
"What's eating you anyway, Chiun?" Remo demanded.
"You never called me."
"Your freaking phone was busy! You were cooking up that plastic-surgery scheme with Smith, remember?"
"You obviously misdialed," sniffed the Master of Sinanju.
"Repeatedly?"
"Deliberately."
"Have it your way, then," Remo said disgustedly. He stood up. "By the way, Smitty, you were right. This flashy suit did the trick. Wendy thought I was a hood."
"The woman was obviously a canny judge of character," Chiun sniffed.
"You know," Remo said, lifting a silk sleeve to the light, "it's been so long since I've worn one of these, I'd forgotten what it feels like. These things are hot."
"Then remove the absurd attire," said Chiun.
"Please do not, Remo," Smith said sharply. "I am sorry, Master Chiun. But Remo's new face-"
"You mean my old face," inserted Remo, winking at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju flounced around in annoyance.
"-means that he is unrecognizable at IDC and in Boston," Smith resumed. "The suit will conceal his large wrists, making identification virtually impossible. He will need that when we begin to break into the inner circle.
"And how are you going to do that?" asked Remo, interested.
"Brilliantly," said Chiun.
"I see our campaign as having three prongs," explained Smith thoughtfully. "Infiltration. Confusion. And destruction."
"I'll take destruction," said Remo.
"Confusion is more appropriate for Remo," Chiun said quickly. "Let me have destruction, O Emperor."
Harold Smith raised a placating hand. "Please, please. We can sow confusion only if we can gain access to the LANSCII system."
"Any ideas?" Remo asked.
"Yes," Smith said. "I believe I do." He looked toward the Master of Sinanju. "And Master Chiun will be our Trojan Horse."
"That I'd like to see," Remo said.
"Of course I will be pleased to do my emperor's bidding," said Chiun, bowing
formally. His slitted eyes flicked in Remo's direction. "If for no other reason than to show certain persons the true value of experience and wisdom."
"Here we go," said Remo. "I'm not old and everyone else can go on a guilt trip to Mars."
"How do you propose that I strike at these Roman thieves?" Chiun asked, straightening.
"By employing their own methods against them."
Remo and Chiun looked to Harold Smith for enlightenment.
"Beginning with extortion," said Smith.
Chapter 22
Walter Weld Hill, of the Wellesley Hills, sat at the top of a real-estate empire only slightly less shaky than thirty-seven soggy Styrofoam cups stacked one on top of the other.
For Walter Weld Hill had bought into the Massachusetts Miracle. True, he was an old-line Republican, and the previous governor had been a glowering troll of a Democrat, but business was business. And who could argue with roaring success?
As the Massachusetts state economy exploded like a hydrogen bomb detonating greed, money, and expansion in equal measures, driven by soaring real-estate values, runaway fiscal irresponsibility, and an economy fueled by the futuristic computer buildings that sprouted along Route 128 like radiation-bloated spores, Walter Weld Hill had plunged in with all twenty fingers and toes.
Hill Associates put up office parks, skyscrapers, and condos wherever there was a bare patch of dirt. Not that the lack of a patch ever got in their way. Perfectly sound skyscrapers were imploded to rubble in the middle of Boston's sprawling downtown, to be replaced with new structures whose chief advantage was that they were twice as tall and rented for five times the square footage of their predecessors.
Hill Associates had almost single-handedly plugged the gaps in the Boston skyline throughout the 1980's.
Now, early in the 1990's, Hill Associates teetered on the edge of bankruptcy in a state where employment was in double digits, the computer industry had gone west, and revenues had dried up like a tangerine in the Gobi.
From his office high in the Wachusett Building, not far from South Station, Walter Weld Hill, whose ancestors had come to the land of opportunity on the ship directly behind the Mayflower, watched, day by day, week by week, as the family fortune was sucked into the economic black hole that was the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
Hill was going over bankruptcy papers when his secretary buzzed him.
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