Carl Hiaasen - A Death in China

Stratton waited for the denouement. Captain Black riffled methodically through escape scenarios. The dice roll, man. Nobody lives forever.

But at least make him work for it.

You bastard. Stratton stared at the rag boy. You chicken-shit son of a bitch. We let you go. I could have ended your pitiful knitting-needle existence with a nod, but instead I let you go. In return you killed my friends.

"It was the kid… Sorry, Tom… "

Stratton plumbed the Chinese, seeking the man behind the intelligent eyes. He found nothing. And then he made a decision. We both of us should have been dead these eleven years, son of a bitch. Call in the cards. It was a simple decision.

It refreshed Stratton and gave him strength. The instant the rag boy raised his voice in accusation, Captain Black would kill him. One dead man kills another.

Justice in Man-ling. To finish what had been neglected that night in the rain.

I'm sorry, Bobby Ho.

Stratton was sizing the blow when he saw what he had not dared hope to see.

The Chinese eyes spoke plainly. I know you. I have you. You are mine.

And then, the final message:

A life for a life.

"Bushi," the man spat in an unexpectedly deep voice.

He stalked from the room.

"Thom-as, he says it was not you," Kangmei cried.

"Of course not."

Babbling peasants erased the tension. Minutes later, Stratton and Kangmei were alone in the back of a jeep. Stratton had departed without pity for the old policeman, agape, blubbering alone in a corner of the room.

Rest in peace, Bobby Ho. You were right and I was wrong, all this time, all these years.

"Open your suitcase, please."

"It's locked."

"Find the key and open it," said U.S. Customs Inspector Lance P. Dooley, Jr. He strained to be polite. His boss was working the next aisle.

"But the key is in the suitcase," whined the young man in Dooley's line. "I packed it by accident. I'm sorry, officer." The man had just debarked from Pan American Airways Flight 7, Peking-to-Tokyo-to-San Francisco. He wore blue jeans and a Van Halen concert T-shirt, with Day-Glo lettering. His black hair was long and straight, tied in a ponytail. Dooley studied the face. Malaysian, he decided. The passport confirmed it.

"Sir, I want to take a look in your suitcase. Either you find a way to open it, or I will. We have special tools," Dooley said. "Hardly put a scratch on it, you watch."

"But it's a brand-new Samsonite," the young man objected.

"So it is."

Behind the young man a haggard procession of travelers stretched and sighed and muttered their annoyance at the delay. Second in line was a stocky, handsome Chinese man in his sixties. His hair was neatly combed, and he wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses that gave his features an intent, scholarly cast. His clothes fit somewhat loosely: beige slacks slightly wrinkled from the long flight, a knit canary-colored sports shirt buttoned all the way to the neck, and a dark brown sweater with a monogram on the left breast.

The Chinese man carried only one piece of luggage, a cumbersome old suitcase exhibiting thirty years' worth of scuffs and dents. The man did not hoist the suitcase to the conveyor belt, but kept it at his feet, one hand firmly on the grip, as if it were a Doberman on a leash. He seemed transfixed by the argument in front of him.

"You can't just break into my suitcase," the young Malaysian insisted.

"Sir," Dooley said, "if you decline to have your luggage searched here, we will escort you to a private inspection room where we will not only search the suitcase, we'll ask you to take off your clothes-and we'll search some more.

Which do you prefer?"

Dooley's supervisor glanced disapprovingly at the long line at Dooley's aisle.

Dooley got the message and tried to step it up.

"The key, sir?"

The young man fidgeted. Dooley nodded to a couple of other customs agents, who had been leaning against a square pillar. They stepped eagerly to the front of Dooley's line.

"Okay, okay. I'm not hiding anything. Let me see if I can get this open." The Malaysian played with the latches on the Samsonite and it popped open. "Go ahead, see for yourself. Just clothes and some junk I brought back from Singapore."

"Do you live in Singapore?" Dooley asked as he picked through underwear, socks, snapshots, toothpaste, a packet of condoms.

"No, I live here in Frisco," said the young man. "Lived here since I was ten. My father still lives in Singapore. I got two brothers there, too. I go back five or six times a year."

This was the talking phase. Dooley smiled to himself. He took his time. It was here somewhere.

"I'm a chef," the young man volunteered. His eyes were glued to Dooley's hands, sifting and exploring. "It's a Chinese joint off Market Street. Li-Siu's. Have you been there? I make good money. And I send half of it home every month-"

"What's this?"

"Film. Kodak film."

Dooley studied the two yellow packages. The end flaps of one were creased, and off square from the carton.

"I bought those here, before I left."

"Really?"

"I didn't take as many pictures as I thought I would." The Malaysian grinned nervously.

Dooley opened one of the film cartons and removed the black plastic containers.

He snapped one of the caps and looked inside. The two agents behind him edged closer. The Chinese man, waiting in the customs line, craned his neck to get a glimpse.

Dooley showed the inside of the canister to the two agents. Gingerly he probed with his pinky finger; it came out covered with what looked like flour. Dooley tasted it with the tip of his tongue. Then he popped the top back on the container.

"Heroin," he said.

"No!" exclaimed the young Malaysian. "You're kidding."

"High-speed film, all right," one of the agents growled.

The Malaysian was led away, squirming. A third agent appeared and confiscated the Samsonite and the film packages.

"Sorry for the delay, folks," Lance Dooley said to the rest of the passengers.

"We'll move right along now. Next?"

The Chinese man wrestled his huge suitcase to the conveyor belt. Quickly, almost frantically, he opened the latches.

Dooley looked at the passport. "You are returning from the People's Republic of China. Is that right, Dr. Wang?"

"Yes, sir."

"Says here you've got some scrolls and some pottery." Dooley was reading from the customs declaration form.

"That's right."

"Worth about?"

"One hundred dollars. Approximately."

Dooley opened the suitcase. The scrolls were on top-inexpensive but delicately painted wall hangings. You could find them all over the place on Fisherman's Wharf.

The pottery had been carefully wrapped in several layers of Chinese newspaper.

Each piece was packed for protection between stacks of clothing. Dooley unearthed two large parcels.

"Vases."

"I'll be careful with them, Dr. Wang." Dooley peeled the newspaper away, making a lame effort not to rip it.

Cobalt dragons writhed on the body of each vase, beneath a crest of ornate blue scrolling, a field of peonies and, nesting there, a mallard. The vases were identical.

"Very nice," remarked Lance Dooley.

"Imitations, I'm afraid, but lovely bookends. For my office at the university."

"How much did these cost?" Dooley asked.

"Sixty-five dollars. A tourist shop in Peking."

Dooley set the vases on the conveyor belt, next to the suitcase. "Dr. Wang, could I see the sales receipt for these?"

"Certainly, it should be right here." He sorted through a billfold. "That's odd.

I can't find it. See here-the receipt for the scrolls-"

Dooley gave it a cursory glance and handed it back.

"I keep all the receipts in the same place. It must be here… "