The main wall opened on a sidewalk cafe. A commotion seemed to be breaking out beneath the green-and-white-striped canopy. Three men in ill-fitting suits sitting at a wrought-iron table were exchanging hot words with the lone man at the adjoining table. For his part, the stranger they were speaking to seemed unnaturally calm.
Even across the crowded restaurant, Deferens could see that the man's wrists were exceptionally thick.
Nunzio Spumoni wasn't at all interested in the dispute. His thoughts had turned to his hotel airconditioning.
"I should get back," he said, standing. "I must call Naples."
Deferens only nodded. He was still watching the activity across the room. The thick-wristed man had just said something that seemed to upset the other men.
"Oh, please say goodbye to Piceno for me," Deferens called absently to Nunzio's retreating back. He didn't hear Nunzio's reply. There was something coldly fascinating about the thin young man across the room. His presence alone seemed to chill the humid African air.
Deferens crossed his legs neatly and leaned one elbow on the table. His instincts told him that something profoundly interesting was about to happen. And the instincts of L. Vas Deferens were never wrong.
REMO HAD TRIED HIS BEST. No one could fault him. Not Smith, certainly not Chiun. Not anyone.
He'd found the crowded restaurant after an intensely unpleasant cab ride from the airport. The cabbie had spent the bulk of the trip trying to interest him in the local narcotics and prostitution trades. Remo eventually had the driver drop him off in downtown Bachsburg.
On the street, everyone seemed tied in with some kind of vice. Remo counted six of the seven deadly sins on the way to the restaurant. The last holdout was gluttony, which reared its ugly face the instant he was seated next to a trio of thugs in the outdoor cafd. They were all over six feet tall, weighed well over two hundred pounds and looked as if they could punch their way through a prison wall.
The men had been loud already. It only got worse when Remo's meal arrived.
"Hey, get a load a dat," one of them said to his companions as the waiter set a plate before Remo. His New Jersey accent was thick. "What kinda faggy shit is dat?" He turned his attention to Remo. "Hey, what kinda faggy shit is dat?"
Remo did his best to ignore the question.
The brown rice was clumpy. That was fine. But the steamed fish had a thin aroma of garlic. Remo had specifically requested no seasonings.
"Hey, I'm talkin' to you," called the gangster at the next table.
"And I'm ignoring you," Remo said absently as he frowned at his fish. He didn't look at the man. "And everything you say doesn't have to be prefaced with 'hey,'" he added.
"Hey, what did he say?" the man asked his companions.
"Says he's ignoring you," one of the others said. The first man's face grew at first shocked, then angry.
"Do you know who I am?" he growled at Remo.
Remo finally turned a bland eye to the man, looking him up, then down. "Homo erectus?" he said, uninterested.
The man's face turned purple. "What the fuck did you call me?" Veins bulged on his broad forehead.
The others had at last taken note. Their rat eyes trained fury at Remo.
"He called you a queer hard-on, Johnny," one snarled.
The face of Johnny "Books" Fungillo, of New Jersey's Renaldi crime family, went from fluorescent purple to rage-drained white. He clambered to his feet, flinging his table away. Chairs and pastafilled plates crashed to the floor. People in the immediate area scattered.
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.