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ond late. Because one second before he fired, Remo had coiled the barrel of the Browning into a corkscrew, and by the time the bullet left it, it was spinning toward the dock worker's chest, where it came to rest with a muffled whump.

"No gun, see?" another worker said, demonstrat­ing his lack of weapons by raising his arms high in the air and wetting his pants.

"No gun, see?" the other said, falling to his knees, his hands clasped in front of him.

"You the boss?" Remo asked.

"No way," the worker said with touching sincerity. "We're just labor. Management's what you want, yessir."

"Who's management?"

"Mr. Bonelli. 'Bones' Bonelli. He's over there." He gestured wildly toward the interior of the warehouse.

Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli sat behind a desk in the only carpeted and heated room in the place. Behind him was one small window, placed high above the floor. Seated in a huge red feather chair, he looked more like an overaged wraith than an underworld her­oin don. His hair was thinning, and his leather skin fell in folds down his skull-like face, which was grinning in ecstasy. The top half of Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli was a tiny, wrinkled, happy crone. The bottom half, displayed beneath the leg opening of the desk, was an ample, satin-covered rear end facing in the opposite direction. Below it protruded two spiky black high heels.

The satin oval swayed rhythmically. Bonelli's mouth opened to emit a small squeal of joy. "Oh. . . oh. . . shit," he said, noticing Remo standing in the doorway. "Who're you?"

One hand twitched frantically in his lap, while the

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other pulled a ludicrously large Colt .45 from his jacket. "Arggh," he screamed, throwing the gun into the air. "Zipper. The freaking zipper's caught."

"Thanks," Remo said, grabbing the gun.

"Freaking zipper. It's all your fault."