The youth straightened up, suddenly indignant. "You want me to do something for it?"
"It didn't really seem like a lot to ask," Remo waffled.
"My work is for Krishna," the youth said witheringly. "We shun the greed of the West. Our lives are spent in contemplation, not in selling our labor for cash."
"Okay. It was only an idea."
"A dependence on money and material gain leads to corruption of the spirit. When the spirit is corrupt, evil takes root. Greed breeds crime. The disintegration of humanity is…"
"All right already. I'll find somebody else."
The youth dug into the folds of his gown. "Wait a minute. I want you to see something." He pulled out a shiny black automatic. "Do you know what this is?"
"I can take a wild guess," Remo said.
"I have been forced to protect myself against the evildoers of the world with this weapon. It pains me to carry it, but there are those who would actually rob the donations I've collected."
As he spoke, he fingered the gun lovingly. "If it weren't for this, I'd be helpless," he said.
"You're breaking my heart."
The young man's eyes never left the automatic. "It's really a man-stopper, you know," he said dreamily. "If I decided to use it, I could get anything I wanted with this baby. All I'd have to do would be…" Slowly he turned the barrel of the gun to face Remo.
"That's it, huh?"
"You got it. Where's that roll of bills you were flashing?"
"In my pocket. And it's going to stay there, Gunga Din."
That was the point at which Remo stuck his finger into the barrel.
Things happened fast after that. The Krishna squeezed the trigger, but by the time the bullet left the gun, Remo had twisted the barrel into a loop pointing skyward.
"How'd you do that?" the Krishna gasped.
"Like this." Remo picked the young man up by his ankles and twirled him into the configuration of a pretzel.
"It's only money!" the boy yelled, trying to disentangle himself. "In the end, money isn't worth much."
"Neither are you," Remo said. With a little spin, he thrust his arms upward. The boy spun twenty feet into the air.
"Establishment brutality!" the Krishna squeaked. He seemed to hover a speck in the sky.
Remo stood silently on the ground below, his arms folded.
"Well? Aren't you going to catch me?"
"Nope." Remo said.
"Then what's going to happen?" the youth called.
"Ever drop an egg into an empty swimming pool?"
The Krishna screamed. He negotiated as he descended. His saffron robe was wound around a pair of skinny legs. "Okay," he said huskily, trying to keep his voice calm. "You win. Here's the deal. You catch me, and I walk away, all right?"
Remo considered. "I think I'd rather watch the old egg trick." Remo slapped him skyward again.
"The can. You can keep the can with all the donations in it."
"No thanks. Money is far too evil and corrupting. Death is much more satisfying. Especially yours."
The boy was sobbing. "What do you want, mister? I'll do anything." He was low enough now that passersby could see his red jockey shorts beneath his robe.
"Anything?" Remo asked.
"Anything. Please, mister. Just catch me."
A second before impact, Remo stuck out his toe, grazing the boy's back so that he turned in a gentle somersault that broke his fall. Then Remo caught him by the scruff of the neck.
"You said anything, right?"
"Yeah," the youth said sullenly.
"Yes, sir," Remo corrected. "Or I send you right back up."
"Yes, sir!" the boy shouted.
"Good," Remo said. "You've got potential."
"For what?"
"The army. You're going to join."
"The army? Are you crazy?"
Remo exerted the smallest pressure on the base of the boy's neck.
"I mean, yes, sir!"
A yellow taxi pulled up alongside them. "Now I get a cab," Remo sighed. He handed the driver a hundred-dollar bill. "Take this twerp to the Army Recruiting Center," he said.
"I got no change," the cabbie said.
"Call five of your buddies on duty to come here, and you can keep it." He shoved the boy into the back seat and slammed the door. "Uncle Sam needs you," he said in parting.
Like a kick in the pants, Remo thought after the cab pulled away. Well, what the hell. It was worth a try, and it was better than killing the kid. Even a professional assassin couldn't go around murdering every cretin who rubbed him the wrong way.