CHAPTER XVI

Frankie Tarzini was in charge of the Arabian Sea wing of the KETTLE (Kraal-Earth Shuttle). He was the bastard son of Sonny Tarzini. Sonny was a small-time goon in the Sicilain mafiosi who dared to mingle with the ‘Sabre’, Don Luigi Sabratarre. More precisely, he mingled rather passionately with Salmonella, the Sabre’s mistress, and was forced to flee Sicily in a Parsi pickle boat headed for Mumbai, The Pestonji. The agent at the Mafiosi Relocation Service had taken advantage of Sonny’s rather rudimentary knowledge of the English alphabet to convince him that he was actually boarding an American pasta delivery boat, The Pesto. Not one to be cowed down by such minor geographical glitches, Sonny cut his mustard rather well in Mumbai and soon became the undisputed king of the olive oil business in the region. Undisputed, that is, until the Chetas arrived on the scene with their Krush and their coconut oil and seriously weakened the Tarzini stranglehold. An uneasy truce was brokered between the two families until Sonny broke the peace by ordering a hit on Ooman. The Tarzinis bore the brunt of the Chetan vendetta spree and surviving members sought refuge with Thomas Hybrid, the maverick scientist and renegade Cheta. He put them in charge of his latest brainbitch (Reader Note 5: Hybrid fondly referred to his inventions as his ‘bitches’), the Kettle, and in return they pledged their allegiance to the Out-of -Towners. Frankie was Salmonella’s son due to Sonny. Being an illegitimate son, he was kept out of the coveted Mediterranean Sea Kettle Service and had to settle for the dangerous Arabian Sea sector, perilously close to the Borivlian Chetas.
Stan had to dive deeper than usual to get to the Kettle air pocket in the sea floor. “Damn blast these tsunamis,” he muttered as he entered the air pocket and knocked on a door that read:
Frankie ‘Taxi’ Tarzini
“Yo Frankie! It’s me Stan. Open up!”
“You talkin’ to me?”
“Yes you blubbering idiot! Open the door.”
The door opened and a balding man wearing a yellow polo tee that barely concealed his well-rounded paunch surveyed Stan for a moment.
“Stan. My man! How you doin’ ? Come ‘ere. Come ‘ere, gimme a hug.”
Stan held his breath as Frankie’s paunch came crashing into his midriff.
“You look beautiful. Jus’ beautiful. ‘ere, gimme a kiss.”
Stan cringed as Pauli planted a wet sloppy smackaroo under his right ear and then his left.
“You pucker up like that again and I’ll gouge your eyes out, you dashed guniea! Now get me to Kraal. Quick! Something’s come up. Have you heard anything?”
“I heard things.”
“Don’t use that wiseass shit on me. Pray fucking tell me what happened.”
“What happened? Badabing badabop badaboom. Someone set off a coupla bongs at Shankar’s joint.”
“And Nick? Have you heard from him?”
“I’ve sent Pauli to find him. He should be back any moment.”
“And who the devil is Pauli?”
“Relax. Don’t worry about Pauli. Pauli’s allright. He’s my consiglere. ‘ere, lemme make you some nice pasta while we wait for Pauli.”
Stan watched as Frankie sauntered up to the stove and dunked a handful of shrimp into a grimy pot after biting the tails off.
“It’s all in the garlic I tell you. Gimme some good garlic and some nice Sicilian extra-virgin olive oil and I’ll…” His rambling was cut short by Pauli who entered and placed a parcel wrapped in banana leaves in front of Stan. Stan opened the leaves and found some dead fish and grated coconut.
“What the flying fuck is this?”
“It’s an old Irritynurazhanganasseryian message. It means Nick sleeps with the fishes.”
“I’ve heard enough,” said Stan as he sat in the teleporting chair and waited for Pauli to wire him up. He grabbed Pauli by the collar and yanked him close. “You keep your eyes and ears open. If something comes up you inform me right away. Capiche paisan?”
“Capiche”
Pauli flicked a switch. In an instant Stan would be teleported to Kraal. – R.A