"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."