Nunzio's cousin nodded.
"Good, good. Would you mind excusing us?" Deferens suggested, his smile never wavering. "Your cousin and I have some important matters to discuss. You understand."
Half out of his seat, Deferens extended an arm, ushering Piceno Spumoni from the napkin-covered table. At a nod from Nunzio, Piceno excused himself.
Deferens waited until the big man was out of earshot before speaking. Once Nunzio's cousin was gone, the East African placed his dust-dry hands on the table, his fingers comfortably interlocked.
Nunzio only wished his cool demeanor were contagious. The Italian continued swiping at pooling pockets of salty perspiration.
"Don Vincenzo is pleased, I trust?" Deferens said in a cold voice. His eyes were cold, as well. Deep pools of green confidence.
"He's satisfied. For now," Nunzio stressed. "He'll be happier when this dark business is over. As will I."
Deferens tipped his head. "Nunzio, my old friend, is it possible after all this time that Camorra still does not trust me?"
"Trust is not easy in our business," Nunzio admitted. He waved to a nearby waiter, pointing to the empty water pitcher nested among the discarded napkins. The waiter nodded and scurried off.
Deferens was nodding. "I can't blame you." He sighed. "Camorra certainly has not had an easy time of it. Survival sometimes precludes trust."
Of that, Nunzio couldn't disagree. The secret criminal organization for which he worked had spent much of the past century lurking in shadows. Once powerful, Mussolini's fascists had done their best to eradicate the syndicate after the First World War. Entire families had been dragged into the streets and slaughtered. Betrayed by their countrymen and attacked on every level by the Mafia, the survivors of the Camorra purges remained in hiding for eight decades. Licking wounds and plotting revenge.
"Let's just say we do not do leaps of faith very well," Nunzio grunted.
The waiter arrived with a fresh pitcher of ice water. Nunzio poured a glass and drank greedily. "That will end," L. Vas Deferens promised with icy assurance. "Camorra's future as the premier crime organization in the world is secure." His voice became a conspiratorial whisper. "By week's end, you will eclipse even the Mafia."
Nunzio snorted through his water. Coming up out of his narrow throat, his laugh sounded like a donkey's bray. "We've nearly done that without your assistance."
"Yakuza, then. Or the cartels. The Vietnamese or Chinese crime syndicates. The chorus will fall silent. All the voices that overpowered your own for so many years-all gone. Camorra will seize power like none has before."
"We had better hope so," Nunzio warned. "For both our sakes. Don Vincenzo will not be pleased if we fail."
Deferens waved a dismissive hand. He didn't deign to respond to such a ludicrous suggestion. Nunzio only wished he could share this ice man's utter confidence. Sweaty rivulets rolled from his underarms. Maybe if it wasn't so hot...
"I have advised Don Vincenzo that you wish to do this thing at the end of the week," he said, careful to keep his voice low. "He agrees."
Deferens nodded. "All of the delegations will have arrived by then."
"The invitations are all out?"
"The last were sent yesterday."
"Any refusals?"
Deferens grinned. "None. The celebrity stature of our leader has given us great credibility. No one wishes to be left out. There will be a weekend of grand meetings throughout the city, presided over by Mandobar. At least, that is the plan. Of course, we have a different plan."
Sitting in his rumpled, sweat-stained white suit, Nunzio Spumoni pictured the familiar smiling face of Mandobar. That the former East Africa president was involved in something as nefarious as this was still almost too incredible to believe.
"When will I finally get to meet him?" Nunzio asked.
A thin smile. "If all goes well, never." Deferens's smile was oddly disconcerting; it gave the impression of a man with a secret. But then, he had conveyed that image since the first time they'd met. The pale man in the white suit seemed always to be guarding some precious, private thoughts. Thoughts he dared not speak aloud.
As he was talking, Deferens had turned a curious, distracted eye across the restaurant.
The main wall opened on a sidewalk cafe. A commotion seemed to be breaking out beneath the green-and-white-striped canopy. Three men in ill-fitting suits sitting at a wrought-iron table were exchanging hot words with the lone man at the adjoining table. For his part, the stranger they were speaking to seemed unnaturally calm.
Even across the crowded restaurant, Deferens could see that the man's wrists were exceptionally thick.
Nunzio Spumoni wasn't at all interested in the dispute. His thoughts had turned to his hotel airconditioning.
"I should get back," he said, standing. "I must call Naples."
Deferens only nodded. He was still watching the activity across the room. The thick-wristed man had just said something that seemed to upset the other men.
"Oh, please say goodbye to Piceno for me," Deferens called absently to Nunzio's retreating back. He didn't hear Nunzio's reply. There was something coldly fascinating about the thin young man across the room. His presence alone seemed to chill the humid African air.
Deferens crossed his legs neatly and leaned one elbow on the table. His instincts told him that something profoundly interesting was about to happen. And the instincts of L. Vas Deferens were never wrong.
REMO HAD TRIED HIS BEST. No one could fault him. Not Smith, certainly not Chiun. Not anyone.
He'd found the crowded restaurant after an intensely unpleasant cab ride from the airport. The cabbie had spent the bulk of the trip trying to interest him in the local narcotics and prostitution trades. Remo eventually had the driver drop him off in downtown Bachsburg.
On the street, everyone seemed tied in with some kind of vice. Remo counted six of the seven deadly sins on the way to the restaurant. The last holdout was gluttony, which reared its ugly face the instant he was seated next to a trio of thugs in the outdoor cafd. They were all over six feet tall, weighed well over two hundred pounds and looked as if they could punch their way through a prison wall.
The men had been loud already. It only got worse when Remo's meal arrived.
"Hey, get a load a dat," one of them said to his companions as the waiter set a plate before Remo. His New Jersey accent was thick. "What kinda faggy shit is dat?" He turned his attention to Remo. "Hey, what kinda faggy shit is dat?"
Remo did his best to ignore the question.
The brown rice was clumpy. That was fine. But the steamed fish had a thin aroma of garlic. Remo had specifically requested no seasonings.
"Hey, I'm talkin' to you," called the gangster at the next table.
"And I'm ignoring you," Remo said absently as he frowned at his fish. He didn't look at the man. "And everything you say doesn't have to be prefaced with 'hey,'" he added.
"Hey, what did he say?" the man asked his companions.
"Says he's ignoring you," one of the others said. The first man's face grew at first shocked, then angry.
"Do you know who I am?" he growled at Remo.
Remo finally turned a bland eye to the man, looking him up, then down. "Homo erectus?" he said, uninterested.
The man's face turned purple. "What the fuck did you call me?" Veins bulged on his broad forehead.
The others had at last taken note. Their rat eyes trained fury at Remo.
"He called you a queer hard-on, Johnny," one snarled.
The face of Johnny "Books" Fungillo, of New Jersey's Renaldi crime family, went from fluorescent purple to rage-drained white. He clambered to his feet, flinging his table away. Chairs and pastafilled plates crashed to the floor. People in the immediate area scattered.