"Hey, white boy," he said, and fired.
Remo caught the bullet. "That's eight," he said, slipping the bullet into his pocket.
"Huh?" Maroon Beret asked as he fired off another shot.
"Nine. Say, it doesn't take much to make you mad, does it?"
"I's born mad," the youth said, and fired again, fen.
Maroon Beret scowled in annoyance. "What you doin' with them bullets?"
"Look, do you want to shoot me or sit around
24
talking? I need fifty bullets, and I don't have all day."
"I want to know why them bullets not be hittin' you," Maroon Beret insisted.
"Because I'm catching them, stupid," Remo said. "Any idiot can see that."
Maroon Beret fired again.
"Eleven. Thanks. Keep 'em coming."
He fired two more shots in rapid succession.
"Twelve, thirteen . . . you're out of bullets."
"Wha' . . ." He clicked uselessly at the trigger. Beads of sweat collected on his forehead. He turned to run.
"Not so fast," Remo said, grabbing him by the ear.
"You gonna kill me?"
"Either me or somebody else," Remo said philosophically. "What difference does it make in the long run?" He squeezed Maroon Beret's ear harder.
"Don't kill me," he whelped.
"Tell you what I'm going to do. You tell me where you got your gun, and I won't kill you now. That's not to say I'll never kill you—"
"That be fine by me. I sure will tell you where I got the gun. That be no skin off my nose. I will tell you anything you want to know. Seek and ye shall find, that is my motto."
"The gun," Remo prompted, sending a flash of pain through Maroon Beret's spinal column. To—
"Toe? His name's Toe?" Remo asked. But it was too late. Maroon Beret's body was slumped forward in front of Remo and vibrating with the im-
25
pact of a barrage of bullets. Then the entire complex exploded into cascades of gunfire. The mayor and her police battalion had left. Through wooden barricades in the windows, tenants took pot shots at the gang members in the courtyard. The courtyard group was firing back at random, both at the people in the windows and at rival gangs. Two Puerto Ricans stabbed each other to death. An old blue-haired woman cackled from her balcony as she struck down a middle-aged black man with a zip gun. As he fell from his window, the middle-aged man let fly with a wild bullet from his .32 Beretta. The bullet ricocheted off one of the buildings and killed one of the Irish gang boys. The Irish boys dropped two of the blacks in retribution. The blacks shot the old blue-haired woman.
Remo was catching bullets. Twelve in one hand, twelve in the other. "Not bad," he said.
Suddenly he was aware of a pungent odor behind him, which he recognized as fear-smell. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the old man cowering inches from his back.
"What are you doing here?" Remo said.
"Where else is there to go? You're catching bullets in your hands. Better you in front than me, I figure."
"Can't you hide somewhere?"
"Where?" the old man asked, and his eyes looked as if he really hoped to find an answer.
"Screw the bullets," Remo said, dumping the fired slugs to the ground. "Too heavy anyway. Come with me."
26
He led Archie to the basement of one of the buildings. "You'll be safe here," he said.
"Oh, yeah?" The old man gestured to a corner of the basement, where a half-dozen Puerto Ricans rose from a huddle, their guns at the ready. "What do you call them? Chickens?"
Remo squinted at Archie. "Did I ever tell you that you remind me of another old pain in the ass?" he said.
The Puerto Ricans lumbered forward. "This here's our turf, man," one of them said.
"Turf? You mean this?" Remo picked up a loose slab of concrete from the floor and thrust it into the man's mouth. The man did a slow spin in the air and came to rest on his face.
"Anyone else not willing to vacate the premises?"
"Yeah. Me," said the man beside Cement Lips, and he began to squeeze the trigger of the pistol in his hand. Before he fired, Remo kicked the gun into position and it went off squarely at the man's own temple, the slug passed through his brain and exited out the far side.
Remo caught the bullet. "Thanks," he said, pocketing it. "One."
"One what?" mumbled Cement Lips.
"One ball," Remo said as he sent the man's testicle into his kidney.
"Hey—hey, what you going to do, man?" one of the three remaining said.
"I'm going to find out where all the guns are coming from. I'll need one of you to tell me and another to verify it."
"So what happens to the third one?"
27
"This," Remo said, splintering the man's nose into his skull.
Two guns clanked to the floor.
"Tony Marotta," one of the two men left standing said.
"Tony Marotta," the other echoed.
Remo rolled his eyes. "Now, how am I supposed to know you're telling me the truth? I was going to ask one of you over there" he said, patiently pointing out a darkened corner, "and one of you over there!' He motioned on the diagonal.
"That's the truth, mister. Marotta operates in the alley beside the complex. From a hot dog cart."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You're going to let us go now, aren't you?" No.
"No?" They looked at each other in panic.
"Not unless one of you is Jose and lives on 181st Street."
"I am," they said in unison.
"Good. Then you can both start washing your name off the walls of this complex. You supply the soap and water."
"Can I take my gun?" one of the Joses asked.
«XT *»
No.
"No gun? Hey, man, you crazy? I can't wash no walls without a gun. I mean—"
Remo pinched a nerve cluster in the man's solar plexus.
"... I mean, I will be veiy happy to wash the walls, señor. With no gun. With my tongue,
perhaps. Only please stop with the fingers in the stomach, boss."
"Remember, if I see you and you don't have dishpan hands—"
"We will," they said. Remo watched them scramble up the stairs and out the building before v arranging the bodies in front of the basement door.
"These ought to keep people away," Remo said to Archie. "Just don't move. I'll be back."
"Famous last words," Archie said.
Tony Marotta was where Jose One and J°se Two said he would be, slinking near the slime and stink of the alleyway.
"You Tony Marotta?" Remo said.
"Who wants to know?"
"My name's Remo. I live at the Sister Evangélica apartments."
"You a cop? You got to say if you're a cop. That's the law."
"I bet you know all about the law," Remo said.
"I asked you if you was a cop," Marotta said.
"No. I'm not a cop."
"Okay." Wheezing and reeking of beer and salami, Marotta flipped open the top of his hot dog cart. Inside were dozens of hand weapons, all used. Beside them were neat boxes of ammunition. "Hundred apiece for the rods."
Remo pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. 'Til take all of them."
"What about the ammunition?"
'This'11 cover the ammunition, too."
28
29
Marotta raised his eyebrows. "You got it," he said. He started to unpack the guns from the cart.
"Don't bother with that," Remo said.
"Why not?"
"I need it," Remo said.
'What the hell for?"
"Because I'm not a cop."
"So?"
"I'm an assassin," he said, and crushed Marotta's skull with one hand. With the other he stuffed the gun runner into the cart and snapped the lid shut. "It might even take a day or two to replace you," Remo said with a sigh.
He wheeled the cart to the storm drain two blocks away and tossed it in. "That's the biz, sweetheart," he said as the bubbles from the cart rose to the top of the muddy water.
Inside the complex, pandemonium was still raging. Mrs. Miller was single-handedly picking off a number of gang members of various creeds and ethnic origins. She was an indiscriminate but excellent marksman. Remo decided to start with her.