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Warren Murphy: Skull Duggery

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"ESP," Remo said.

"ESP? How you do that?"

"Do what?"

"That thing you did before. Had the pedal to the metal and I wasn't goin' nowhere. You shoulda been yanked along for the ride. Instead, I'm wastin' time talkin' witchu."

Remo made his voice contrite. "Sorry about that."

"You gonna tell me how you do that, or what?"

"Sinanju."

"Spell it. I wanna buy it, learn it, or steal it. Whatever it takes."

"Actually, it takes about fifteen years and seventy tons of rice just to master the basics. Then you really have to buckle down."

"Don't have that kind of time. Now that I got this fine car, I plan on moving up in the world, Jim."

"The name's Remo."

"Thought you said it was Sinanju."

"I can see why you're stealing cars," Remo sighed. "Sinanju is what I do. It's kinda like . . . fahrvergnugen."

"Say what?"

"You know the TV commercials about being at one with your car?"

"Mighta come across it once or twice," Shariff allowed.

Remo waved another car through the intersection. "Well, Sinanju is kinda like that, except you don't need a car."

"That's good," Shariff said, "because you ain't got a car no more. Now, if you don't mind, I'll be gettin' on my way."

Shariff hit the accelerator. Remo was ready. The black car thief had telegraphed his intentions so loudly he might as well have shouted them.

This time, Remo didn't hold the car in place. He let it accelerate. But he stood his ground, keeping hold of the door handle.

As a result, the Buick described an arc in the slippery snow until it spun into the opposite lane, pointing back toward the health-food store where the blond stood watching him, clutching herself against a shivery wind.

"Why you do that for?" Shariff complained. "Now I'm pointin' the wrong way!"

"Because that way's where my car was parked before you interrupted my life with your sociopathic intrusion," Remo said without malice.

"Was that farfarnugat?"

"You must mean fahrvergnugen, and no, you weren't paying attention. Sinanju is what I do. Fahrvergnugen was only a metaphor."

"Yeah, well, metapor this, sucker!"

A machine pistol jumped into the man's hand.

"Nice Uzi," Remo commented.

"You stupid? This here's a Mac-10. Drive-by heaven."

"All guns look alike to me," Remo said, "and don't tell me you're going to shoot me simply because I want my car back."

"No, I'm gonna shoot you because you're holdin' up my life."

"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?"

"No," Remo said flatly.

He felt her hand on his half-bare bicep. "Please?"

Remo looked at her uptilted face, her half-parted, appealing mouth, and considered changing his mind.

He exhaled a long sigh instead.

Gently Remo disengaged the blond's fingers as the youth came out with the last of the rice.

"You sure must eat a lot of rice," Shariff muttered.

"I do," Remo returned. "And if you're standing there with your hand out for a tip, you're gonna freeze in place and the pigeons are going to redecorate your 'do."

"That's the thanks I get for luggin' your stuff all the way to your damn car!" Shariff snarled.

"If you hadn't come along, pal, I'd have done it myself and been home by now."

"Point taken. I'm going."

"Don't stop till you come to a state line or an ocean," Remo called after him.

As they watched Shariff turn a corner, the blond turned to Remo and said bravely, "Where were we?" She bit her lip, waiting for a reply.

Remo said without a trace of feeling one way or the other, "I was about to drive home with my rice and you were about to inventory your cash register for missing twenties. "

One hand flew to her mouth. "My register! Oh, my God!" She bolted into the store.

When, after a moment, she didn't scream, Remo slid behind the wheel and pulled away from the curb. The car bounced violently as the front tire dropped off the curbstone.

Remo pulled into traffic, his face a frown of unhappiness.

He wasn't sure what bothered him more-walking away from an attractive blond or losing a convenient source of rice.

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