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"With the writing on it," Tony added.
"They got those now?" said Don Carmine, his beetling brows lifting in
surprise.
"I can have this room filled with plain paper copiers, faxes, beepers,
dedicated phones, word processors, and PC's equal to all your needs," said
Tony Tollini, suddenly on familiar ground. Sales. "What's more I can get you
fault-tolerant systems. They're completely bulletproof. You'll never have a
hard disk failure again, Mr. Imbruglia."
"Call me Cadillac. Everybody does."
"Yes, Mr. Cadillac. "
"Now you're talkin' my language. Boys, help Tony here set this up."
They helped Tony Tollini off his knees. He made a call to IDC and ordered an
open system.
"I want our best stuff," he told customer service. "And program everything to
run LANSCII."
Within two days Don Carmine was on line. The Salem Street Social Club was
crammed with equipment. He stood blinking at the big black fax that had been
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placed on a dead burner of the black stove for lack of a better place.
"Looks like a fat phone," he said doubtfully.
"I'll show you how it works," said Tony Tollini eagerly. "There's a restaurant
near here that accepts fax orders. Here's the menu."
Frowning, Don Carmine looked over the folded paper menu.
"I'll have the clam chowder," he said.
"Great," said Tony Tollini, who typed a brief letter on the word processor,
printing it out and sending it through the fax machine.
Don Carmine watched as the sheet of paper hummed in one slot and came out the
other to the accompaniment of startled beeps.
He ripped the sheet free and looked at it.
Turning to Tony Tollini, he said, "It's still fuggin' here. What is it,
broke?"
"Just wait."
Minutes later, there came a knock at the front door.
Instantly Pauli (Pink Eye) Scanga and Vinnie (The Maggot) Maggiotto drew
automatics as Bruno the Chef answered the door.
"It's okay," he called back. " I got it."
He came back with a paper bag and handed it to Don Carmine.
"What's this?"
"Your eats, boss," said Bruno confidently.
Don Carmine broke open the bag and pulled out a plastic container. He lifted
the lid, sniffed experimentally, and looked inside.
"This stuff is all white!" he roared.
Bruno looked.
"It's clam chowder. Ain't it?"
"This stuff looks like fuggin' baby puke. Where's the tomato soup?" ,
"They don't put tomato soup in clam chowder up here," said Bruno.
"Then what do they put in, fuggin' cream? Send this back. I want clam chowder
with tomato sauce in it."
And as an expression of his wrath, Don Carmine picked up a heavy cellular
phone and threw it at a nearby computer screen.
The glass cracked, seemingly sucking in the rows of amber columns. Silence
followed.
Don Carmine turned to a cringing Tony Tollini. "What happened to bulletproof."
he roared.
Eyes widening, Tony sputtered, "They're not literally bulletproof!"
"What other kind is there!"
"It's just a technical term," Tony bleated. "The system is built of arrayed
redundant mirror components. If some break down, the others take over."
"Oh," said Don Carmine slowly. "Now I understand perfectly. "
"You do?"
"No wonder these computer things work like they're magic. It's all done with
fuggin' mirrors."
His eyes sick, Tony Tollini swallowed his reply.
While Bruno ran the errand, Don Carmine demanded of Tony, "Got any other
things you want to show me, genius?"
The phone rang then. The Maggot answered it. He called over to Don Carmine,
"It's Don Fiavorante. He wants his money. "
"Tell him I got it."
"He wants it now."
Don Carmine frowned. His eyes lit up suddenly. "Ask him if he's gotta fax."
"He's says he does."
"Tell him to hang up. I'll give him his money in no time."
Don Carmine pointed to Tony Tollini. "You, genius. You write that check for
forty G's now."
Tony sat down at the Formica table and pulled out his checkbook.
"Make the check out to Fiavorante Pubescio, the crook. Only leave out 'the
crook' part, okay?"
Obediently Tony began writing.
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When he was done, Don Carmine looked at the check and handed it back,
grinning.
"Fax this to Don Fiavorante," he said.
Tony swallowed. "But I can't . . ."
"Why not? Won't checks fax?"
"They will, but . . "
"No buts. Fax the fugger."
An unhappy look on his face, Tony Tollini trudged over to the fax machine,
inserted the check sideways, and dialed the number Pink Eye read off to him.
The check went in. And then it came out again.
Don Carmine plucked it free.
"You know," he said, pocketing the check, "modern technology is fuggin'
wonderful."
He was so pleased with his new computerized office that when Bruno the Chef
came back and said, "They say they don't know how to make tomato clam chowder
up here,
Don Carmine simply shrugged and said, "Screw it. We'll go out to eat. Maybe
we'll take over one of these joints. Make 'em do chowder right and join the
fuggin' human race for a change. "
"Why don't I stay here?" said Tony quickly.
Carmine paused, his expression becoming suspicious. "Why you wanna do that?"
"Somebody should stay here to answer the phone," said Tony, who knew that Don
Fiavorante was sure to call back about his nonnegotiable check.
"Good thinkin. You stay by the phone. We'll get you a doggy bag if you promise
not to go on the fuggin' rug while we're out," Carmine said, laughing.
When Don Fiavorante did call minutes later, Tony Tollini was profuse in his
apologies.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Fiavorante," he explained. "Don Carmine hasn't mastered the
modern office system yet. I'll drive the check down tonight, okay?"
"You are a good boy, Tony. I trust you. Why don't you send it Federal
Express?" Don Fiavorante's voice sank to an unctuous growl. "But if I don't
have my rent money by ten-thirty sharp tomorrow morning, it will not be a good
thing, capisce?"
"Capisce," said Tony Tollini, who called Federal Express the minute he got off
the phone with his uncle.
In the weeks that followed Tony Tollini almost forgot he was in league with
the Mafia.
Business hummed. Carmine Imbruglia hummed.
From the Salem Street Social Club, the bettor slips came in by fax. Tony
logged them onto the PC system. Any incidental paper was destroyed once it had
served its purpose or the information was entered into the LANSCII program.
There were a few incidents, to be sure, such as the time an odds list
immolated itself while passing through the fax.
"What's with this fuggin' fax?" demanded Don Carmine. "It's trying to sabotage
me."
"It's the paper," complained Tony. "I told you, you don't need to use flash
paper anymore. Its outdated."
"What if the feds bust in?"
"You just erase the computer records."
Don Carmine squinted at the glowing amber lines on the PC screen.
"How do you erase light?"
"By typing star-asterisk-star. It wipes the hard disk clean."
"Star-asterisk-star," muttered Don Carmine, making a mental note to look up
the spelling of asterisk. "Got it. Can I get it back afterward?"
"Maybe. Unlikely."
Carmine shrugged. "What the hell, it's better than twenty-five to thirty in
the pen," he said philosophically. "We're making money hand over fist,
although we're barely making rent. "
"You should think about expanding," said Tony, who, although he was still
working off his debt to Don Carmine at thirty-six percent interest, felt a
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