"I'm Bear-Man," the bear said, jerking a thumb at his chest. "I'm the spirit of Wall Street. Every time there's a crash, I come out of hibernation. And my message this time is: it had better not happen again."
"Why tell me?"
"Someone's screwing around with Global stock. You bought a carload of it. If you're responsible, Bear-Man comes back and shreds your face. Rowwrr!"
Bear-Man's claws lifted in the air in warning. DeGoone Slickens backed away until he fell into his chair.
"I don't know what you're talkin' about," he said. "And if you know I bought Global stock yesterday, you should also know that I trade in blocks of stock like that every damn day of the week."
"Just remember my warning. Here," the bear added, ripping something off his chest and tossing it onto the desk.
DeGoone caught it. It was a bear's tooth.
"What's this for?" he demanded.
"It's a magic bear tooth. Put it under your pillow. And if you're pure of heart, I won't visit you again."
And with that the bear lumbered out of DeGoone Slickens' office. Slickens waited until he heard the hum of the descending elevator clearly before picking up the telephone. He started to dial 911. He never dialed the second 1.
"Shoot, what am I doin'?" he muttered. "Who's gonna believe a walkin' tall tale like that?"
He put the phone down and walked to the corner of the room, where a computer sat draped under a plastic cover. He removed the cover and fired it up. When he got a bulletin-board logo that read "MAYFLOWER DESCENDANTS," he attacked the keyboard with two stubby fingers.
Wall Street runs on rumor and speculation. After the first two sightings of the so-called Wall Street Bear, phone lines and faxes hummed with further news of the grizzly apparition as it made its way along New York's financial district. Wall Street, ever sensitive to its image of fiscal sobriety, circled the wagons at every media attempt to obtain a printable quote. But among themselves, Wall Street's movers and shakers buzzed about the phenomenon known as Bear-Man.
They also took precautions, under the guise of preparing for possible investor backlash over the near-meltdown that Business Week had christened "Dark Friday."
So it was that when Remo Williams approached the Looncraft, Dymstar d Building, he could see the sentinel security guards stationed throughout the lobby.
He shifted the formaldehyde-scented paper-covered bundle under his arm and changed plans. The phone booth outside the building was out. It was one of those alcove-style stations. Remo had no stomach for changing in a glass booth anyway. He had never understood how Clark Kent avoided getting hauled off to the can for public exposure.
Remo found a narrow alley between two buildings and undid the package. He stepped into the bear suit like a boy climbing into his Dr. Denton's through the seat trap. His loafers fitted snugly into the attached bear feet. His fingers slid into the dangling bear paws. That left only the hard part.
Remo reached back to the flap of bear hide that was supposed to go over his head. The weight of the hard bear's head mounted on top pulled it halfway down his scratchy back. The bear paws didn't make grabbing it any easier.
"Damn Chiun and his wild hairs," Remo grumbled.
Finally he snagged the bear's head by its black nose. He pulled the whole rig up and over his head, positioning the ragged eye holes so he could see clearly. Or as clearly as it was possible to see with stiff bear hairs sticking into his field of vision.
Now garbed as the ferocious Bear-Man, Remo jumped out of the alley and padded for the Looncraft Tower. Startled passersby fled. One offered him five hundred dollars for his autograph. Remo ignored him.
Remo went up the side of the building like a bear after a honeycomb. But the honey Bear-Man wanted was on the thirty-fourth floor.
Remo clung to the thirty-fourth floor and slipped along the tiny ornamental ledge with extra care. Not only were the attached claws getting in his way, but the thought of taking a thirty-four-floor nosedive to his death while dressed as a bear created vivid images in his mind.
He found the trading floor on the north side of the building.
Getting in presented a problem. Not only was the window glass fixed, but a crowd was gathering inside. Laughing traders gaped at him like they were at a zoo. One separated a honey-and-peanut-butter sandwich and slapped one slice, honey-side-out, against the glass in front of Remo's snout.
That did it. Bear-Man reared back with one paw and punched the glass.
It cracked like so much ice. Remo leaned in. He took the pane in with him in one crunchy shatterproof section.
As Remo got off the floor and brushed himself off; the LD shrank back, their laughter turning nervous and gaspy.
"Oh, my God!"
"It's true!"
"He's for real."
One trader approached cautiously. "Are you a bull or a bear?"
"Are you blind or just stupid?" Remo snapped back.
"It's true!" a woman gasped. "It does talk!"
"I meant are you bullish or bearish?" the trader pressed.
"Definitely bearish," Remo growled. "And I'm looking for your boss, Looncraft."
"Oh, he just stepped out," someone said. "Why do you want to see him?"
"Bear business," Remo said, lumbering forward.
The knot of traders separated before him like water beading on a hot skillet. Remo stumbled around the trading room, his clumsy bulk knocking over phones and Rolodexes, and once, a computer terminal.
Every eye followed him. A few pointed out that when the bear passed certain computer screens, the phosphorescent letters swam like water disturbed by a stick.
P. M. Looncraft's office was clearly labeled. It was also constructed of glass-walls and door. Remo put his big black nose to the glass because his vision was obscured by hair.
The desk was unoccupied. P. M. Looncraft was definitely not in.
"Okay," Remo said, facing his wide-eyed audience. "When's he due back?"
Glances were exchanged. Shoulders jumped in unknowing shrugs.
"No one knows," a woman volunteered.
"Okay" Remo, said snapping off a bear claw and tossing it to the woman who spoke. "You tell him I was here. I'll be back."
A shaky male voice lifted above the crowd, warning, "No, you won't."
Remo tilted his bear helmet doggy-style, the better to see the source of the warning.
A blue-uniformed security guard stepped through the crowd, a gun held before him. The gun was as shaky as his voice, maybe shakier, Remo saw. Remo rested defiant paws on his furry hips.