Remo singled out the whisperer for a blinding smile. "That's not exactly the answer I was looking for," he said, "but we'll get back to that. All right, now, what is the capital of Venezuela? Anybody who knows speak right up."
Silence.
Remo reached forward to the nearest two faces and slapped them hard, across both cheeks with his left and right hands.
"You're not trying, class. Again. The capital of Venezuela?"
A voice ventured: "San Juan?"
"Close, but no cigar," said Remo, who did not know the capital of Venezuela but knew it was not San Juan.
"All right now, all together, the square root of one-hundred-sixty-eight. Come on, don't be shy. The square root of one-hundred-sixty-eight."
He paused. "Nobody knows. Too bad. You don't know arithmetic, either. That'll have to go into my report to the board of education."
He smiled again. "Let's try grammar. Is 'walking' past tense or an infinitive?" asked Remo, who would not know either if it was mailed to him in an envelope.
"Hey, mister, can we go home?"
"Not while class is in session. What kind of child are you, wanting to miss out on your education? 'Walking.' Past tense or infinitive? Don't all speak at once."
There was deathly silence on the roof. Remo could hear only the worried shallow breathing of ten frightened boys whose decision to jump him and stomp him had evaporated when he put his bare hand through a steel door.
"I've got to tell you that this is probably the worst response I've had in all my years in the classroom."
"You ain't no teacher." It was the same voice that had told Remo to fuck himself.
"Oh, you're wrong," Remo said. "I am a teacher. True, I didn't go to teachers' college to avoid going to Vietnam. That explains why I'm not wearing jeans and peace buttons. But I'm a teacher. For instance. You,.. come out here."
"Me?" said the same voice.
"Yes, dummy, you." The boy, the oldest and biggest, got to his feet and shuffled slowly forward. Even with the light behind the boy, Remo could see his animal eyes, sizing up Remo, thinking maybe about a quick kick to the groin to disable Remo or at least to put him down.
"I'll prove I'm a teacher," Remo said. "Like right now, you're thinking about trying to kick me. So go ahead."
The boy hesitated.
"Go ahead," Remo said. "Here. I'll turn around. That'll make it easier."
He turned his back on the boy. The boy paused, leaned back and jumped into the air, both feet aimed at Remo in a two-foot flying kick right out of the UHF televised wrestling matches.
Remo felt the pressure of the feet coming near him, turned and leaned back just far enough so the feet stopped an inch short of his face. He grabbed both feet in his hands and dragged the boy to the edge of the roof. He tossed him over, hanging onto the struggling boy by one ankle.
When the boy realized that he was hanging, head downward, fifty feet above the pavement and that his only support might let him go if he fought, he stopped struggling.
Remo turned to the other boys. "Here's your first lesson. No matter how good you are, there's somebody better. That's true-except for one person in the world, but that doesn't matter to you. So before you get smartassed again, you better think about that. Your second lesson is that you're too young to be in this business. Now, one at a time, I think I'm going to put you over this roof so you get a taste of what dying slow is like. Would you like that, class?"
There was silence.
"I can't hear you," Remo called.
"No. No. No," came scattered voices.
"Good," Remo said. "Except you mean, 'No, sir,' don't you?"
"No, sir. No, sir. No, sir. No, sir." More voices this time. Remo looked over the edge of the roof at the boy who lay still. "I didn't hear you," Remo said.
"No, sir," the boy said. "Pull me up. Please. Pull me up."
"Let's hear you say it again."
"Please pull me up."
"Pretty please?"
"Pretty please."
"With sugar on it?"
"With sugar on it."
"Good," said Remo, He raised the boy with one simple upward move of his right hand, as if there were a yoyo attached to it instead of a one-hundred-twenty-pound boy. On the street below, he saw Sashur Kaufperson's Mercedes and realized he had been spending a lot of time on this roof.
The boy came over the railing and Remo dropped him onto the roof headfirst. The boy scurried away, crablike, afraid to get up without permission, but more afraid to stay close to that madman's feet.
"All right, class," Remo said. "Your final lesson of the evening. Every one of you bastards will be in school tomorrow morning. You're going to be nice and polite and say yes, sir and please and thank you. You're going to do your homework and you're going to behave yourselves. Because if you don't, I'm coming back to rip your frigging tongues out. Got it?"
"Yes, sir." The answer this time was a shouted roar.
"All right. And remember. I know your names and your schools, and I'll check on you. When I do, I hope you won't have done anything to make me mad."
"We won't. We won't, sir. No, sir, we won't."
"Good," said Remo. "And now I think it's past your bedtimes and you young fellas ought to be getting home. Would you like that?"
"Yes, sir," in unison.
"All right," said Remo. He walked to the locked door.
"And just so you don't forget me."
Remo put both his hands into the hole he had smashed into the metal door, twisted his arms in opposite directions, setting up a rhythm in the metal. When it was vibrating in ways it was not made to vibrate in, he leaned back and ripped the door down its side, almost like ripping the flap off an unsealed envelope.
The roof was suddenly bathed in light. Remo stood there looking at the boys, holding the door in front of him as if it were a waiter's tray. He smiled. For the first time, all the boys could see his face clearly. He made it not a nice face to look at.
"Don't make me come after you," he said.
"No, sir." One final shout and then the boys were running down the stairs, down toward the street, and home.
Remo watched them go, then tossed the door off onto another part of the roof.
He smiled. If those kids were scared now, they should have tried lipping off to Sister Mary Elizabeth.
Remo went to the side of the building and over and down to the street. He used a light telephone wire running down the side of the building to, steer himself. The wire was too light to hold his weight, but Remo did not put his weight on it, not pulling downward, but using it instead to slow him as he moved bouncingly off the wall, back to the wall, out again, each time dropping four or five feet.
Below him he saw Sashur Kaufperson getting into her Mercedes. She was pulling away from the curb when Remo got to the car, pulled open the door and slid into the passenger seat.
"Hi," he said as she looked at him in panic. "That's the one thing I always liked about teaching. The short hours."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sashur Kaufperson had decided to come clean. She hadn't been telling Remo the truth, the whole truth. Well, not exactly.
When she had told Remo that Warner Pell was the boss of the kids-for-killing operation, she had indulged in a slight mental reservation. Pell was her boss, but she knew he was not the head man. She had no idea of who the head man was.
She had been telling the truth when she said that Pell had panicked when the heat was put on and had threatened to hand her up to the authorities.
She had been shocked, stunned, frightened, but she had never entertained the thought of having one of the children kill Pell. At least not until she got a telephone call.
The caller was Pell's boss, the head of the operation. She did not know the man, who did not identify himself.
Remo groaned in disgust as Sashur kept driving.
"I have had just about enough of this almost-but-not-quite and I'm not sure and some secret voice over the phone. Who was the guy?"