Warren Murphy: The Eleventh Hour

Remo produced a penny between forefinger and thumb with a bit of sleight of hand. He held the penny up to the boy's widening eyes. The kid had never seen anything so frightening as that penny in his young life. He looked about fifteen.

"Get the picture?" asked Remo.

"Get it away from me! You can't threaten me like this. It's illegal."

"Threaten? Kid, I'm just showing you the joys of numerology."

"Which?"

"Coin collecting."

"That's numismatics. Numerology is about numbers," the boy said.

"In my league, kid, it's both. The coin means your number is up." And Remo touched the penny to the kid's shiny nose. He screamed, even though Remo made only light contact.

"What do you want?"

"Are you part of this Devil's Night thing?"

"This is my first year. Honest. The trashcan was the first time for me."

"I believe you," Remo said. "Anyone who pitches pennies in the eighties can't be all bad. But if you want a break, you gotta be straight with me."

"Yessir!"

"Good attitude. I want the names of everyone you know who ever set fires on Devil's Night. This year, last year, any year. Anybody you know."

"What for?"

"I'm going to do coin tricks for them. Numismatics, remember?"

"Coin tricks is prestidigitation."

"When I want smart answers, I'll tug on your leash," said Remo.

"Yessir," said the boy, fingering his studded collar. "Only trying to be helpful, sir."

"The names."

"You don't want a whole bunch of names. You want to know one name."

"One name?"

"Yeah. Moe Joakley's. He's the guy behind Devil's Night."

"One guy? Devil's Night has been going for twenty years."

"Moe Joakley. He started it. He keeps it going."

"Why?"

"Who knows? He helps kids to set fires on Halloween. That's all I know. You go up to his place, he gives you a bottle of gas and a book of matches. It's sorta like Halloween, in reverse."

"It's sorta like insanity," said Remo grimly. "This Joakley. Where do I find him?"

"He's on Woodlawn Street." He gave Remo the number.

"Kid, if I let you off with a boot in the pants, will you go home and stay there?"

"Yessir."

"Because if you don't, I'm going to revive another tradition. Pennies on a dead man's eyes. Only they won't be on your eyes. They'll be in your eyes." The youth had a flash of stumbling home with two copper coins where his wide blue eyes were. Home looked great just then. Maybe he'd be back in time for Miami Vice. He didn't walk. He ran.

"I think I straightened that kid out, Little Father," Remo said as he rejoined Chiun.

"Do not speak to me," Chiun said huffily. "You are an orphan. You have no relatives."

"I'm going to call Smith," Remo said, ignoring Chiun's dig. "These arsons have all been the work of one firebug."

"Give my regards to the Emperor Smith and ask him if he has any more inane errands for us to run."

"That's what I want to know too," Remo said, ducking into a smoke-blackened telephone booth.

In the more than a dozen years that Remo had been working for Dr. Harold W. Smith, the two had attempted to work out a workable communications link for when Remo was out in the field. This latest system, Dr. Smith had assured Remo, was utterly foolproof.

Remo had only to punch in a continuous 1. Smith had picked that number because it was the first number and therefore easily remembered. It didn't matter how many times Remo pressed 1. Pressing 1 more than seven times was enough to set the routing sequencer in motion. Before, Smith had told Remo to press 1 a specific number of times. But Remo kept forgetting how many times and Smith had started getting wrong numbers from three-year-olds playing with their home phones. So Smith had made it a continuous 1.

When Remo got Smith on the first try, Remo was amazed. Smith was annoyed. For security purposes, the call was routed through to Divernon, Illinois, microwaved up to a geosynchronous satellite, downlinked to Lubec, Maine, and relayed by fiberoptic cable to an obscure institution in Rye, New York, known as Folcroft Sanitarium, where it rang a secure phone at Smith's desk.

All those switches distorted Remo's voice almost beyond recognition.

"Smitty?"

"Who is this?" demanded Dr. Harold W. Smith in a voice so lemony it could be sold as air freshener.

"Remo."

"You don't sound like Remo," Smith said suspiciously.

"Blame the phone company. It's me."

"Identify yourself, if you are Remo."

"Sure. I'm Remo. Satisfied? Or do you want me to hold a credit card up to the little holes on the receiver?" Remo snarled.

"Okay, it's you," said Smith, who recognized Remo's insubordination, if not his voice. "Is a certain person with you?"

"You mean Chiun?"

"Good. That was a double check. I accept your identification."

"If you're through," Remo said impatiently, "I want to report."

"Have you neutralized the situation in Detroit?"

"Not yet. Listen, Smitty. It's all kids doing this."

"That was our understanding. That's why I instructed you not to kill anyone unless absolutely necessary. Your job is to frighten them off the streets and crush this activity once and for all."

"That could take all night. But there's a better way to go, Smitty. I found out one person is responsible for these fires. An adult. A guy named Moe Joakley."

"What is your source?"

"I caught a little firebug in the act. He told me."

"And you believed him. A teenager?"

"He seemed honest."

"Except for setting fires, is that what you are saying?" Smith said bitterly.

"Look, Smitty. Don't go into a snit too. Chiun is on my case. He's getting tired of this roadshow. You've been sending us hither and yon, catching embezzlers and frightening shoplifters all over America. I thought we were in business to do more than pinch jaywalkers."

"We are," Smith said. "But things are very quiet right now. There hasn't been anything big for you in three months."

"So we're out swatting flies instead of vacationing?"

"This Devil's Night is a big problem, Remo. It's been going on for years, but we've never had you and Chiun available on Halloween Eve before this. This is the perfect opportunity for us to nip this in the bud."

Remo looked out into the night. Fire engines screamed in the distance. They seemed to be everywhere-or trying to be everywhere in Detroit.

"I don't call trying to put out these fires after twenty years of mob rule 'nipping in the bud' exactly," Remo said acidly. "It's going in with defoliants after the forest has burned to the ground."

"Call it what you will. It's your job, Remo. But you may be getting your vacation very soon."

"Are you sure you don't want to send me and Chiun out to patrol the Mexican border for illegal grape pickers after this?"

"Remo," Smith said suddenly. "We may be winning."

"What do you mean 'we'? You're not 'we.' I'm on the front lines while you're sitting on your ass behind your computers pressing keys."

"Remo, the lack of big assignments these past few months may signal the beginning of the end of America's need for CURE. At least, on the domestic front. The Mafia is on the run. Most of the big bosses are behind bars or under indictment. Corporate crimes have been curtailed. Drug use is declining. Crime statistics are down all over. I think the word is finally out: crime doesn't pay."

"Really? You should visit Detroit. It's a city held hostage. And the guy responsible has been getting away with it for a long, long time. His name is Moe Joakley."

"Just a moment," Smith said absently. Remo could hear the busy sound of Smith's fingers at a keyboard. "Remo. Listen to this: Moe Joakley, thirty-eight years old, born in Detroit, unmarried, former state assemblyman."

"That sounds like the guy."