"To scoff?"
"I came to ask questions."
"Ah, you seek wisdom."
"In a manner of speaking."
"Walk with me," Moorcock said, and started back down the center aisle.
"Aren't you going to take in your collection?"
Moorcock threw a glance at the urns, then said, "No one will steal from me."
"That may not be a modern attitude, but it's different."
"What wisdom do you seek?"
"I'm looking for someone."
"Who?"
"A white kid, about ffteen, or a black kid the same age," Remo said.
"You have no particular preference?" Moorcock asked. Remo saw that his eyes were the same as they had been in the Martin house, dark and intense, with a lot of white showing.
"Either or," Remo said. "There were two of them. One or both might have ducked in here."
"You were chasing them?"
"I was watching them, and I lost them. They came this way."
They reached the front of the church and stopped. Moorcock turned to face Remo.
"They did not come in here."
"Would you tell me if they had?"
"Why were you chasing them?"
"They were consummating a drug deal."
"Are you a policeman?"
"No."
"Why do you care, then? If they, or anyone, wishes to indulge in drugs, why should anyone stop them?"
"Is that one of your modern beliefs?"
"A minor one. That our bodies are ours and we may do what we wish with them."
"Oh, that's good. Original."
"You came to scoff."
"I came here looking for two kids," Remo said with exasperation.
"And I told you they are not here."
Remo considered pressing the self-styled minister a little harder, but at that moment he saw something move behind the man.
"Is there a back door to this place?"
"Yes, but…" Moorcock started to say, and then glanced quickly toward it.
"Thanks," Remo said, rushing past him.
Whoever had been hiding behind the rear door was gone. It had to have been one of the two kids, but which one?
It didn't really matter, he decided. The black kid was just a junkie, and the white kid— Lou's kid— he could find again whenever he wanted. Just then he had another idea.
He went back to the alley where the drug deal had been made. Starting from that point, he began to walk the ghetto streets, looking for a junkie or a dealer, whichever came first.
He drew a lot of looks and some sotto voce remarks, but there was something about this white man that kept anyone from approaching him. The way he walked, he seemed to be just waiting for someone to make a move on him. The eyes riveted on Remo seemed to say that this was one crazy white dude, and nobody wanted a piece of him.
It wasn't long before Remo found a junkie, a wasted-looking man in his twenties with a runny nose, sitting in a doorway.
"Hey, yo, man," the junkie said. He was so dirty, he might have been white or black. "Got any money, man? A dollar? A dime?"
"Neither one will buy you the high you need, friend," Remo said, crouching down to the junkie's level. "I've got a high you can get without a needle. A high you'll never believe."
"Shit," the junkie said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
"I'm serious. But it doesn't come free."
"Aw, man. I ain't got no money," the junkie said in obvious despair.
"This high doesn't cost money."
"You ain't shittin' me? What's it gonna cost me?"
"A name."
"What name? Mine?"
"A dealer."