"Ain't none of us going to live to election day," Archie said ruefully. "Well, since we ain't got no guns, we best look for cover, you and me."
Remo noticed that the courtyard had nearly cleared out in a matter of seconds. Only the gang members remained, and one of them was headed straight for Remo and the old man. He was tall and burly and the color of paper bags. On his head he wore a maroon beret. In his waistband he carried a .38 Police Special. As he approached, he pulled out the .38 and pointed it at Remo.
"Hey, white boy," he said, and fired.
Remo caught the bullet. "That's eight," he said, slipping the bullet into his pocket.
"Huh?" Maroon Beret asked as he fired off another shot.
"Nine. Say, it doesn't take much to make you mad, does it?"
"I's born mad," the youth said, and fired again, fen.
Maroon Beret scowled in annoyance. "What you doin' with them bullets?"
"Look, do you want to shoot me or sit around
24
talking? I need fifty bullets, and I don't have all day."
"I want to know why them bullets not be hittin' you," Maroon Beret insisted.
"Because I'm catching them, stupid," Remo said. "Any idiot can see that."
Maroon Beret fired again.
"Eleven. Thanks. Keep 'em coming."
He fired two more shots in rapid succession.
"Twelve, thirteen . . . you're out of bullets."
"Wha' . . ." He clicked uselessly at the trigger. Beads of sweat collected on his forehead. He turned to run.
"Not so fast," Remo said, grabbing him by the ear.
"You gonna kill me?"
"Either me or somebody else," Remo said philosophically. "What difference does it make in the long run?" He squeezed Maroon Beret's ear harder.
"Don't kill me," he whelped.
"Tell you what I'm going to do. You tell me where you got your gun, and I won't kill you now. That's not to say I'll never kill you—"
"That be fine by me. I sure will tell you where I got the gun. That be no skin off my nose. I will tell you anything you want to know. Seek and ye shall find, that is my motto."
"The gun," Remo prompted, sending a flash of pain through Maroon Beret's spinal column. To—
"Toe? His name's Toe?" Remo asked. But it was too late. Maroon Beret's body was slumped forward in front of Remo and vibrating with the im-
25
pact of a barrage of bullets. Then the entire complex exploded into cascades of gunfire. The mayor and her police battalion had left. Through wooden barricades in the windows, tenants took pot shots at the gang members in the courtyard. The courtyard group was firing back at random, both at the people in the windows and at rival gangs. Two Puerto Ricans stabbed each other to death. An old blue-haired woman cackled from her balcony as she struck down a middle-aged black man with a zip gun. As he fell from his window, the middle-aged man let fly with a wild bullet from his .32 Beretta. The bullet ricocheted off one of the buildings and killed one of the Irish gang boys. The Irish boys dropped two of the blacks in retribution. The blacks shot the old blue-haired woman.
Remo was catching bullets. Twelve in one hand, twelve in the other. "Not bad," he said.
Suddenly he was aware of a pungent odor behind him, which he recognized as fear-smell. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the old man cowering inches from his back.
"What are you doing here?" Remo said.
"Where else is there to go? You're catching bullets in your hands. Better you in front than me, I figure."
"Can't you hide somewhere?"
"Where?" the old man asked, and his eyes looked as if he really hoped to find an answer.
"Screw the bullets," Remo said, dumping the fired slugs to the ground. "Too heavy anyway. Come with me."
26
He led Archie to the basement of one of the buildings. "You'll be safe here," he said.
"Oh, yeah?" The old man gestured to a corner of the basement, where a half-dozen Puerto Ricans rose from a huddle, their guns at the ready. "What do you call them? Chickens?"
Remo squinted at Archie. "Did I ever tell you that you remind me of another old pain in the ass?" he said.
The Puerto Ricans lumbered forward. "This here's our turf, man," one of them said.
"Turf? You mean this?" Remo picked up a loose slab of concrete from the floor and thrust it into the man's mouth. The man did a slow spin in the air and came to rest on his face.
"Anyone else not willing to vacate the premises?"
"Yeah. Me," said the man beside Cement Lips, and he began to squeeze the trigger of the pistol in his hand. Before he fired, Remo kicked the gun into position and it went off squarely at the man's own temple, the slug passed through his brain and exited out the far side.
Remo caught the bullet. "Thanks," he said, pocketing it. "One."
"One what?" mumbled Cement Lips.
"One ball," Remo said as he sent the man's testicle into his kidney.
"Hey—hey, what you going to do, man?" one of the three remaining said.
"I'm going to find out where all the guns are coming from. I'll need one of you to tell me and another to verify it."
"So what happens to the third one?"