Carmine Musto got to his feet resolutely. "I'm booking. Who's with me?"
A few feet shuffled aimlessly.
"Come on," said Carmine. "Let's get with it."
"The more guys walk," said Antonio, "the more money that's left for the rest of us."
"Chump change." Carmine sneered.
"What's the split?" asked a younger member.
Antonio frowned. He was in a corner. If he came in too low, he'd end up doing a solo. But if he came in too high, he'd be taking big risks for chump change, just like Carmine said.
What decided him was the wary looks on the faces of the Eastie Goombahs.
"One hundred grand split equally," he said reluctantly.
Carmine Musto spit on the tigerskin rug on his way out. "Catch you later, dickhead," he said.
Most of the others followed him. Four were left, including himself. "Twenty-five grand apiece," said Antonio broadly, trying to make the best of a bad situation. It was a good thing he had kept his mouth shut about that extra four thousand-not to mention the governor's wallet.
The plan, as Antonio had explained it to his followers, was simple. They'd drive over to the governor's house, which was on the other, side of the city, and bust in shooting. It would be easy. It was true the money was short, as far as this kind of work went, but it would be quick work and there would be more of it. The Eastie Goombahs were going to be famous.
The first hitch in the plan revealed itself to Antonio Serrano when he led his men out onto the street. His green Caddy wasn't there.
"Carmine," said Antonio. "That ratass stole my wheels. "
"We can steal another car," one of the others ventured. "From where? This is our neighborhood. We don't shit where we eat, haven't I told you guys that a million times?"
"What, then?"
"We take the subway. It goes out to the governor's neighborhood."
Their Uzis and pistols in gym bags, Antonio Serrano led the Eastie Goombahs to the subway, and they rode into town. They changed to the surface trolley and settled down for the ride.
The trolley took the Eastie Goombahs through a world they barely knew existed. Only a few miles from their dirty environment there was a place of clean streets and elmdrapped parks. The people on the trolleys dressed neat and looked confident. There were none of the graffiti that marred their own neighborhood subway stops.
"This is weird," said Johnny Fortunato, the youngest Goombah. "Look how clean everything is."
"Shut up," said Antonio. But the kid was right. It was nice out here in the governor's neighborhood. Even the air smelled nice, like they had giant Air Wicks hidden out of sight. Antonio decided that when he made it big, really big, he'd move out here to a nice house. Maybe the place next to the governor's house. Then he remembered. After tonight, the governor would be dead.
Hell, maybe he'd buy the governor's house. Or better yet, figure out a way to steal it. Was it possible to steal a house? Antonio didn't know. But he would look into it.
* * *
"Here he comes, Little Father," Remo said.
"Good," said the Master of Sinanju, rolling up the scroll he had been working on. They were seated in the back of a Lincoln Continental parked in the garage under the State House.
"He's got the briefcase with him," Remo said. "What's your plan?"
"We take it from him."
"Yeah, right. I got that much figured out. I'm asking how."
As they watched, the governor sauntered over to a car that, hours before, when they had searched the garage looking for the governor's vehicle, Remo had instantly dismissed as a candidate.
"He's getting into that beat-up station wagon," Remo said, peering up from the back seat of the Lincoln.
"I thought you said that it would be this car."
"I figured it was. It's the biggest, most expensive one in the whole freaking lot. It's got state plates and everything."
The Master of Sinanju folded his arms angrily. "My great plan is ruined, thanks to your ignorance."
"Tell me about it on the way," said Remo, jumping into the front seat. He slid behind the wheel, broke the ignition off the steering post, and quickly hot-wired the car. The engine roared into life.
"You have done your part," said Chiun, climbing over the headrest. "Now I will drive."
"Nothing doing," said Remo, sending the car wheeling after the governor's station wagon. "I don't have a death wish."
"You are just jealous of my driving skill," said the Master of Sinanju, settling into the passenger side.
"I admit it. You're a brilliant driver. You can make a car do stunts it was never engineered for. Except for minor stuff like staying on the road and stopping for lights and pedestrians. Now, will you settle down? I have to concentrate if I'm going to stay with this guy."
"It is too late. My plan is ruined."
"Maybe if you'd tell me about it, I can salvage something," Remo suggested.
"Very well. But only because recovering that letter is important to Emperor Smith. My plan was simple, but do not confuse its simplicity with ease of execution. It was brilliant but complicated."
"Just get to it, huh?"
"Unappreciative philistine! I had us hide in the back of this conveyance-which you swore belonged to the governor of this province-so that when he got into the front seat he would, as so many of his type do, throw the briefcase into the back seat."
"Yeah?"
"Directly into our hands," said Chiun triumphantly.
"Okay," Remo said slowly.
"Yes!" said Chiun.
"I got that part. What's the rest?"
"What rest? That was it. Once we had the briefcase, we would be in possession of the letter."