"See that you don't."
"My lips will never taste the bitter nectar of sin again." He clapped his hands, and a butler who looked like Lawrence of Arabia entered. "Some entertainment, please," Hassam ordered. "Prepare the dancers."
He turned to Remo. "Since you have murdered my bodyguards, I assume you have come to rob my house?" he inquired pleasantly.
"I didn't murder them," Remo insisted. "And no, I don't want anything in your house. I just wanted to talk to you."
Hassam's face fell. "You are not a robber?"
"No."
Hassam looked crestfallen.
"Sorry. It's not my line," Remo explained.
"Just a few jewels, perhaps," Hassam persisted. "Very valuable. Easy to steal." He leaned forward, squinting conspiratorially. "Just put in your pocket. Nobody to see," he whispered. "My wife Yasmine keeps her jewels in a box on her dressing table. In her bedroom. You go down one flight and turn right. The third door on the left side."
"You sound like you want me to rob you."
Hassam laughed nervously. "Me? How ridiculous. Of course not."
"Well, that's good," Remo said.
"By the way, my butler can provide you with a hammer and chisel."
"What for?"
"The box. In case it is locked. Very easy to break. No trouble."
"Will you come off it? I'm not going to rob you, and that's final. Now, would you mind discussing what I came here for?"
"Oh, very well," Hassam said, annoyed. "Although I do not know why you bother to kill my guards and then do not even attempt to rob me. It is not sensible. Not American."
"I didn't— oh, what's the use. Johnny Arcadi sent me."
"The slime," Hassam said. "Excuse me. That was not polite. Pray, do not kill me for my rudeness."
"Oh, for..." Remo counted backward from ten. "Okay. Think whatever you want. Anyway, Arcadi said you supplied him with the heroin he sold."
Hassam grunted. "I know nothing of drugs. My people do not believe in drugs. Drugs are for degenerate westerners with nothing to fill the emptiness of their depraved and selfish existences."
"Gosh, if there's one thing I hate more than rudeness, it's dishonesty," Remo said.
"Drugs are my life," Hassam squeaked. "Please do not poke your finger into my brain."
"Keep talking. What about Arcadi?"
"He is a bum," Hassam said off-handedly. "An unscrupulous money grubber. A thousand pardons for the rudeness. An odious criminal, excuse me."
"He buys heroin from you?"
"That is past. There is nothing between us."
"Because Arcadi couldn't sell the goods."
"That is what he says," Hassam said hotly. "For eight years he sells everything and makes a huge profit, leaving only a pittance for myself. Now suddenly he claims there are no buyers. Am I to believe such a story?" He paced agitatedly around the room, talking in a torrent. "He has found another supplier, I am not an idiot. I can see. There is more heroin now than ever. All the accidents everywhere." He picked up a newspaper and rattled it savagely. "Three thousand deaths today alone. And almost all of them attributable to drug overdoses."
"But Arcadi wasn't making any money," Remo said. "He thought you were behind some plot to ease him out as middleman."
Hassam stared at him. "You mean Johnny Arcadi is broke, too?"
"Too? You—"
Hassam let out a low moan. "Why do you think I wish for you to steal my wife's jewels? At least the insurance would bring us enough to eat. I am a pauper." He chewed his fingernails. "I sold all my stock in ITT this morning. My treasury notes and money market investments are already gone. The house is for sale. Yesterday I had to pawn my wife's pearls and replace them with paste beads. I have nothing."
"If you're telling the truth, then where's all the heroin coming from?" Remo asked.
"Where? If I knew where, would I be standing here begging you to rob me? Please. At least the paste pearls. My wife is bound to find out I replaced them unless they are stolen first."
"I'm sure she'll understand," Remo said sardonically. "Things could be worse."
A scattering of fingernail slivers shot from Hassam's mouth. "I take it you have not met my wife."
"Haven't had the pleasure," Remo said.
"You are a lucky man. And if Yasmine discovers that I have sold her pearls, my bodyguards who are dead will also be lucky men compared with me."
The butler entered and announced that the dancers were ready. He placed a record on the stereo. Weird twangy music filled the room. The heavy curtains covering the doorway parted, and all the girls from the pool filed in, dressed in spangled brassieres and gossamer houri pants, undulating gracefully to the music. The girl Remo had met in the bushes winked at him.
"That is Sandy," Hassam said longingly. "She likes you, I think."
"Um," Remo said noncommittally. "Actually, I came to talk about—"
"It is for the last time, this dance," Hassam said, blinking hard. "I will not be able to pay the girls after today. Tomorrow they will all be gone, like a beautiful dream. All that will remain will be Yasmine."
"Your wife?"
A slow tear rolled down the furrows of Hassam's cheeks. "Yes. There will always be Yasmine."
A thundering noise reverberated through the house, accompanied by a wail that sounded like the cry of a wounded buffalo. The phonograph needle scraped painfully across the record, and the music stopped. Then a 300-pound Arab woman covered with black veils elbowed her way into the room. Waving a strand of pearls, she flattened the dancing girls against the walls as she cut a ferocious path to Hassam.
"Fake!" she shrilled. The butler clapped and the dancing girls scurried away. "The pearls are paste!" To illustrate, she chomped down on a few inches of the strand and spat the fragments into Hassam's eye.
"May I introduce my wife, Yasmine," Hassam said, squinting.
"Pleased..." Remo began.
"You think to hide from me in this room!" she shrieked. "But there is no place for you to run now, vile cur of a deceiver. There is no comfort for thieves."
"... To meet you," Remo finished lamely. Mrs. Hassam looked coldly at him. "And who is this skinny person in a T-shirt, a bum?" She flicked a pudgy wrist in Remo's direction. "Another of your worthless friends, no doubt, come to ogle the bags of bones you call a harem. Maybe you sold my beautiful pearls to him, eh?" A chunky hand loaded with gaudy rings lashed out and wound itself expertly around Hassam's nose. It gave a mighty tug.
"Well," Hassam said heartily, extricating himself from her grip with a broad, frozen smile. "Shall we have a drink?" He glanced at Remo. "Oh. Only coffee, of course." He motioned desperately to the butler.
"Hey, listen, Hassam," Remo said sympathetically. "It's okay with me if you want a dr—"
"He does not want a drink!" Mrs. Hassam bellowed. She flipped her husband onto the sofa. "You'd better come up with some new pearls, you sodden drunkard of a no-good husband, or you'll have my brother's saber down your throat."
"Yes, my lily," Hassam said.
"Bigger pearls than the others. And longer. And another ring. My thumb is nearly bare."
Hassam nodded numbly.
"Coffee, sir," the butler said. Hassam poured himself a cup and help it shakily to his lips, trying valiantly to restore his composure.
"Delicious," he said, smiling fixedly. "As we were saying, Mr...."
"Call me Remo," Remo said, trying to drown out Mrs. Hassam's tirade behind them.
"Don't you ignore me, you weaselly runt," she roared. "Where are the airline tickets for my mother and her servants to visit me for the winter? I know you never liked my mother."
"Are you sure you won't join me for a cup, Remo?" Hassam offered. "It is quite good, really." He smacked his lips languidly. "Exceptionally good."
"Hassam!" his wife hissed, poking the little man hard in the ribs. His lips followed the coffee cup around as it bounced, licking up any stray drops.
"I might as well tell you that I'
ve fired the upstairs maid," Mrs. Hassam went on. "I've seen the way that strumpet looks at you. Do you think I am blind and deaf?"
"I wish I were," Hassam said mournfully, draining his cup.
"What are you mumbling? I heard you. Don't think you can get away with your nonsense forever, Amfat Hassam. My brothers will know how to handle you."
But Hassam was too absorbed in the coffeepot to answer. He opened the lid, sniffed deeply, smiled, and began to pour himself another cup. Then, watching the slow stream of liquid, he dispensed with the cup and held the spout directly to his lips, greedily gulping down the contents of the pot.
"Excuse me," Hassam said with a belch. "Extraordinary. Most excellent coffee."
"It must have been," Remo mused. Hassam clapped. Within a few moments another pot appeared.
"Are you listening to me?" Mrs. Hassam screamed.
Hassam picked his nose in reply.
She turned to Remo. "What is wrong with him?"
Remo shrugged. Hassam stretched out like a cat, scratching his belly and nodding his head sleepily.
"Hassam! Amfat, my husband, what has come over you?"
"Mmpht," Hassam said, curling into a ball.
"He has gone mad," Mrs. Hassam whispered dramatically. "My mother was right."
"They always are," Remo said.
"If I had married Ali El-Jabbar as she suggested, I would have real jewels now, not cheap paste imitations. I would not have been chained to a thieving drunkard besotted by vice." She turned an accusing finger on Remo. "You forced him into this shameful condition, didn't you?"
"He hasn't been drinking anything," Remo said, poking experimentally at the motionless Hassam. It was all so peculiar. "Smith," he whispered. "Chock Full O' Nuts."
"What are you saying? You are as crazy as he is," Mrs. Hassam shouted.
Remo grabbed the coffeepot from the butler. He opened the lid. The steam wafting from the surface of the liquid stung his eyes and burned his nose. "There's something in this coffee," he said.
Hassam snorted awake and stretched out his arms. "Cof-fee," he chanted.
Remo stuck a finger into the coffee and tasted it.
Bitter. Odd. Hypnotic. "Heroin," he said.
Hassam's eyes opened a fraction of an inch. "Heroin?"
"In the coffee."
Mrs. Hassam gave out a terrifying yell. "A drunkard and a thief, and now my worthless husband is a drug addict as well!" She grabbed Remo by both shoulders and shook him. "What can I do? Help me to do something with this criminal before he attacks me in lust."
"Uh... just a second, Mrs. Hassam," Remo said, carefully removing her viselike fingers from his shirt.
"This is terrible!"
Remo nodded in agreement. "Yes, ma'am. Very bad. I'd say you were in great danger right now."
"Oh," she gasped, backing away a step.
"If I were you, I'd go somewhere right now where there isn't any chance that he'll see or hear you. The basement ought to do it. Just stay out of danger until I can subdue him."
She stole a quick glance at the little man snoring peacefully on the divan.
"Oh, they're unpredictable in this state, ma'am. You can't tell what they'll do next. A kitten one minute, a tiger the next."
Mrs. Hassam faltered backward as far as the doorway. "To... the basement? Would not my bedroom do as well?"
"I'm afraid that's not far enough out of the danger zone, ma'am. Quick! I think he's coming out of it."
With a final shriek, Mrs. Hassam careened out of sight.
Remo shook Hassam awake. "Hassam. Sheik. Listen to me."
"Cof-fee," the old man intoned.
"No coffee. Just tell me where your supply of heroin is."
"You want heroin?" Hassam shook his head slowly.
"No good. Coffee is much better. Besides, business is rotten."
"It doesn't matter."
With an effort, the little man sat up and looked around warily. "Where is Yasmine? She knows nothing of my business activities."
"I sent her to the basement."
Hassam stared at him. "Is she dead? Did you kill her, too?"
"No. She's all right. I just told her to go, and she went."
"Just like that?" His voice was incredulous.
"Yeah," Remo said impatiently. "Now where do you keep the stash?"
Hassam appraised Remo with a long, unfocused glance. "I suppose you will kill me if I don't tell you."
"Worse. I'll release Yasmine."
"It is on a freighter in Miami Harbor. The Maid of Mallecha is the name of the ship." He spelled it out. "But why do you want heroin? It is worthless."
"The police will still be interested."
"You are with the police?" Hassam asked, startled.
"No."
"Oh. That is good."
"I'm an assassin."
Hassam looked into his eyes for several moments. At last he spoke. "Cof-fee," he said.
"Relax."
"You are not going to kill me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Don't press it," Remo said.
"But what will happen to me?"
"Jail, probably. And a lot of interrogation by the cops."
"Jail? Imprisonment?" Hassam moaned. "But that is terrible! It is the end of my life. Is it not bad enough that I am impoverished? A convict in the land of the free... oh, it is most unbearable..."
"Think of it this way," Remo said. "Jail's for singles only."
Hassam gaped, his mouth flopping open occasionally like a fish. "No Yasmine?"
"Not for twenty or thirty years, anyway."
"Twenty or thirty years." Hassam relished the words.
"Or I could call Yasmine right now and take you both to an uncharted tropical island where there aren't any other people. It's your choice."
"Please," Hassam said shakily. "Do not even joke about such ideas. I am not a strong man. Jail it is."
"Deal," Remo said. He rose. Hassam smiled gently at him. Crook or not, Remo thought, he liked the guy. Who knew what crimes a woman like Yasmine could drive a man to. "I'm going to give you a present," Remo said.
"Yes?" Hassam asked politely.
And Remo showed him exactly how to hold his fingers when pressing a certain spot on a woman's back.
"Yes, very good, but what will this do?" Hassam asked, experimenting with the unusual position.
"I'll let you find out for yourself. Sandy's going to visit you in the pokey. I'll see to it. When she does, you push on the place on her back the way I showed you. She'll come every visiting day, I promise."
"Very strange," Hassam said.
"So long, Squirt."
?Chapter Five
"Hassam's got a freighter full of dope -in Miami Harbor," Remo told Smith. "The Maid of Mallecha is the name of the ship. Hassam's at home, waiting to be picked up."
"Again? Remo—"
"That's just the way it is," Remo said flatly. "I'm not going to kill anyone, no matter what."
Smith sputtered for a few moments. "All right," he said finally. "There isn't time to argue. How was Hassam getting the heroin to the public?"
"He wasn't. He's broke, like all the other drug dealers."
"You mean you don't have a clue?"
"Oh, I've got a clue all right. The stuff's in coffee. I just don't know how it's getting there."
"Coffee?" A mechanical whirr sounded in the background. Smith mumbled to himself while making entries into the computers. "That would explain the widespread proliferation of the drug. But which coffee? And how does the heroin get into the coffee? In the packing stage, or earlier? What city does it originate from? How can one dealer infiltrate every coffee operation in the country? Who has access to so much heroin? And why would anyone want to do it?"
"Hell, I don't know, Smitty—"
"It doesn't even seem that it would be profitable," Smith rambled on, oblivious now to Remo. The background clicks and beeps whipped to a frenzy, then died away. "None of that computes
," Smith said wearily. "Are you sure it's coffee?"
"Pretty sure."
"I'll have some tests run. Be where I can reach you this evening."
It was 7:30 when Remo arrived back at the motel. The only sound in the place was Chiun's quill pen scratching furiously at a piece of parchment.
"Sorry I'm late," Remo said breezily. "What's for dinner?"
The old man's head lifted slowly, revealing a pair of hazel eyes glinting with rage. The white wisps of hair on top of Chiun's head raised and lowered rhythmically with the clenching of his jaws.
"Dinner?" he asked innocently. "One does not eat dinner in the middle of the night. At least civilized people do not. When a civilized person is invited by his elder and superior to dine at a proper hour, that person arrives when he is due. Not two and a half hours later."
"I'm sorry, Chiun," Remo said. "It couldn't be helped."
"Of course not. Uncivilized oafs can never prevent their true nature from revealing itself. Especially white men. It is their genetic duty to be rude and crude."
"Okay, okay. I deserve that. But I'm starving. Isn't there any duck left?"
Chiun tilted his head. "Duck? Of course there is duck."
Like a puff of smoke, he seemed to rise off the floor unaided by muscle bone. He walked serenely into the tiny kitchenette and emerged a moment later holding a platter. The platter was heaped with a lumpy black substance.
"Here is your duck, o prompt one." With his fingers he snapped the platter in two. The charred mass clunked onto the floor.
"All right, I get the picture. How about the rice? Is there any rice left? I don't mind if it's cold."
"Rice?" The old man padded back into the kitchenette and out again. In his hands was a smoke-blackened pot, which he upended over the blackened duck. A brown pancake composed of hard, crisp granules flew out. "There is your rice, o industrious assassin who is too busy not killing to return for dinner. Is there anything else I may serve you?"
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