"That's even less of a reason," Remo said, and stuck his index finger into the muzzle of the weapon. It didn't quite fit.
"You think I'm jokin'?" Shariff spat.
"Try me," Remo invited.
Shariff hesitated. There was something in the deep eyes of the skinny guy with the thick wrists, something that said he was not afraid.
"Fahrvergnugen work against guns too?" he wondered.
"Ask Volkswagen," Remo said, forcing his finger into the barrel with sudden violence.
With a crack!, the steel gun barrel split along its top seam clear back to the breech, changing the black man's hesitant expression to one of soul-disturbing doubt. His eyes got wide, then narrowed, then widened again as his thinking processes methodically considered and rejected various explanations for the impossible calamity that had befallen his weapon.
Finally he opened his mouth.
"You broke my Mac!" he wailed. "Why you do that?"
"You were about to shoot me," Remo said politely. "Come back to you?"
"Says who?"
"Every telltale muscle in your dishonest body."
"Prove it. It's your word against mine!"
"And it's my car," Remo said, withdrawing his steel-hard but unexceptional forefinger from the burst gun barrel and placing it to the teenager's forehead.
"What you gonna do with that?" Shariff wanted to know, his eyes trying to focus on the threatening digit. He was getting cross-eyed with the effort.
"That depends."
Shariff gulped. "On what?"
"On how fast you return my car to where I left it."
"Six seconds do you?"
"Make it five."
"Done. Hop in. Give you a lift."
"I'll meet you there. I've seen you drive."
"You got it!"
Remo withdrew his finger. The black man's head snapped around. He fixed his slowly uncrossing eyes on the empty parking space and hit the accelerator.
Four-point-nine seconds later, he screeched to a slippery halt before the store and jumped out of the car as if it were on fire.
He looked back up the street.
"I don't see the dude," he muttered to the blond. "Do you?"
A very, very hard finger tapped him on the shoulder once. He jumped, turning in place.
Standing on the sidewalk, not appearing winded at all, was the white dude whose name was Remo Farfarnugat, or something like that.
"Nice parking job," Remo complimented.
"Thanks."
"You only got one wheel up on the sidewalk."
"I'm going now," Shariff said, starting off.
"Not so fast," Remo said, arresting the youth with a hand on his shoulder.
"Hey, I did whatchu said."
"Let's take it a step further. I need help loading up."
"What do I look like-Jimmy Friggin' Hoffa!"
"Want to compare expressions face-to-face?"
"What you need loaded?"
"In there. Rice. Just put it in the trunk."
The black man went into the store. He came out with his arms full of rice in bags.
Remo opened the trunk for him. He went in for another trip.
"I saw what you did," the blond said.
"No, you didn't," Remo said. But he smiled when he said it.
"Okay, I didn't see what you did. But how did you do it?"
"You've heard of fahrvergnugen?"
"Sure. I drive a Jetta."
"Well, this is super fahrvergnugen."
"Amazing. Teach it to me?"