Chapter 2
 

His name was Remo, and he had been waiting for the better part of an hour for his target to go to lunch. Not that he was complaining; he had nothing better to do and nowhere to go, at least not for several hours yet. He wasn't the one who enjoyed carping, and the one who did wasn't expecting him home anytime soon. He sat on the uncomfortable cushioned chair provided by the bank, watching customers come and go.

No one noticed him. Noon on Thursdays was always busy -- working people cashing paychecks, senior citizens getting grocery money. The man sitting quietly near the door was rather nondescript, about six feet tall, good build but not really muscular. People rushing past had no time to observe his unusually thick wrists, certainly not to glance into his face and note the cruel dark eyes. He'd been worried about the receptionist sitting at her desk on the other side of the entrance, but his shark diet appeared to be producing the desired results. She had glanced at him a few times, then her gaze seemed to slide around him. She hadn't even asked him if he was being helped.

He had a good view of the man's office. There had been some kind of last-minute meeting. Remo shrugged; maybe the guy would still follow his usual pattern of leaving the bank for lunch on the Common. If not, he'd catch him after work. No problem, none of this was a challenge anyway; it was an example of his boss getting his money's worth.

"Can't stand to see me idle, can you Smitty?" Remo had been walking through the kitchen of Castle Sinanju that morning when the phone rang.

The nasal voice coming from the receiver could have curdled milk. "It wouldn't have been practical to send you any great distance for this assignment. However, since it's in Boston, you may as well take care of it."

"Want me to take the bus? Saves on gas. Maybe I could take the car, find people in the neighborhood who commute? I could start a car pool."

Dr. Smith had been head of CURE, a secret organization that worked outside the Constitution, since it had been created in the sixties by a young president concerned about the country's survival in the face of corruption. He had been in charge of Remo, CURE's killer arm, for a slightly shorter period, but long enough to identify and ignore his attempts at humor. He gave Remo the target's name, work and home addresses, and was midway through explaining why Mr. Pruitt needed elimination when he realized Remo had hung up.

Remo had gotten bored with the whys of a job long ago, and when Smitty began running on set the receiver down noiselessly and slid silently out of the house.

Watching the parade of people go by, he was actually enjoying himself. It wasn't often he got to see people going about their normal lives. He'd never spent much times in banks anyway. As an orphan, he didn't have parents to open his first savings account, to lead him to the teller's window with a fistful of coins and crumpled bills proudly laid down for the teller to pick up. There had been a brief time he cashed paychecks, when he was a cop, but he had always been in a hurry. For many years now Upstairs took care of money, dispensing rolls of cash or credit cards as the situation demanded.

The only thing bugging him was the bowls of lollipops -- one by each teller's window. Remo hadn't been able to eat candy since becoming Sinanju; it had been many years since he craved any anyhow. Though he knew it wasn't good for anyone, that wasn't the problem. He'd had the idea they were for children, a distraction while their parents conducted business. Instead he'd seen adult after adult grabbing them, sometimes by the fistful. Pretty stupid. Weren't they cheap enough? Didn't grocery stores still sell them in huge bags? Maybe he'd ask Pruitt, before he took care of him.

He shook his head. There went another one. The young lady was wearing skin tight, low cut jeans, and a tank top she must have borrowed from her sister -- her little sister. Short spiky hair, dyed black, enough black eyeliner to make her resemble a raccoon, and enough piercings for a camp of gypsies completed the look. Her back pocket bulged with lollipops as she wiggled past him, love handles bouncing out over the jeans

"You may be dressed for Halloween," Remo muttered, "but you're a little old for all that candy."

He picked up the penny that he'd noticed on the table next to his chair. Casually, he balanced it on his finger and thumb and flicked it without seeming to aim. The coin connected squarely with the jiggling rump with the force of a BB pellet. She screamed and whirled in place, clamping her hands to her backside. Lollipops spilled out of her pocket.

Eyes wild, she looked around, but there was no one within ten feet of her. Remo watched while the receptionist asked her if she was alright.

The girl was rubbing her backside. "You better check, you must have bees in here or something. I think I got stung." She flounced out of the bank, leaving the lollipops scattered on the floor.

A small, thin, satisfied smile brightened Remo's face momentarily. He was just wondering if it would be worth getting up to search for more pennies when he sensed movement from one corner of the bank. "About time."

People were spilling out of the guy's office. One of them called back over her shoulder, "Still time for lunch, sir?"

"Oh, I think so." The cold precise voice preceded its owner out of the office. "There's nothing now that can't wait an hour. I have my cell phone should an emergency arise."

Remo stared as the target walked out of his office with a steady, hurried gait, heading towards the front doors. His eyes widened. Of all the...

*****

Arthur Pruitt walked briskly, reaching the curb just as the light changed, which meant he could cross Tremont without breaking stride. He was a tall, spare man, prematurely gray. Even his skin had a grayish tinge and neither tanned nor burned no matter how many outside lunches he took. He pretended not to hear the tellers discussing his taste in clothes, clucking amongst themselves. Why did such a colorless man have to pick such drab clothing, they'd whisper, rolling their eyes. Every day, same thing -- gray suits,white shirts; pity he wasn't married. A wife would never let her husband leave the house without at least a colorful tie to break the monotony.

He was making good time, he noted. Half an hour round trip, fifteen to eat, leaving fifteen minutes to settle back in his office before work demanded his attention again. And soon, maybe, an early retirement. If he stepped things up. Pruitt began to weigh the risks against the benefits of moving his plan along faster. He was so deep in thought he would never have heard an ordinary person come up beside him. Fully alert, he still would have missed the man whose voice, coming suddenly right next to his ear, made him twitch and break stride. He had no idea that he was about to receive a much earlier retirement.

"Hey! Hey! Say something, anything."

Pruitt increased his speed, barely glancing at the man who'd accosted him. His heart began to race; not surprising, he thought, between the sudden fright and the exercise. Somewhere deeper, a more primitive part of his brain approved. Death had spoken to him, and he was trying to escape.

Unfortunately, Death showed no sign of slowing down or giving up.

"C'mon, please? You look alike, you walk alike, I wanna see if sometimes you even talk alike."

Pruitt was grateful for the crowds; he could see a few policeman in the distance. He altered his usual route to get closer to them. He risked a longer look at the lunatic matching him step for step without even breathing hard. Big enough to be dangerous, too clean and healthy for a druggie or other type of street person. Was this some kind of a pick up? His New England soul was deeply offended. Not at the homosexuality. But really, in the middle of a week day, in the middle of the Common? Some people had no work ethic! He decided to take a stand.

"Young man," he began. Actually, they were probably about the same age, Pruitt decided. Still, he'd take for himself the superiority of age. "I don't know what you think your business is with me . Maybe you've mistaken me for someone else..."

He stopped. The lunatic's smile had become broader, if anything. What really disconcerted him was the way it contrasted so much with the man's deep set, flat eyes. Dead eyes, he thought. Yes! chimed in the deeper part of his brain. Death is here. Why have we stopped moving?

"Not an exact match." The stranger was looking at Pruitt carefully. "Sort of Niles to Smitty's Frasier. He's more lemony where you're just prissy."

"You have mistaken me for this Smitty person then?"

"Oh, no, I could never mistake you for Smitty. 'Specially not in the ethics department. You just resemble him on the outside. Say," the lunatic said, pointing to Pruitt's brown-bagged lunch. "you don't happen to have any prune whip yogurt in there?"

It was plain vanilla, but Pruitt saw no need to enlighten his unwelcome companion. He only ate stewed prunes twice a week, for regularity, but he wasn't about to share that information either. Did he mention ethics? Pruitt decided to walk toward the police again He chanced a look back. Good; he wasn't following.

"Smitty knows what you've been up to. He sent me."

Pruitt sank onto a nearby bench without looking back. The man hadn't spoken very loud, it seemed, but his voice carried. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to get any closer to the law. This Smitty couldn't be from the Bank Examiner's Office though; he wouldn't have an agent accost him outside the bank. Pruitt was certain he'd covered his tracks very well. He had a flash of inspiration. This Smitty was a criminal. The young man with the dead eyes had to be some sort of thug. He had been sent to take Pruitt to his boss, where he'd be made an offer to cut this Smitty in, and in return Smitty would let him live.

He realized his hands were clammy and his heart was beating so hard it was a wonder it didn't break his ribs. The deeper part of his mind had been steadily increasing adrenaline production. Fight or flee, fight or flee, it chimed with the beating of Pruitt's heart. I vote flee!

"My boss doesn't approve of embezzling." Somehow, the thug was sitting next to him. Pruitt hadn't even felt the bench shift from the added weight. "He does admire your computer skills though. I think he said he'd picked up a few pointers. I wasn't really paying attention though."

Pruitt glanced sideways. The man sounded cheerfully bored. Somewhere inside him a small voice was hoping wistfully that Pruitt would at least fall to the ground, curl up, pretend to be dead. Not that it held any hope this would work. Pruitt didn't notice the voice enough even to consciously ignore it; his higher brain was too busy plotting. Maybe he could cut this young man in, buy him off. Maybe they worked for Securities and Exchange...

"You're thinking of cutting me a deal. Nope, won't work. I work outside the system, special cases only."

Pruitt had been taking deep breaths. His heartbeat had lessened; he had stopped shaking. He felt a rush of euphoria. There was always a way out. His deeper brain had turned the adrenaline off in disgust; it was wishing there was a way to disable the pain centers as well, for what was sure to come.

"I say I haven't done anything. If you believe I have, send the bank examiners in, try to prove it." He leaned back, smiling. He'd spent years developing a system that siphoned off funds, a little at a time, to banks in the Cayman Islands. He'd kept nothing here, continued to live the same routine, frugal life.

"Smitty said something about how it could be proved, but it might not be wise if your methods became known. They're too good. Better they die with you."

Did he really say die? Pruitt wasn't given much time to process this. He never saw the stranger's hand move, but he felt the finger tapping his breastbone. A sudden, sharp pain. Then he no longer felt anything at all.

*****

Remo entered Castle Sinanju whistling, a package of rice in his hands. He'd completed his mission and remembered his errand for Chiun. The whistle died away. The man's appearance had creeped him out a bit. The way Smitty treated him, you'd've thought getting to eliminate his double would have been a dream come true. Instead, he'd made it quick and relatively painless. Maybe Chiun was right. Maybe he didn't know how to enjoy himself.

"Dammit!"

"You forgot the rice." The Master of Sinanju's voice floated up from the fish room in the basement of their Cambridge condominium.

"You could at least make that a question," Remo groused. "It just so happens I didn't forget." He set the bag down on the counter. And what did Chiun know anyway? Fish watching was his idea of entertainment.

"There is a problem?" The fragile-seeming old man appeared in the kitchen doorway with the silence of an apparition. He cocked his head.

"I had a question for the guy I took care of earlier. Not a question to do with the business. But I forgot to ask him."

Chiun raised a delicate eyebrow. "You may ask me. Since you have already asked me a multitude of inane questions over the years, what is one more."

"Okay, okay." Remo explained about all the people in the bank taking lollipops. "Why do they bother? They're adults, can't they buy them cheap enough?"

Chiun shook his head. "They pick them up for the same reason pigs, when set loose to forage, root for the acorns which are closest to hand. Why should they travel across the clearing if food is plentiful nearby. If I have answered your philosophical question of the day, now perhaps you will see fit to prepare our meal?"