"Freaking zipper. It's all your fault."
"Use buttons," Remo said. "Or a fig leaf. In your case, maybe a grape leaf will do."
Bonelli's trigger finger moved back and forth several times before he noticed it was empty. "Gimme that gun."
"Sure," Remo said, crushing the Colt into dust and sifting it into Bonelli's open hand.
"Smart shit," Bonelli muttered. He kicked the girl under the desk. "Hey, you. Get outta here. I got business."
The satin ovai wriggled out backwards and rose. It belonged to a statuesque blonde who carried the imprint of Bonelli's foot on her chest. "What about me?" she groused, her face contorted with anger. Then she saw Remo, and the anger disappeared.
Remo often had that effect on women. He saw her appraising eyes warm with approval as she took in the slender, taut body with the abnormally thick wrists, the well-muscled shoulders, the clean-shaven face accentuated by high cheekbones and long-lashed dark eyes, the thick black hair. She smiled.
"You come here often?" she asked.
"Only when I have to kill someone."
"You're cute."
"Get out of here!" Bonelli yelled. The girl sauntered away slowly, giving Remo the full benefit of her undulating posterior.
"What's this 'kill me' crap?" Bonelli spat. "What kind of talk is that?"
Remo shrugged. "That's what i'm here for."
14
"Oh, yeah?" With a quick motion, Bonelli yanked a knife out of his jacket and sliced the air with it. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah," Remo said, catching the knife by the blade. He tossed it upward in a spiral. The knife drilled a neat hole in the ceiling. Plaster dust sprinkled down on Bonelli's head and shoulders.
"Smart shit," Bonelii said. "Hey, what're you doing?"
"I'm taking you for a ride," Remo said, imitating ail the gangsters he'd seen on late-night TV movies. He hoisted Bonelli over his shoulder.
"Watch it, creep. This here's a silk suit. Mess up my suit, I'm going to have to get serious with you."
Remo tore the pockets off the jacket. Two knives and a stiletto clanked out.
"Okay, buddy," Bonelli raged. "You asked for it now. Shorty! Shorty!"
"Shorty?" Remo guessed his cargo's weight at 110, tops. Bonelli was barely five feet tall. "Shorty? What's that make you, Paul Bunyan?"
Bonelli sneered. He jerked his thumb toward the window. "That's Shorty," he said.
The small overhead window was filled by a face. The face had little pig eyes and a nose so broken it looked like a ball of putty that had been run over by a tank tread. Soon the tops of two massive shoulders edged into the window. The pane burst in a shower of glass. Spiderweb cracks appeared in the window's corners and spread into the room, widening with thunderous claps. Then the wall gave and Shorty shot through the opening like a sausage with a lit fuse.
"You called, boss?"
"Yeah. Take care of this smart shit."
Shorty lumbered over to Remo. "This one?"
11
"Who else?" Bonelli roared. "There's you, me, and him in this room. You thinking about offing me?"
Shorty's face fell with humility. "Oh, no, boss. You're the boss. ! wouldn't do that to you."
"Then you're maybe thinking about offing yourself?"
Shorty pondered for several moments, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then his forehead smoothed and he broke into a happy grin. "Oh. I get it. That's a joke, huh, boss? Off myself. That's funny, boss. Ha, ha "
"Shut upi"
"Okay, boss."
"Then who's that leave, Shorty?" Bonelli asked patiently.
Shorty looked around the room, counting on his fingers. 'Well, there's you. You ain't the one. And there's me. . . ha, ha, that was funny, boss."
"Who else, stupid?"
Shorty lumbered around until he faced Remo. "That leaves him," he said with conviction. He pulled back his oaken arm and blasted it forward.
"Right," said Boneili.
"Wrong," said Remo. He flicked out two fingers to deflect the blow. Shorty's arm kept going, swinging around in a circle and finally landing in the middle of his own face, causing his oft-broken nose to disappear entirely. He fell forward with a deafening thud.
"So much for Shorty," Remo said as he lifted Bonelli again, this time by his belt, and carried him through the wrecked wall, dangling at his side.
"The belt, watch the belt," Bonelli said. "It's Pierre Cardin."
Remo began scaling the sheer wall of the ware-
16
house. Bonelli looked down once and screamed. "Holy freaking shit," he yelled. "Where are you taking me?"
"Up." Remo climbed the wall methodically, his toes catching on the bricks of the building, his free hand gently guiding ahead and working with gravity to pull him upward.
"May the saints curse you," Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli sobbed. "May your days be filled with suffering and hardship. May your mother's lasagne be laced with cow turds. May your children and your children's children-"
"Hey, zip it up, will you? I'm trying to kill somebody. You're wrecking my concentration."
"Always with the smart shit. May your grandchildren be smitten with boils. May your wife lie with lepers."