20..

son named Jose—was a popular theme on the graf-fit-streaked walls of the stairwell. "For a good time, call Delphine" was another.

Remo found the advertisement touching. Amid all the squalor and death of Sister Evangelica's, stouthearted Delphine was apparently still having a good time and willing to spread cheer to one and all.

At this point, Remo thought, with only seven bullets in his pocket and no gun runner to be found, he wouldn't mind having Delphine show him a good time. She'd probably be better company than Chiun, with his stupid exercises.

By the time Remo reached the bottom of the stairwell, the courtyard was filling up with people. Old men on crutches, toddlers with their arms in slings, bandaged mothers huddling small children near them, walked serenely over the pitted, bullet-scored concrete, talking and waving in neighborly fashion to one another.

It was certainly a far cry from the trench warfare of ten minutes before. Even the gangs—some Irish and freckled; some black; some Hispanic, speaking Spanish softly—seemed subdued and pleasant, tipping their caps for women without so much as a wiggle toward the women's pocket-books.

Remo couldn't figure it out. He spotted an old white man hobbling with a cane toward a bench. When the old man sat down, Remo walked up to him.

"Hold it right there, sonny," the wrinkled crone said as he hoisted a Browning .9 millimeter from his vest with palsied hands.

21

"Where'd you get that gun?" Remo asked.

"Found it. One step closer and I'll shoot."

"Shoot," Remo said as he reached out and crumbled the pistol into black gravel. It sifted between his fingers to the ground.

"Okay. You asked for it," the old man said, tightening his trigger finger on empty air. "Hey, what'd you do?"

"I took your gun away," Remo said. "It's on the ground if you want it."