"I made the pain," Remo began.
Figaroa wanted to say "Oh, yes, I understand and I hope you realize I'm being extremely cooperative," but his vocal cords were locked up.
"The important part..." Remo added slowly. Figaroa quivered in anticipation.
"Is that I can make it stop." Figaroa blinked in agreement.
"Now, Mr. Fig, would you like me to make it, ahem, stop?"
More blinking. "Yes? No? Maybe?" Frantic, teary-eyed blinking.
"Okay," Remo said reasonably. "One blink yes, two blinks no."
With more determination than he had ever mustered for anything in his forty-seven years of life, Michelangelo Figaroa blinked just one time.
"Oh. Okay."
Remo let go, and the pain was just gone. Completely. As if it had never been there.
"You wouldn't try anything sneaky?" Remo wondered aloud.
Figaroa worked his jaw and shrugged, amazed and relieved. He was perfectly okay. His ear wasn't even bleeding. He didn't know what Remo Vu had done to him, but it left him without a scratch.
It also left him as mad as hell. "Figgy, I asked you a question."
Figaroa reached for his backup piece but found his second holster empty. A new collection of metal lumps rolled out of Remo's hand. They were all that was left of Figaroa's precious old 9mm Glock.
"You son of a-!"
"Very nice couple from Arizona." Remo took Figaroa by the ear again.
The first pain had been excruciating, but that was nothing. A new explosion of fire filled Figaroa's skull and cascaded down his spine like a lava river. He started to scream.
Something like a steel vise clamped around his jaw.
"Use your inside voice, Fig," Remo said. He released the ear and the pain vanished. "Eat your dinner."
"What?" Michelangelo Figaroa sobbed.
"You heard me. Eat up."
Figaroa tried to bolt from the booth, not once but twice. He scooted no more than an inch before the pain pinchers were on his ear again. Tears of frustration on his face, he began to eat.
A minute later Figaroa's companions in crime entered the restaurant.
"Hey, Mikey, you okay?" asked a mountain of flesh under an ugly mess of wavy black hair. His partner was a bald cherub, just as wide but a foot shorter. Neither of them looked like they wanted to become friends with the man named Remo.
"I'm fine," Figaroa said, voice cracking with strain. "Leave us alone."
"Hey, Mikey, you eating a salad?"
"Hey, Mikey, you been cryin'?"
Figaroa quivered like a poodle standing at the back door with a bursting bladder. He could have ordered his men to gun down Remo Vu, but the memory of the pain was too vivid. He couldn't risk it. He was a reborn coward.
"Go away," he ordered.
"Sure you okay, Mikey?"
"Get lost, would ya!"
The pair left the restaurant hesitantly. Not until Figaroa had polished off his fourth salad did Remo begin asking questions.
"Tell me about your inventory problems, Figgy," Remo said, sliding the first plate of meatballs and pasta in front of the Mob boss.
"I got to eat this, too?"
"Yes. Answer the question."
"I got no inventory problems." Figaroa distastefully pushed the first forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.
"What about all the freaked-out junkies uptown?"
"Hey, they didn't freak out on my stuff!"
"Yuck. Say it-don't spray it." Remo wiped tomato sauce spatters off the tablecloth in front of him. "I heard you sold poisoned crack. Bad crack. Turned a bunch of peace-loving crack heads into violent lunatics. Four people died, Figgy."
"Maybe it was some of my regular customers that got all wired and went all crazy, but my stuff didn't do it."
Remo watched the mobster closely. "You're telling the truth," he said resignedly.
"Damn straight!"
"Eat your dinner."
"What for I have to eat more of this crap? I told you the truth, didn't I?"
Remo didn't seem to hear him, but one hand was suddenly on Figaroa's ear. The fingers held Figaroa's earlobe with so little pressure that the crime boss almost couldn't feel it. Still, the threat alone would have convinced him to kiss his own sister on the lips. He shoveled in more spaghetti and meatballs.
"Okay, so who did supply the bad stuff?" Remo asked. Figaroa just shrugged.
"You know."
Figaroa swallowed hard. "I don't know, I swear on my mother's grave."
"Got any suspicions?"