Fat fingers ripped a heavy automatic pistol from beneath his jacket. Johnny aimed the gun at Remo, his hairy knuckle tickling the trigger.
"Whaddaya gonna call me now?" he snapped. "Huh?" His eyes were wild.
Now that he was standing-flanked on both sides by his Renaldi Family companions-Remo was far better able to get the full view of Johnny Fungillo.
"I'm not sure now," Remo mused, thoughtful. "You are standing upright. But you look more like one of the great apes. Maybe you're Australopithecus."
Johnny had no idea what that last word meant. But it didn't matter. The skinny little rice-eating fag had just gone from calling him a homo to an ape. It was more than Johnny Books could stand. Face contorting with raw fury, he pulled the trigger of his automatic.
The explosion brought shrieks from the main restaurant area. Some people fled into the street, though many remained where they were.
In the middle of the sidewalk cafe, Johnny Books was panting, sweating. He'd fired point-blank into the rat bastard's face. That'd teach him to call somebody a homo hard-on ape. He peered through the thin cloud of gunpowder smoke, looking for the body that would be sprawled on the ground.
When the adrenaline haze cleared, however, he was shocked to find his target still seated in his chair, a contemplative expression on his face.
"And yet you use tools," Remo commented. "Do true apes use tools? Maybe we could get Jane Goodall to classify you. You could be a whole new subspecies."
Johnny Fungillo didn't know what was going on. He stood there in shock, staring at the distant smoking barrel of his gun. In all his professional life as a Renaldi Family enforcer, he'd never once had an instance where he used his weapon and the target he was pointing at didn't wind up dead. Yet there was the insulting little creep sitting before him, breathing and talking as if he hadn't a care in the world.
He wouldn't miss a second time. Johnny took aim again-more carefully this time than before. He fired. This time when the explosion came, Johnny Books swore he saw movement, a blurry image of the skinny guy sliding to one side.
It was impossible. Men just couldn't move fast enough to avoid a bullet fired point-blank.
But to his shock, his target was still sitting calmly in his chair.
"And now it's time for Lancelot Link to surrender his opposable thumbs," Remo Williams said coldly.
He knew he shouldn't make a scene. Not in a crowded restaurant. Smith would go ballistic. On the other hand, the world sucked, Cluun had abandoned him and he was alone in a country that seemed to welcome depravity with open arms.
As Johnny Books squeezed his trigger a third time, he thought he saw another blur. Then the world seemed to spin wildly and he was suddenly sighting down on Jimmy "Mooch" Muchelli, his tablemate and fellow Renaldi foot soldier.
Jimmy's face grew shocked, there was a loud explosion and Jimmy's face turned very red.
Mooch Muchelli's features were little more than a crimson smear as he toppled back onto their overturned table.
"Bad pre-hominid," Remo chastised, very close to Johnny's ear.
Johnny Books wheeled to the voice.
Remo wasn't there. But Johnny's other companion was.
Bobby DiGardino had apparently drawn his own gun at some point during the commotion. But the Browning was now planted smack-dab in the middle of Bobby's forehead, barrel shoved deep in the gangster's nonfunctioning brain. As Johnny watched-now with more horror than rage-Bobby dropped to his knees and plopped face first into a plate of scungilli.
"Until you chimps can prove you've mastered fire and the wheel, no guns," Remo lectured them. Panicked now, Johnny whirled once more, his hand shaking as he met Remo's dark eyes.
There were only two options open for Johnny "Books" Fungillo, as far as he could ascertain. He could try once more to shoot the skinny guy with those deep menacing eyes. But so far that hadn't exactly been a rousing success. The other option was the better bet. Made all the more so after he'd given the body of Bobby DiGardino a quick glance.
Turning from Remo, Johnny hauled back and heaved his automatic as far into the depths of the restaurant as he possibly could. Waiters covered their heads with trays to deflect the ricochet when the gun discharged on impact. Throwing up his hands in surrender, Johnny smiled sheepishly at Remo, a sheen of prickly sweat darkening his perpetual five-o'clock shadow.
"Hey, you know somethin'?" Johnny Fungillo ventured. "You're right. I'm a monkey-fag-hard-on-ape-astroturf-pitcherpuss. You got anythin' else you wanna call me, you go right ahead, mister." Hairy knees knocked inside baggy pants legs.
Standing before the trembling gangster, Remo was already regretting his actions. The three mobsters hadn't given him much of a choice, but that didn't matter. Killing in broad daylight in a crowded restaurant was a stupid thing to do.
That was it. The mission was over. He had been depressed coming into it and had allowed his own problems to cloud his judgement.
After this, Smith would probably make him slip quietly out of the country. If the CURE director wanted something done in East Africa, he would have to rely on Chiun to do it. Assuming he could find the Master of Sinanju. All of this passed through Remo's mind in one angry moment.
But as he stood there, wishing he could melt into the background, a startling thing happened. Something he had never experienced in all his time as a professional assassin.
A tiny trickle of applause rose softly from one corner of the restaurant. Someone else quickly joined in. And in a shocking instant, the entire restaurant erupted in thunderous applause.
At the eye of the outburst of approval, Remo didn't know what to do.
Johnny Books glanced to the main restaurant, a dumb expression on his sweating face. Hands still raised, he offered the crowd a shrug that turned into a confused bow. When he turned nervously to his assailant, he was surprised to find that Remo had disappeared.
Johnny spun left, then right.
No sign of the skinny name-caller anywhere. Great relief drained the blood from Johnny Fungillo's underused brain. Eyes roiling back in their sockets, the New Jersey mobster fainted face first onto his spilled plate of fettuccine. He fell so hard, he broke one of his opposable thumbs.
"EXCUSE ME, SIR!"
Remo heard the smooth, efficient voice a minute after he'd slipped out of the sidewalk cafe.
He scowled as he looked over his shoulder.
The coldly handsome man had trailed him from the restaurant. Jogging, he caught up to Remo, a perfect smile on his chiseled model's face.
"We should talk," the man said, puffing to keep up. Though he had run half a city block in the sun and heat, he'd failed completely to break a sweat.
"I'm kind of busy," Remo said, still walking.
"Not for me," the man insisted. For an instant, the too genial smile vanished. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am L. Vas Deferens, defense minister and head of internal security for East Africa."
"Whoop-de-do for you," Remo replied.
The sidewalk was alive with foot traffic. A steady hum of street-clogging cars rolled by to their left. Remo noted a single limousine had pulled to the shoulder of the road and was now trailing him. He felt the mistrustful glare of Deferens's bodyguard driver through the tinted windshield.
"Yes," Deferens said flatly. The smile returned, though it seemed more forced than ever. "And your name is ... ? I make it a point to learn the identities of the men who impress me. It happens so rarely."
"Try a different bathhouse," Remo suggested.
Deferens's rosebud lips pulled to a faint frown. "I cannot legally compel you to tell me your name now. But it will be necessary eventually. Are you registered?"
"Not even engaged," Remo said.
A hint of confusion. "This would be what? American banter? I'm afraid it impresses me far less than your work back there." Deferens nodded back beyond his trailing limo, toward the restaurant. "I was the one who started the applause, by the way."