Smith's retort was flat. "No."
Silence clung to the open line. Smith continued manipulating buttons. Soon he would have a back-trace. In the meantime, he would have to stall for time.
"Remo, are you still there?" he asked in a forced tone.
"What's it to you?" Remo said sourly. "All these years I worked for you, you can't find me a few people worthy of the boneyard."
"My computers are full of them," Smith said. "Regrettably, you caught me as I was driving home."
"Sorry. It's still light here."
Smith smiled tightly. Remo was in either the Pacific or the Mountain time zone. He hoped the back-trace program would not take much longer.
"You know what next Thursday is?" Remo asked, low-voiced.
"No, I do not."
"Chiun's birthday. His hundredth birthday. I had no idea he was so old. He was eighty when I first met him. I always thought of him as being eighty. I expected him to live forever." Remo paused. His voice cracked with his next words. "I guess I wanted him to be eighty forever."
Smith's eyes flicked to his computer screen. Why was it taking so long?
"You still there?" Remo asked suddenly.
"Yes, I am. I was distracted by a-"
"You're not trying to trace this call, are you, Smitty?" Remo asked in a suspicous growl.
Before Smith could answer, he heard a second voice coming over the line.
"Gotta use the phone," it said insolently.
"I'm in the middle of talking to my mother, pal," Remo shot back. "Take it down the street."
"Got to use the phone," the voice repeated, going steely with intent.
Smith's gray eyes narrowed. The screen began signaling "TRACE COMPLETED." The location code was about to appear.
"Smith," Remo said quickly. "Gotta call you back. I think I've found someone to while away a few minutes with."
"Remo, wait!"
The line went dead. It didn't click. It simply went dead.
The back-trace program winked out without reading off the all-important location code.
Frowning, Harold W. Smith closed his briefcase and went into the nearest drugstore. Hang the expense, he thought. He needed a roll of the best antacid tablets money could buy. And he would pay well for it.
Even if it meant spending more than a dollar.
Remo yanked the telephone receiver out by its coaxial cable and offered it to the impatient man with the scraggly Fu Manchu mustache.
"Here," he said, flashing the man a just-trying-to-be-helpful grin.
The man's frown became a glower. He had been hanging around this phone booth, glancing at his watch, for ten minutes. When his pocket pager went off, he impatiently accosted Remo. Since he wore a black silk running suit with red stripes and sniffed as if it were cold, Remo had him pegged as a drug dealer. A lot of them did their business through pay phones and beepers these days.
"You dumb shit!" the man bellowed. "What'd you do that for? I need to use the phone."
"So use it," Remo said nonchalantly. "I'll bet if you twist it right, it'll go right up your nostril. Plug that nasty drip. Of course, you'll need two. And this is the only phone booth for miles around. I checked."
The man stared at the dangling steel cable with eyes going mean. One hand snaked to the small of his back. It started back clutching a wicked knife. It went snik! A blade popped out.
"You gonna cut me?" Remo wondered.
"No," the man returned, "I'm gonna disembowel you."
"Thanks for the clarification."
Casually Remo reached up for the man's face.
"Here's a trick I'll bet you never saw before," Remo said.
His splayed fingers took the man by the face, thumb and little finger attaching themselves to the man's cheekbones, the other fingers resting lightly on the forehead. Remo simply crooked his fingers slightly.
Then he brought his hand away.
Mauricio Guillermo Echeverry heard the crack of a sound. It surprised him. The Anglo's hand was in his face so suddenly he hadn't time to react. The crack sounded very near.
Then the hand went away.
Mauricio staggered, clutching the folding glass phonebooth door. Something was wrong. He dropped his knife, as if instinctively understanding it would not help him. Something was very wrong, but he wasn't sure just what. Had the Anglo guy palmed a blackjack and belted him in the face? He hoped no bones were busted. That crack sounded muy serious.
The skinny Anglo stepped back, holding something limp up to the fading light.
Mauricio would have blinked, but lacked the necessary equipment. As a red film fell over his staring eyes, the skinny Anglo made a few passes over the limp thing in his hands. Like a cornball stage magician trying to make an egg disappear.
"Notice there's nothing up my sleeve," the Anglo said in a really irritating tone.
"You ain't got no sleeve crazy guy," Mauricio snarled, his voice sounding funny because he couldn't get his lips to work.
"Just sticking to my act," the Anglo said. "No need to get upset. Here, watch the birdie."
Then he turned it around.
"Look familiar?" the skinny Anglo wanted to know.
Mauricio was surprised to recognize his own face. His closed lids were strangely flat and sunken. He was a little droopy around the lips too, and his handsome Latin face was kind of hangdog. But it was his face. Of that there was no question.