He tossed the crate on the floor with a crash of splintering wood. Out of the broken sides slid a fat five-pound plastic bag filled with white powder. Arcadi picked it up.
"This here," he said, raising the bag to shoulder level as if demonstrating a product on television, "is your standard street heroin. Properly adulterated so as not to encourage OD's by addicts, since everybody knows junkies are pigs when it comes to dope and will shoot up as much pure heroin as cut heroin and will die, thereby diminishing the number of customers."
"Can the lecture, Arcadi."
"Please. I am making a point," Arcadi said, his brow furrowed eruditely. "Since this is not pure heroin, it was valued last week at approximately one hundred and sixty thousand dollars. Not the treasure of the Sierra Madre, Maybe, but a living." He shrugged.
"Why last week?" Remo asked.
"Ah, yes. A good question. Why do I say that last week this little packet was worth a hundred sixty thousand smackeroos?" He squeezed the bag with both hands until his face turned red and his teeth clenched and his limbs shook, and finally the packet burst open with a spray of white dust that coated the warehouse floor.
"Because this week it ain't worth bullshit!" Arcadi screamed, ripping the remaining plastic like a man possessed. He proceeded to tear open the other bags in the crate and flung their contents to the winds. "Junk is now as obsolete as the horseless carriage. Garters. Suspenders. Ocean liners. Black and white TV."
The warehouse was a blizzard of flying white dust that coated them all like bakers' apprentices as Arcadi moved frenziedly from crate to crate, ripping open the bags of heroin and dumping them in every direction.
Chiun made a corkscrew with his finger near his temple and cocked his head toward Arcadi. Remo went over to the man, who was sitting, sobbing, on a pile of sparkling powder.
"Get a grip on yourself," Remo said.
"Whoever would have thought it was possible," the fat man cried. "The price of gold, yes. That goes up and down all the time. Diamonds, sugar, art. The dollar. The value of Cuba. But the bottom falling out of heroin? I'm ruined, I tell you. Finished. A bum. I'm a bum."
"Perhaps you should try some deep breathing," Chiun suggested.
"Hookers and numbers. You ever try to make a living on hookers and numbers? I'm going to have to go back into the dry-cleaning business."
"There are plenty of addicts," Remo said consolingly. "More than ever, I hear."
"Think so? Go look at the streets. Where are the wasted dregs of humanity who used to lie in empty doorways begging strangers for enough change to buy a nickel bag? Where are the degenerate kids with their runny noses and pasty skin? The girls with the track marks running up their arms and legs? The old junkies, shaking like leaves, dying for a shot—"
"How revolting," Chiun observed.
"Where are they?" Remo asked.
"At Chock Full O' Nuts, that's where!" Arcadi roared.
"What?"
The fat man looked up with red-rimmed eyes. "You think I'm kidding? Hah. Go check out the restaurants. That's where the junkies are. Hanging out in the coffee shops, swilling java and feeling like kings. It's disgusting."
"Restaurants?"
"Ever hear of such a thing? Junkies don't eat. It's not done. Goes against the whole tradition. You'd think they'd have some pride. Never trust a junkie."
"You mean," Remo said, "that everybody's trying heroin— except the junkies, who are used to it?"
Arcadi rolled his eyes. "What a lame-brain. No," he said with exaggerated patience. "Don't you hear nothing? I am saying that nobody wants heroin. No deals, no sales. That's how come all this stuff is still here in the warehouse. I can't give it away. That is what I'm saying. And your boss knows it, even if you don't, lunkhead."
"My boss?"
"The slimy Ay-rab in the turban."
Remo's thoughts drifted to Dr. Harold W. Smith, staring at his computer console through steel-rimmed spectacles. Somehow Arcadi's description didn't quite connect.
"What Arab in the turban?"
"Amfat Hassam," Arcadi said querulously. "You think I was born yesterday? Everybody in the business knows the Ay-rabs been moving Horse into this country for years." He raised his head and shoulders in a posture of dignity. "It's part of a foreign plot to undermine the morale of the nation," he said, giving appropriate weight to each word.
"And you were one of the middlemen," Remo concluded.
"We sell to junkies," Arcadi said dismissively. "Who cares about the morale of junkies?"
"Let me get this straight," Remo said. "Amfat Hassam has been supplying the pure heroin."
"Correct."
"And you have been buying that heroin, cutting it to spread out the volume, and selling it to dealers in the area."
"Right."
"Only now nobody wants to buy heroin anymore."
"Bingo."
"So why is eighty percent of the American public high as a kite?"
"How the hell should I know?" Arcadi screamed. "You think I like this situation? You think I like working hookers and numbers? Your boss, Hassam, he knows. This is part of some kind of new Ay-rab plot, I tell you. Get 'em zonked on something else, and eliminate heroin from the whole scene. Put thousands out of work."
"But it is heroin that everyone's stoned on."
"Then find out from Hassam how they're getting it, 'cause it sure ain't coming from me."
"I will," Remo said.
"And tell him he can take this warehouse full of dope and stick it up his bazonka."
"Okay."
"And now you're going to kill me, I suppose."
"Well..."
"Go ahead," Chiun prodded. "When one falls from a camel, one must quickly mount the same camel. An old Persian proverb."
"What's from camels?" Arcadi snarled. "Are you gonna off me, or what?"
"Quiet, large mouth, that is what we are discussing," Chiun said.
"Oh, excuse me," Arcadi said with an elaborate gesture. "While you two are making conversation, I think I'll just take a little air." He sauntered toward the demolished wall.
"The Emperor will be most displeased if you permit this man to go free," Chiun said in Korean.
"I'm telling you, I just can't kill anymore. Not even a beanbag like Arcadi. I don't have the stomach for it."
Chiun sighed noisily. "All right. But let it be on your head."
"Arcadi," Remo shouted.
Arcadi was sprinting down the street. Remo flew at him in a tackle and brought him to the ground. He bounced him back inside the warehouse and tied his wrists and ankles together with Arcadi's necktie. Then he picked up the telephone and dialed the Chicago Dial-A-Prayer number that eventually reached Harold W. Smith at Folcroft Sanitarium.
"You okay?"
"Er... fine," Smith said, rather stiffly. "It must have been some manifestation of stress."
"You were blasted, but never mind," Remo said. "Are you sure that stuff that's going around is heroin?" He explained Arcadi's predicament. "There isn't any market for heroin these days."
"Interesting," Smith said. "But it's heroin, or a close molecular derivative. And organic. There's no mistake."
"All right," Remo said uncertainly. "By the way, you'd better alert the Miami police to come pick up Arcadi."
"He's— he's alive?"
"Yeah," Remo said defensively. "What of it?"
"Remo, I must advise you—"
"Forget it," Remo said, and hung up.
He turned to Arcadi. "Everybody wants you dead."
Arcadi shrugged. "Breaks my heart."
"Well, I'm not going to kill you."
"Don't do me no favors."
"You could be a little grateful."
Arcadi made a disgusted noise. "You mash my assistant into a human bowling ball, then you beat the gas out of me, tie me up like a frigging doughnut, and leave me here for the cops in a warehouse full of smack, and you want gratitude?"
Remo walked away. "Dumb ingrate," he said.
; Chiun sniffed. "And you call yourself an assassin," he said. "I am returning to our motel. You can see your Mr. Hassam and not kill him by yourself. Be back by five o'clock. We are eating duck tonight."
?Chapter Four
Amfat Hassam's residence wasn't hard to find. The lawn in front of the mansion was studded with classical Greek statues painted in vivid flesh tones and anatomically correct. Three gigantic fountains sprayed particolored water into the air above a rhinestone-studded reflecting pool with a mosaic of Ann Margaret on the bottom. Although it was only October, twinkling Christmas lights sparkled on the colonnaded façade of the house, which was a replica of the White House except that it was painted Schiaparelli pink.
Remo vaulted over the ten-foot-high brass gates and walked around to the back. In the middle of a vast orchid garden stretched the blue expanse of a star-shaped swimming pool surrounded by leggy girls in bikinis.
"Oooo," a buxom blonde crooned when she saw Remo.
Gorgeous girls no longer had the effect on Remo they once had. Through years of "oooos" and "ahhhs" and the stray manicured hand brushing accidentally against his buttocks, he had grown to accept the fact that he was the sort of man women found attractive. To him, it all seemed like standard equipment. He was tall, and they liked that. He had dark hair and eyes to match.
The eyes, he had to admit, were pretty extraordinary: he could see about a mile in any kind of weather, and his night vision was as good as the daylight variety. Chiun had taught him to control the diameter of his pupils, a feat that had taken nearly four years to learn. But the girls didn't know that. They just thought his eyes were cute, as if that made any difference whatever.
Or cruel. Women were always telling him how cruel his eyes were. Kiss me, you brute. Remo sincerely wondered what mechanism made women enjoy the company of men they found frightening, but his was not to reason why. Women were a species unto themselves, and nothing they said or did surprised him anymore.
Which was why he didn't say anything when the blonde with the rack on her pulled off his T-shirt with one deft motion and buried her face in his chest. Or when the statuesque redhead standing nearby grabbed him by the hair and stuck her tongue in his ear. Or when the brunette with the freckles wound herself around his legs and bit the blonde on the knee. There was no reasoning with them after that, with claws flying and perfumed hair coming out by the handful and enough shrieking and cussing to make Hassam's tropical paradise sound like a cathouse during a panty raid.
"Ladies, ladies," Remo attempted. He got a curvaceous calf in his mouth for the effort. A finger attached to a three-inch-long orange fingernail darted alarmingly, near his right eye, and when he recovered his balance, a well-muscled female belly enveloped him.
"Get off me," Remo griped. "What are you, Hassam's army?"
"Psst. Come with me," whispered the girl attached to the belly. She was a pretty little blonde with the kind of puckish, innocent features that reminded him of old Tuesday Weld movies. She led him, crawling combat style, out of the melee and into the shadows of some tiger lilies.
"I'm Sandy," she sighed, kissing Remo full on the mouth.
"That's okay," Remo said. "I'm a little dusty myself." He smiled broadly.
"Huh?" She batted a lot of genuine mink eyelashes in his direction.
"Never mind. Why'd they attack me?"
Sandy giggled. "It wasn't you they were attacking, silly. It was each other. Men are so scarce around here, every girl wanted you for herself." Her tongue flicked between her lips. "Wanna play doctor?"
A high-heeled shoe whizzed overhead. "Aerial attack," the girl said. Her smile widened into a lascivious grin. "Better stay close to me, Brown Eyes." She ground herself on him to ensure maximum protection. "Can't tell what they'd do for a man."
"Why don't they try the bars?" Remo offered.
"We're not allowed. It's part of the contract."
"What contract?"
"To the sheik." She wriggled onto his lap. Before he could protest, the tiny bikini top she was wearing sprang off and flew into the bushes. "Oops," the girl said, her breasts quivering in Remo's face. "It must have slipped. Well, men will take advantage when the opportunity comes up," she giggled. She drummed her fingers on his thigh as the moments passed. Her smile faded. "They will, won't they?" she asked uncertainly.
"Not always," Remo said gallantly, plucking two leaves off a plant and presenting them to her. "What contract?"
"Our work contract," she said, accidentally losing the leaves in Remo's hair. "Hassam's our employer. We're his harem." She appraised Remo's reaction. "So it's a job," she said.
"Uh, yeah," Remo said. "What do harem girls do, exactly?"
"Not what you think. Squirt's no stallion. His wife sees to that. We're just dancers. Kind of."
"Kind of?"
"Sure. That weird dancing Arabs like. Bumps and grinds and shimmies. I'm the best one here." She demonstrated for Remo at point-blank range. "Works better with tassels, I think."
"I see," Remo said.
"I'm the only real dancer in the bunch. My last job was at the Whiskey à Go-Go in L.A." She arched her back proudly. "Naturally, I feel sort of dumb listing 'harem girl' on my W-2," she reflected, "what with my background and all. But for five grand a week, who's complaining? And Squirt's such a nice guy."
"Squirt?"
"The sheik. Hassam, that is. He's not really a sheik. But his wife makes us call him that." She laughed. "Everybody knows they were both date pickers in some desert slum before Squirt hit it big on the drug scene."
"So I've heard. I want to see him."
"Forget it. Squirt's got the hordes of Allah surrounding him. Besides, what do you want with him when you can see me?" As if to illustrate her point, the bottom of her bikini slithered off inexplicably.
"Is he in the house?"
"Who, Squirt? Sure. Hiding from the sheikess, or whatever the old battle-axe calls herself. Squirt goes into his secret room up in the attic for an eyeful whenever the girls are out here by the pool."
"In that room?" Remo pointed to a small window overlooking the pool, where the harem had retreated after losing sight of their quarry.
"That's the one. You can see his binoculars. Poor old Squirt. It's the only jollies he gets." She fought for position as Remo tried to remove her from his lap. "Hey, don't waste your time, big boy. Squirt's got twenty-four-hour bodyguards. And take my word for it, I smell a lot better than they do. Better stick around here."
"Sorry, sweetheart," Remo said, lifting her gently and depositing her beside him. She looked as if she were about to cry. "It's nothing personal," he said.
"I used to be a respectable go-go girl," she said bravely. "More boom boom than I knew what to do with. Dinners, they gave me. Cab fare. One guy even kept me in fancy underpants for a whole year. Now I can't even land a quickie in the damn bushes."
Her pretty eyes were beginning to squeeze shut miserably, so Remo did the only thing he could think of. He pinched a nerve on the left side of her back that sent her moaning in orgiastic delight. "Oh, baby, what's that, telepathy?" she squealed.
"Just an old Korean trick. It'll go away in about an hour. Unless you don't like it." He reached toward her, but she squirmed away.
"I'll let you know how I like it in an hour," she said, smiling.
He headed for the house. One of the girls spotted him, and the stampede was on again, but they called off the chase as soon as Remo started climbing up the sheer face of the wall.
"He can't be for real," one of the harem said as Remo slapped one hand over the other on his spiderlike crawl to the third story. Remo usually didn't like to have people watching him while he worked, but wall climbing was about as elementary as you could get. Even if Amfat Hassam did let loose with a piercing scream when Remo's legs swung in front of his binoculars and into the window.
Four goons who looked as if they'd been weaned on blood adhering to the ends of sabers appeared out of nowhere. They were swathed in flowing nomadic robes. Long
curved knives hung glinting from their belts. Their fierce eyes spoke of a thousand years of desert fighting.
"Let's moider da creep, Joey," the biggest one said, pulling a revolver out of his sleeve.
"Hold it, fellas. I just want to talk."
"Talk to dis," another warrior said, thrusting a brass-knuckled fist toward Remo's nose.
"You're not very polite," Remo said, before embedding the man's knuckles in the man's throat.
The big one fired his revolver. The bullet missed, an event the gunman seemed to find amazing, considering he had fired five inches from Remo's chest.
"Your manners aren't very good, either," Remo said, poking him in the forehead with his index finger. A little cylinder of brain tissue about the diameter of a dime shot out the back of the man's skull.
For a moment, Remo was afraid he had killed the man, but his fears were allayed when the man smiled. "Only a lobotomy," Remo said to the two remaining guards who were closing in on him. "Now, now," he said. "You two look like you're thinking impure thoughts."
He picked one up in each hand and flung them to opposite sides of the room. Their weapons, still in their outstretched hands, hit the wall first, cracking apart and spilling two showers of unspent bullets on the floor. A split second later, their bodies made contact with the plaster and tunneled inside it like jewels in a mosaic.
After checking to see that they were breathing, Remo turned to the little man with the binoculars. He was wearing a pair of baggy Bermuda shorts, which trembled pitifully around his knocking knees.
"Me, I have excellent manners," he said quickly. "I buy the cookies from the Girl Scouts. I help old ladies cross the street. I use a napkin, always. You would like perhaps a drink?"
He shambled over to a tray filled with decanters, clattered a rapid tattoo while he filled a glass, and offered it spastically to Remo.
"I don't drink."
"Thank you," the sheik said, downing the contents of the glass with one gulp. The thinning strands of hair on his head quivered.
"I thought Arabs didn't drink, either."
Hassam dropped his glass instantly. "I will never drink again. I swear it."
Remo was about to tell Hassam that he didn't care whether anybody drank or not. Then he remembered that the day his body had reached the level of development where he could no longer ingest alcohol had been a sad day in his life. No more Scotch Mists to soften the blows of life's slings and arrows. No vacation Mai Tais in coconuts with little umbrellas in them. Not even a beer after a good football game. The experience had left him with a perverse envy of people who could down a little nip now and then. Drunks made lousy assassins, but sobriety was hell sometimes. So why shouldn't a heroin smuggler feel at least as rotten as he did, he reasoned.
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