"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.
"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.