"Nobody's gonna clean this place up. Now, pick up your feet."
Shrugging, Remo followed. He carried the can with him. He whistled a happy air.
This drew a sharp rebuke from the hooded man.
"You already high on something?"
"Every breath I take gets me higher."
The black man made an unhappy face, shook his head and kept going.
Beyond the foyer was a stairwell, and Remo followed him up. As soon as the fire door was open, the pungent smell of crack assaulted his nostrils. Remo cycled his breathing down to filter out the deadly smoke.
"This place smell like formaldehyde all the time?" Remo asked.
"You know it. Man can get high just by climbing the stairs. Only don't you try copping any freebies off the air. You want to smoke crack, you smoke the crack I sell you, not the crack hanging in the air. You hear me?"
"Loud and clear," said Remo, who abruptly decided he didn't want to carry this particular trash down more than one flight. He set the can down with a bang.
The black man whirled jumpily at the sound.
"What's the damn holdup?"
"My trash can is empty."
"Of course it's empty. You brought it in empty."
"That's not the problem. The problem is I'm carrying it out full. Those are my orders."
"Orders? Who gave you them orders?"
"That would be telling," said Remo, lifting the lid. He peered inside, frowning with his strong, angular face.
He did this long enough to draw the crack dealer to the lip of the can. He looked in, too.
"What do you see?" Remo asked casually.
"Bottom of an empty damn can."
"Look closer. What else?"
"My own damn reflection."
"Bingo," said Remo, reaching out and stuffing the crack dealer into the can. He went in face first, angry expressions colliding at the bottom. His feet stuck up. They kicked like frog legs.
Remo tapped a spot at the small of the man's back, and both legs wilted like weeds. Then Remo jammed the lid in place.
"Can you breathe?" he asked.
"Lemme out, fool! Lemme out now!"
"I asked if you can breathe?"
"Yeah. I can breathe."
"That's why they're called air holes."
"What?"
"Never mind," said Remo, lifting the can by one handle and marching up the stairs.
The crack smoke came in two flavors-fresh and stale.
Trying not to inhale, Remo followed the thin river of fresh smoke. It led to the third floor, where he found a closed door and an assortment of people sprawled in a corner amid the wreckage of office furniture, passing around a bent and flattened Coke can that emitted thin white smoke.
They were taking turns inhaling from the Coke can's poptop mouth.
"Trashman," Remo sang out.
"Go 'way," some of the smokers said. The others didn't look up. They were so thin from not eating, they might have lacked the strength.
"I've come for the trash," Remo said. "Let's start with that Coke can."
That got everyone's attention. A TEC-22 was produced and pointed at the man holding the Coke can.
"Don't give it up or I'll shoot you dead," said the man with the gun.
"I think you're pointing that in the wrong direction," Remo said agreeably. "You need to point that at me."
"I said give it up," the TEC wielder growled.
"Just now you said don't," the smoker said.
"Changed my damn mind." And changing it again, he pulled the trigger.
The Coke smoker's head became choppy and red, and he fell backward.
Three pairs of hands lunged for the flung Coke can as if scrambling for the last bottle of oxygen on earth.
While a fight broke out on the floor, Remo began collecting refuse.
Bang went the trash-can lid over another tangle of arms and legs. Bang it went again, fast enough to swallow a drug addict but not fast enough to let the previous drug addict climb out.
When the lid went bang for the last time, pieces of cloth and pink and brown flesh oozed from the air holes. A distinct nostril poked out of one. It was rimmed with white powder residue. It pulsed once, as exhaled nitrogen rushed from it, then was still.
"Everyone okay in there?" asked Remo.