He didn't expect a knock on the door this late. But Moe went to the door anyway.
"Who is it, please?"
"Trick or treat!" an unfamiliar voice said. It sounded adult.
"Who is it?"
"Is this Moe Joakley?"
"That's the name on the brass plate. But it's after midnight. Go away. I'm out of candy."
"I don't want candy."
"Then what?"
"You know."
"Tell me," Moe Joakiey prompted.
"I want to burn something."
Moe Joakley hesitated. Out his window, the fires were dying down. What the hell? Maybe this could go on all night. He opened the door.
The man at the door was in a funny costume. His chest was bare, and there was a deep bruise around his throat. Must be a new fad, Joakley thought to himself. The punk look must be dead.
"Come on in. You're older than most of the others."
"You the guy that hands out the firebug stuff?" Remo Williams asked coolly.
"Shhh!" said Moe Joakley. "Here, take a bottle."
"I'm not thirsty," said Remo.
"It's not to drink. It's full of gasoline."
"Oh," said Remo.
"If the cops catch you, offer them the bottle. Usually they'll let you go and keep it, thinking it's booze."
"What if they open it first?"
"Then you're on your own. If they question me, I'll do two things. First, I'll admit giving you the bottle, but I'll say you drank the booze and then filled it with gasoline yourself."
"And the second?" Remo inquired politely.
"I'll burn your house down and everyone in it."
"Nice guy."
"Hey, you want to play, you gotta pay. Be on your way now."
"Wait a minute. Don't you want to tell me which buildings I should torch?
"Be creative. Just don't touch the four blocks around this one. These people pay for protection. And no auto companies. They pay for protection too."
"You do this for the money?" Remo said.
"What else? Money. And I like to see things burn."
"I'll try not to disappoint you," Remo said. He twisted off the sealed cap and gasoline fumes rose into the room like a chemical genie. "Gasoline, all right," Remo said.
"High octane. Only the best. Now be off."
"Got any matches?"
"Oh, sure." Joakley dug into the pocket of his purple dressing gown. "Here you are."
Remo reached for the book and accidentally spilled half the bottle over Moe Joakley's ample tummy.
"Watch it! This is pure silk!"
"Sorry," said Remo. "Here, let me help you wipe it off."
"What are you doing? You can't wipe this stuff off with your bare hands."
Moe tried to back away but Remo's hands held him. They were rubbing at the front of his dressing gown so fast they blurred. The gown began to feel strangely warm. A curt of smoke drifted up.
"Hey!" Joakley said again. And then went up in flames with a loud Whooosh!
"Arrgh!" Moe Joakley screamed. "I'm on fire!"
"Does it hurt?" Remo asked solicitously.
"Arrgh!" Joakley said again. Remo took that as a yes.
"Now you know how it feels," Remo said. "The only person who ever cared for me is in a hospital because of you."
"I'm burning. I'm burning to death. You can't let me burn."
"Wanna bet?"
A smell like roast pork filled the roam as Moe Joakley scurried around the room like a flaming pinwheel. And Remo knew that, whatever he did, he couldn't just let Moe Joakley burn. Burning was too easy.
"Get down on the floor," Remo yelled. "Roll on the rug."
Moe Joakley rolled on the rug like a dog rolling in something that stank, only he rolled faster. The gas-fed flames refused to die. In fact, they got worse because the rug caught.