"My shooting gallery," Nemeroff said. "And my weapons are here." He opened the door to another room and flicked on the light. Rack after rack of machine guns, automatic rifles, bazookas, pistol display-cases, knifes, swords, bolos, machetes, all met Remo's eyes.
"Equipped for anything," Remo said.
"Actually," Nemeroff said, "this is just hobby material for me. I have a factory in West Germany which provides, on demand, any large store of weaponry I might require. But go ahead, test the merchandise."
Remo went to one of the wall racks and looked at the handguns. They were clean and oiled; there was not a trace of dust on any of them. From the rack, he selected a .357 Magnum and a German Luger. He hefted the Luger in his hand, then replaced it on the rack and took down a .38 calibre Smith and Wesson police revolver. It had a familiar feel as he balanced it in his hand.
"My own favourites, exactly," Nemeroff said. "Come. The ammunition is at the firing line. You must show me your proficiency."
He took Remo by the elbow and led him back to the first of the six gun stalls. He pressed a button on the side of the stall and a panel in its polished formica surface slid back, revealing racks of ammunition.
"Help yourself," he said.
"Everything for the tourist," Remo said.
"Yes, of course," He settled himself into a seat five feet away from the loading table and watched as Remo drew careful arm On the stuffed dummy at the other end, holding the Magnum carefully at arm's length. Remo squeezed the trigger. The shot felt true. The dummy shuddered as the slug hit. Above the figure of the dummy, outlined on the wall, came another silhouette of the dummy. A flashing red light on the silhouette, just below the heart, showed where Remo's bullet had gone.
"Good shot," Nemeroff said. "Particularly with someone else's weapon."
Remo was somehow annoyed that he had missed the heart. He realized that he was wrong to aim, but he did not know why. He extended the gun in front of him and slowly began to move it from side to side, trying to get the feel of the dummy, and then when he felt zoned in, he squeezed off three shots more, rapid fire, and the forehead of the silhouette lit up with three flashing lights, each within an inch of another.
"Quite good," the baron said. "The Magnum must be your weapon."
His voice sounded muffled and Remo turned. Standing behind him, alongside the baron, was Namu. In his hand, he held a tray of doughnuts and the baron was busy stuffing one into his mouth.
Namu stared at Remo, smirking. Again, unaccountably, Remo hated him.
"Don't you approve of my shooting, Sambo?" he asked.
Namu was silent.
"I'm sorry, Baron," Remo said. "I forgot he doesn't speak until you pull his chain."
He turned again to the target and picked up the Police special, flipping bullets into it with practiced hands. "This is in your honour, Namu," he said, and emptied six shots, rapid fire. All hit into the groin of the dummy.
He placed the gun down and turned. Namu stood there, still silent, but his eyes glowered with hatred.
"Very, very good, Mr. Kenny," Nemeroff said.
"Sorry, Baron," Remo said. "These are not my weapons."
"No? What is?," Nemeroff asked, and Remo wished he knew. He just knew that the guns, for all his apparent proficiency, had not felt right in his hand. Somehow he knew too that a weapon to be used best, must feel as if it were a part of him, not just a tool. The pistols seemed like tools.
Remo walked back into the storeroom, without answering the baron's question. Nemeroff, his mouth still crammed with doughnut, and Namu followed, watching Remo from the doorway as he looked through the racks of knives.
He held them by their handles, then by their tip; he felt their weight in the palm of his hand. He replaced those that did not feel right. Finally, he had selected four. He had done it individually and was surprised to see that all four were almost identical to each other and to the knife he had found in his hotel room.
He walked back outside, brushing past Nemeroff and under the nose of Namu, but he was able to see Namu look questioningly at Nemeroff who paused, then gave a slight nod of his head.
The alley on the far right of the range was smaller than the others, with a target only twenty feet away, and Remo stepped up to the opening, carrying the four knives by their tips in his left hand.
He reached down with his right hand, took a knife, hefted it once in the palm of his hand, and then raising his hand over his head, fired it at the stuffed dummy. It hit into the waist and buried itself up to the hilt.
He threw the second next to the first, and the third next to the second. He held the fourth knife in his left hand, tip downward, looking at the three knives which formed a small triangle at the center of the target dummy. Then with a flash of his hand, he fired the knife underhand, and it buried itself deeply between the other three knives.
"Bravo," cried Nemeroff. But the man who thought he was PJ Kenny realized something else. Knives were not his natural weapon either.
"It appears your skill with the gun is exceeded only by your skill with the knife," Nemeroff said.
Remo walked down the stall, toward the target.
Behind him, Namu stepped to the firing line, his eyes on Nemeroff, who had sunk back into his chair, munching on the last of the doughnuts. Nemeroff nodded.
Remo reached his hand forward to pull a knife from the dummy, when he heard it. His ears measured the thrust, the direction, the speed and the force; he froze and the knife flashed through his open fingers, impaling itself deep into the dummy, next to the knife Remo had reached for.
He turned. Namu stood twenty feet away, three knives in his left hand. Remo looked quizzically toward Nemeroff, who said; "Namu is proud of his prowess with the knife. He feels his reputation threatened by your prowess."
"He can have his reputation. The knife is not my weapon," Remo said.
Namu spoke. "Perhaps, Master, the problem is not in the weapons but in the heart." The big man was poised on the balls of his feet, waiting, Remo knew for a word from Nemeroff.
"Explain yourself, Namu," Nemeroff said.
"Cowardice," Namu said. "It is cowardice that makes Mr. Kenny reluctant to decide on weapons. I have heard from the Black Panthers in the city that all white Americans are cowards, who can kill only with armies."
Remo laughed aloud. Nemeroff looked at him, a grin on his horse face. Namu spoke again. "Let me test him, master."
Nemeroff watched Remo's face for emotion, but there was none. He looked at Namu and saw only blind, unreasoning hatred. "You forget yourself, Namu," Nemeroff said. "Mr. Kenny is not only our guest, he is our partner."
"That's all right, Baron," Remo said. "If he was trained by the Panthers, I've got nothing to worry about."
"As you wish," Nemeroff said. He nodded to Namu. The big man turned again toward Remo and lifted a knife into his right hand.
"Wait, Namu," Nemeroff called. "Mr. Kenny must pick his weapons."
"I have my weapons," Remo said.
"Where?"
"My hands," Remo answered, and he knew the answer was right. Not guns, not knives, just hands.
"Hands against Namu?" Nemeroff was incredulous.
Remo ignored him. "Let's go, Rastus. I've got a date in town."
"With the English trollop?" Namu said, raising the first knive slowly over his head. "It is only by chance that she is still alive."