Inside the bank, Iron Man slowed to a rolling stop, realizing quickly that the men who followed had no self-preservation skills to slow their pursuit; they were ready to tear him apart with their bare hands with the old guy screeching as angrily as he was. The situation had to be reevaluated, and Iron Man instead hauled the lunatic up with him toward the ceiling where he threatened, "If I drop you, are you sure they'd catch you? Call 'em off. Let 'em go, stop the...voodoo, mind tricks." The guy couldn't be telepathic; if he was any good at this at all, he would have tried to control Cap instead of fight him off. He could certainly snarl like a champ, though, but only before he opened his gnarled hand to drop what looked like a black stone to the ground, his puppets falling with it, dead weight.
That weird rock was still in Iron Man's hand when he came strolling outside casually, as though he hadn't made efficient work of the mess Cap had been stirring up. One of many, for sure. "By the way," he called, leaving Cap to guess at how he had restrained a frail old man for the authorities to collect, and flipped the stone like a coin, "what are you wearing?"