Warren Murphy: Mugger Blood

"When I get that Tyrone," Remo said, "I'm going to fix him good."

"Back on that, are you?" Chiun said, just as the first wave of attackers reached them, brandishing clubs and chains, knives and tire irons.

Chiun blended a four-armed lug wrench into the thoracic cavity of one bruiser and drifted to the left, his black robe swirling about him, as Remo went toward the right.

"Damned right," Remo called. "He needs a good lesson. Where are you, Tyrone?"

The air was filled with rocks being thrown by the Saxon Lords, hitting only other Saxon Lords. One thought he saw Remo drifting by him and slashed out wildly with his seven-inch bladed hunting knife, neatly severing the carotid artery of his cousin.

"Where the hell is he?" Remo's voice rang out. "Now I know how Stanley felt looking for Livingstone."

Remo ducked under one flailing tire iron and came up with the tips of his fingers into a throat.

He went around two more of the gang who had started to fight with each other because one had stepped on the other's new platforms and scuffed the leather.

"Tell me if you see Tyrone," Remo said.

"Tyrone, he back dere," said one of the young men, just before his head was laid open by a chain swung by his comrade-in-arms.

"Thank you," Remo said. To the other he said, "Good form."

He was in the heart of the gang now, moving away from the Iron Dukes' building, working slowly across the street.

And on the sidewalk across the street, Big-Big Pickens saw the Saxon Lords disorganized and dropping. He craned his neck to look over the crowd but could see no sign of the white man or the old Oriental. But every few seconds, two more Saxon Lords would drop and he could tell where they had been.

He decided that Newark was really nice this time of year and stuck his icepick back into the protective cork and put it into his rear pocket, then turned and walked away.

"There you are, Tyrone," Remo said. Tyrone was standing alone at the fringe of the crowd. "You've got one helluva nerve."

Tyrone put his hands up to protect himself, just as Chiun arrived.

"Here I thought we were friends and all," Remo said.

"We is. I just findin' Big-Big for you. Dere he goes."

Tyrone pointed to a huge black figure running down the street.

"Thanks, Tyrone. Chiun, you keep an eye on him."

Remo was off then, running after Big-Big Pickens.

The big man heard the roar of the street fight behind him and glanced over his shoulder. He felt a tingle of fear in his shoulders as he saw the thin white man, wearing the black slacks and tee shirt, running after him, gaining on him. Then he stopped.

He nothing but some skinny honkey, he thought. He ducked into an alley, moving back into the shadows, waiting for Remo to enter. He took his pick from his pocket and held it over his head, ready to bring it down into the base of Remo's skull when he entered the alley.

He heard Remo's footsteps approaching on the run. Big-Big coughed, with a smile on his face, just to let the white man know where he was. In case he hadn't seen Pickens enter the alley.

The running stopped. And then there was no sound.

Pickens pressed his back against the brick wall of the building, waiting for Remo to be silhouetted in the dim light at the alley's entrance. But he saw nothing.

He waited a few long seconds that seemed like minutes, and then took a step away from the wall. Remo must be lurking outside the alley waiting for him to come out. Well, they would see who would outwait the other, he thought.

Big-Big Pickens felt a small touch on his shoulder. He wondered what it was. It turned into a tap.

Pickens wheeled around. Remo was standing there, a broad smile on his face.

"Looking for me?" he asked.

Big-Big recoiled in shock, then slashed down with the icepick he remembered holding over his head. Remo moved back slightly, seemingly no more than an inch or two, but the pick missed.

"You're Pickens?" Remo said.

"Yeah, mufu."

"You're the one who did in the old lady? Mrs. Mueller?"

"Yeah. Ah did it."

"Tell me. Was it fun? Did you enjoy it?"

"Nots much fun as giving you dis," said Pickens, running forward like a bull, the pick held close to his stomach, waiting to close on Remo so he could bring one heavy hand up and bury the point deep into Remo's belly.

He looked up and stopped. He could not see the white man. Where was he? He turned. The man was behind him.

"You're really garbage, you know that?" Remo said.

"Ah garbages yo", said Big-Big, charging again.

Remo moved out of his way and tripped the huge man. Pickens sprawled across the alley. The rough concrete surface scratched his cheek.

"You know," Remo said, standing over Pickens. "I don't think I really like you. On your feet."

Big-Big got to his knees and put a hand down to steady himself and lift himself to his feet.

Then he felt a foot smash into his broad nose. He could hear the bones crack and a whoosh of blood come pouring down through his nostrils.

His head snapped backward but he recovered and got to his feet.

"You're the big pick man on the block, huh?" Remo said. "Is your pick as sharp as this?"

And Pickens felt what seemed to be a knifeblade in the left side of his stomach. He looked down for the blood, but he saw nothing. Only the white man's hand slowly pulling away. But the pain. The pain. It felt like a hot poker was lying on his skin, and he knew that hurt, because he had done it to someone one night.

"As sharp as that?" Remo taunted.

Holding his icepick, Pickens turned, flailing about with his right arm, trying to find his tormentor.

But Remo was behind him. And Pickens heard the voice again, mocking him. "As hard as this?"

And there was a blow into Pickens's back. He could feel it stowing in his ribs on the right. And then it was repeated on the left side and more ribs went.

"Did the old lady scream when you killed her, Pig-Pig?" Remo asked. "Did she scream like this?"

He tried not to but the pain in his neck demanded nothing but a scream. There were fingers on his neck and they felt as if they were tearing through his skin and flesh to get to his adam's apple, Pickens screamed. And screamed again.

"Do you think it hurt this bad, Pig-Pig? When you killed her?"

He wheeled around, his hands clutching out in front of him, but they grabbed nothing. His arms closed on empty air. He felt himself being propelled backwards and he crashed into the brick wall like an overripe tomato and slithered to the concrete. His icepick fell from his hand and clattered onto the ground.

There was a terrible pain where his right leg used to be. He tried to move it, but the leg no longer responded. And there was more pain as his left leg gave way with a snap. And then his stomach felt as if it were being torn apart by rats; he could feel what seemed like giant pieces of it being torn away, and he screamed, a long, long, lingering scream that celebrated agony and welcomed death.

And then there was a white face right in front of him and it was leaning close to him, and it said, "You killed her with the pick, animal, and now you're going to learn what it was like."

And then there was a ringing black starshine of pain at his left eye where the icepick was stuck. He could not see left anymore. And then the pain stopped and the big black man fell forward, his head smashing onto the concrete of the alley with a dull empty thud. The last thing he'd seen was that the white man had clean fingernails.

Remo spat down at the body and stepped out of the alley, back onto the sidewalk as a car came roaring down the street past him. It was followed by two more cars.

Remo looked down the street where the Saxon Lords were involved in a massive free-for-all, as it was suddenly illuminated by the onrushing headlights. Coming down the block the other way were three more automobiles.