"Quite good," the baron said. "The Magnum must be your weapon."
His voice sounded muffled and Remo turned. Standing behind him, alongside the baron, was Namu. In his hand, he held a tray of doughnuts and the baron was busy stuffing one into his mouth.
Namu stared at Remo, smirking. Again, unaccountably, Remo hated him.
"Don't you approve of my shooting, Sambo?" he asked.
Namu was silent.
"I'm sorry, Baron," Remo said. "I forgot he doesn't speak until you pull his chain."
He turned again to the target and picked up the Police special, flipping bullets into it with practiced hands. "This is in your honour, Namu," he said, and emptied six shots, rapid fire. All hit into the groin of the dummy.
He placed the gun down and turned. Namu stood there, still silent, but his eyes glowered with hatred.
"Very, very good, Mr. Kenny," Nemeroff said.
"Sorry, Baron," Remo said. "These are not my weapons."
"No? What is?," Nemeroff asked, and Remo wished he knew. He just knew that the guns, for all his apparent proficiency, had not felt right in his hand. Somehow he knew too that a weapon to be used best, must feel as if it were a part of him, not just a tool. The pistols seemed like tools.
Remo walked back into the storeroom, without answering the baron's question. Nemeroff, his mouth still crammed with doughnut, and Namu followed, watching Remo from the doorway as he looked through the racks of knives.
He held them by their handles, then by their tip; he felt their weight in the palm of his hand. He replaced those that did not feel right. Finally, he had selected four. He had done it individually and was surprised to see that all four were almost identical to each other and to the knife he had found in his hotel room.
He walked back outside, brushing past Nemeroff and under the nose of Namu, but he was able to see Namu look questioningly at Nemeroff who paused, then gave a slight nod of his head.
The alley on the far right of the range was smaller than the others, with a target only twenty feet away, and Remo stepped up to the opening, carrying the four knives by their tips in his left hand.
He reached down with his right hand, took a knife, hefted it once in the palm of his hand, and then raising his hand over his head, fired it at the stuffed dummy. It hit into the waist and buried itself up to the hilt.
He threw the second next to the first, and the third next to the second. He held the fourth knife in his left hand, tip downward, looking at the three knives which formed a small triangle at the center of the target dummy. Then with a flash of his hand, he fired the knife underhand, and it buried itself deeply between the other three knives.
"Bravo," cried Nemeroff. But the man who thought he was PJ Kenny realized something else. Knives were not his natural weapon either.
"It appears your skill with the gun is exceeded only by your skill with the knife," Nemeroff said.
Remo walked down the stall, toward the target.
Behind him, Namu stepped to the firing line, his eyes on Nemeroff, who had sunk back into his chair, munching on the last of the doughnuts. Nemeroff nodded.
Remo reached his hand forward to pull a knife from the dummy, when he heard it. His ears measured the thrust, the direction, the speed and the force; he froze and the knife flashed through his open fingers, impaling itself deep into the dummy, next to the knife Remo had reached for.
He turned. Namu stood twenty feet away, three knives in his left hand. Remo looked quizzically toward Nemeroff, who said; "Namu is proud of his prowess with the knife. He feels his reputation threatened by your prowess."
"He can have his reputation. The knife is not my weapon," Remo said.
Namu spoke. "Perhaps, Master, the problem is not in the weapons but in the heart." The big man was poised on the balls of his feet, waiting, Remo knew for a word from Nemeroff.
"Explain yourself, Namu," Nemeroff said.
"Cowardice," Namu said. "It is cowardice that makes Mr. Kenny reluctant to decide on weapons. I have heard from the Black Panthers in the city that all white Americans are cowards, who can kill only with armies."
Remo laughed aloud. Nemeroff looked at him, a grin on his horse face. Namu spoke again. "Let me test him, master."
Nemeroff watched Remo's face for emotion, but there was none. He looked at Namu and saw only blind, unreasoning hatred. "You forget yourself, Namu," Nemeroff said. "Mr. Kenny is not only our guest, he is our partner."
"That's all right, Baron," Remo said. "If he was trained by the Panthers, I've got nothing to worry about."
"As you wish," Nemeroff said. He nodded to Namu. The big man turned again toward Remo and lifted a knife into his right hand.
"Wait, Namu," Nemeroff called. "Mr. Kenny must pick his weapons."
"I have my weapons," Remo said.
"Where?"
"My hands," Remo answered, and he knew the answer was right. Not guns, not knives, just hands.
"Hands against Namu?" Nemeroff was incredulous.
Remo ignored him. "Let's go, Rastus. I've got a date in town."
"With the English trollop?" Namu said, raising the first knive slowly over his head. "It is only by chance that she is still alive."
He fired the first knife. It flashed at Remo, a silver streak, but Remo slowly swayed his body, and the knife passed harmlessly over his shoulder. He smiled, and took two steps toward Namu.
"Maybe the range was too far," Remo said. "Try again. By the way, did your Panther friends tell you the only way you can hurt a white man is to kick him in the shins?"
"Swine," Namu called, and the second knife was on its way toward Remo. Remo was advancing now, moving forward toward Namu, and the knife again missed. Confusion masked the black's face. One knife left in his hand.
He raised it again over his head. Remo moved closer. Twelve feet, then ten, then eight. Then Namu fired. The knife turned one lazy circle in air. But it was doomed to miss too. It went by Remo, alongside his waist, and then his hands flashed in air and the knife stopped, and Remo held it by its handle.
Remo looked at the knife as if it were an insect he had plucked from the air. He took another step toward Namu. "If you were a man," he said, "I'd put this knife where it would hurt."
He tossed the knife to the floor. It hit the wooden boards with a dull thump.
"You're the one who fired the shot at me, aren't you?" Remo asked. He was only five feet from Namu now.
"I fired at the girl. I was unlucky. I killed neither of you," Namu snarled and then with a roar, he lunged at Remo. His giant arms encircled the top of Remo's body, and then Remo, with a laugh, slid out from between his arms and was standing alongside Namu. He put a thumb knuckle into Namu's temple, and the big man fell to the floor.
He was up instantly, wheeling, again advancing on Remo. Remo saw he was coming slower now. He waited until he was up close, and then put a shoe tip in Namu's left knee. He felt jelly under the leather of his shoe. Namu fell again. This time, he screamed, but the scream changed into a shriek: "Imperialist, fascist swine."
He lunged one more time toward Remo, but then went past him scurrying along the counters along the pistol alleys, trying to reach the Magnum and the Police Special that Remo had left at the end. He was too slow.
He arrived at the same time as Remo, and then the ammunition drawer was opened, Namu's ham-like hands were thrust into it, and Remo slammed the drawer shut on Namu's wrists. He could hear the bones crack, and Namu slumped. Remo carefully picked up the Magnum, and fired the remaining shots into the drawer, through the thin wooden partition. The second shot hit bullets and was followed by a string of sharp cracks, Namu shrieked with pain, and then fell to the floor, his hands slowly sliding out of the drawer, the fingers missing, the hands only bloody stumps.