"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.