"Bear!" he cried, struggling to catch his breath.
"What?"
"There's a bear out there. It got Tomaski."
"What're you handing me?"
"Really, Mr. Slickens. It's a bear. Big as life."
"You have a gun," Slickens pointed out in a no-nonsense voice. "Go out there and shoot the varmint."
"Can't. It took my gun from me."
"A bear?"
"A talking bear."
"Are you drunk?"
"I know it sounds crazy, but it was asking for you."
"Me?" said Slickens, startle-faced. "What would a talking bear want with me? I'm a coon hunter."
"I don't know, but I wouldn't recommend letting him in. He pulverized Tomaski."
Then there was a loud knocking on the door.
"Open up," a rumbling voice warned, "or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow this door down."
"What should I do, boss?" the ex-linebacker asked.
"Get ready," Slickens said, taking a Winchester off the wall. He jacked a shell into the breech and pointed it at his linebacker bodyguard.
"Open it," Slickens said. "And jump out of the way."
The linebacker unlocked the door and flung himself to one side.
The bear came through the door, claws raised high.
DeGoone Slickens fired.
The bear kept coming, its matted fur untouched.
Slickens whacked another shell into the chamber and fired again.
The bear bounced to one side, unhit.
"Dung it!" Slickens roared. "I can't draw a bead on him. You, Barker. You played football. Tackle him."
"Not me!" the ex-linebacker said, diving out the open door. "I quit."
"Looks like it's just you and me," the bear said casually.
DeGoone blinked. His jaw dropped. He looked at the bear carefully.
"Wait a minute," he said. "You're not a real bear. You're just a guy in a mangy suit."
"Obviously you're smarter than the average bodyguard. They thought I was a real bear."
"They're ex-football players."
"Too much steroids, I guess. Now, let's get down to business. And put that thing down. I can get pretty rough when my fur is rubbed the wrong way."
DeGoone hesitated. He brought his Winchester up to eye level again and squinted down the barrel. He did it quickly, but with the practiced care of a backwoods hunter.
In the time it took him to shut one eye, one of the pseudo-bear's paws swiped out and relieved him of his rifle.
DeGoone Slickens stood behind his desk holding empty air. His trigger finger tightened on nothing. That's when he realized he had been disarmed. It had happened that fast.
As DeGoone watched, the bear took his rifle in both paws and bent it double against his chest. Then he threw the horseshoe-shaped rifle at a moosehead, scoring a ringer on its antlers.
"I'm Bear-Man," the bear said, jerking a thumb at his chest. "I'm the spirit of Wall Street. Every time there's a crash, I come out of hibernation. And my message this time is: it had better not happen again."
"Why tell me?"
"Someone's screwing around with Global stock. You bought a carload of it. If you're responsible, Bear-Man comes back and shreds your face. Rowwrr!"
Bear-Man's claws lifted in the air in warning. DeGoone Slickens backed away until he fell into his chair.
"I don't know what you're talkin' about," he said. "And if you know I bought Global stock yesterday, you should also know that I trade in blocks of stock like that every damn day of the week."
"Just remember my warning. Here," the bear added, ripping something off his chest and tossing it onto the desk.
DeGoone caught it. It was a bear's tooth.
"What's this for?" he demanded.
"It's a magic bear tooth. Put it under your pillow. And if you're pure of heart, I won't visit you again."
And with that the bear lumbered out of DeGoone Slickens' office. Slickens waited until he heard the hum of the descending elevator clearly before picking up the telephone. He started to dial 911. He never dialed the second 1.
"Shoot, what am I doin'?" he muttered. "Who's gonna believe a walkin' tall tale like that?"
He put the phone down and walked to the corner of the room, where a computer sat draped under a plastic cover. He removed the cover and fired it up. When he got a bulletin-board logo that read "MAYFLOWER DESCENDANTS," he attacked the keyboard with two stubby fingers.
Wall Street runs on rumor and speculation. After the first two sightings of the so-called Wall Street Bear, phone lines and faxes hummed with further news of the grizzly apparition as it made its way along New York's financial district. Wall Street, ever sensitive to its image of fiscal sobriety, circled the wagons at every media attempt to obtain a printable quote. But among themselves, Wall Street's movers and shakers buzzed about the phenomenon known as Bear-Man.
They also took precautions, under the guise of preparing for possible investor backlash over the near-meltdown that Business Week had christened "Dark Friday."
So it was that when Remo Williams approached the Looncraft, Dymstar d Building, he could see the sentinel security guards stationed throughout the lobby.
He shifted the formaldehyde-scented paper-covered bundle under his arm and changed plans. The phone booth outside the building was out. It was one of those alcove-style stations. Remo had no stomach for changing in a glass booth anyway. He had never understood how Clark Kent avoided getting hauled off to the can for public exposure.
Remo found a narrow alley between two buildings and undid the package. He stepped into the bear suit like a boy climbing into his Dr. Denton's through the seat trap. His loafers fitted snugly into the attached bear feet. His fingers slid into the dangling bear paws. That left only the hard part.
Remo reached back to the flap of bear hide that was supposed to go over his head. The weight of the hard bear's head mounted on top pulled it halfway down his scratchy back. The bear paws didn't make grabbing it any easier.
"Damn Chiun and his wild hairs," Remo grumbled.
Finally he snagged the bear's head by its black nose. He pulled the whole rig up and over his head, positioning the ragged eye holes so he could see clearly. Or as clearly as it was possible to see with stiff bear hairs sticking into his field of vision.
Now garbed as the ferocious Bear-Man, Remo jumped out of the alley and padded for the Looncraft Tower. Startled passersby fled. One offered him five hundred dollars for his autograph. Remo ignored him.
Remo went up the side of the building like a bear after a honeycomb. But the honey Bear-Man wanted was on the thirty-fourth floor.
Remo clung to the thirty-fourth floor and slipped along the tiny ornamental ledge with extra care. Not only were the attached claws getting in his way, but the thought of taking a thirty-four-floor nosedive to his death while dressed as a bear created vivid images in his mind.
He found the trading floor on the north side of the building.
Getting in presented a problem. Not only was the window glass fixed, but a crowd was gathering inside. Laughing traders gaped at him like they were at a zoo. One separated a honey-and-peanut-butter sandwich and slapped one slice, honey-side-out, against the glass in front of Remo's snout.
That did it. Bear-Man reared back with one paw and punched the glass.
It cracked like so much ice. Remo leaned in. He took the pane in with him in one crunchy shatterproof section.
As Remo got off the floor and brushed himself off; the LD shrank back, their laughter turning nervous and gaspy.
"Oh, my God!"
"It's true!"
"He's for real."
One trader approached cautiously. "Are you a bull or a bear?"
"Are you blind or just stupid?" Remo snapped back.
"It's true!" a woman gasped. "It does talk!"
"I meant are you bullish or bearish?" the trader pressed.