A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [101]
“I called the bureau in Peking. They said you’d be here for a couple of weeks.”
“Sheila and the kids fly in tomorrow,” McCarthy said. “I can’t wait to see ’em. Hell, another night or two alone in this town and a hard-drinking Irishman might buy himself some serious trouble. Like Peroxide Lucy over there. You ever see a Chinese with a wig like that? This club is a regular Mardi Gras, just what you need when you’re fresh out of China.”
“Your clerk had a pretty good idea you’d be here.”
“She’s a doll. I’d trust her with my life.” McCarthy suspiciously eyed the bartender, who was pouring another gin. “Tom, I was just thinking about you yesterday. Your friend, the old professor who died, wasn’t his name Wang? Well, his brother, the honcho deputy minister of whatever, died this week, too. Did you hear about it?”
“Yes. Supposedly drowned.”
“Dressed in full uniform, resplendent Mao gray, according to some of our embassy boys. Ironic, isn’t it? The old guy had a black mourning band pinned to his sleeve. The big whisper is suicide.”
Stratton started to say something, but reined himself. “Are you doing a story about it?” he asked McCarthy.
“Naw, I don’t think so.” McCarthy looked up from his drink. “You think it’s worth a story? I dunno, you might be right. The death of two brothers—one American, one Chinese. The ultimate reunion! The desk might go for it. They’re slobbering for human interest stuff.”
A screech came from the big table in the middle of the club. McCarthy and Stratton looked over just in time to see one of the American network correspondents punch the French free-lancer in the nose.
“Bravo, baby!” McCarthy called out. “Hoist the flag right up his ass!” He turned back to Stratton. “I’m not so sure about this Wang story after all … maybe I’m just not in the mood to write.” McCarthy sighed. “I’ll feel a hell of a lot better when Sheila’s here.”
They drank together for half an hour, eavesdropping on the slurred debates and laconic come-ons, watching the fog turn to cotton over the harbor. Finally McCarthy said, “What was it you needed from me?”
“A list.”
“Of what?”
“Remember the story you wrote on ‘Death by Duck’? You told me about it—about all the American tourists who die over here …”
“I did the story two years ago, Tom. You want a list of all of them?” McCarthy could not mask his curiosity.
“Not all of them. I want a list from the last four months, a list of every American who died in China. Can you get it?”
McCarthy shrugged. “No sweat. All it takes is a phone call.”
“What else is available?”
“Ages, hometowns, occupations. That’s about it.”
Stratton leaned forward. “Hometowns are all I need. How big a list are we talking about?”
McCarthy shifted on the barstool. He was not accustomed to being grilled. “A small list, Tom. A half-dozen names, at the most. I’m just guessing. I really haven’t been following the death-by-duck box score since I wrote that one story.”
“But you can get the list?”
“Sure, Tom.” McCarthy fingered his fiery beard. “But I’ve got to ask why. I’m not too drunk to listen.”
Stratton stood up. “I can’t tell you, not now.”
McCarthy smiled. “Someday?”
“Maybe,” Stratton said. “It’s possible.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
Stratton slapped a Bodine twenty-dollar bill on the counter and motioned to the flinty-eyed bartender. “Good God, don’t be a fool and leave the whole thing,” McCarthy hissed. “He’s been pissin’ in the drinks all night.”
Stratton laughed and shook the newsman’s hand. “I’m at the Hilton. My flight leaves at about noon tomorrow.”
“Hey, you’re talking to an ace foreign correspondent.” McCarthy roared. “You’ll have your list by ten sharp.”
Stratton walked back to the hotel room and stood under a steaming shower for twenty minutes. The melancholy and bitterness gradually receded to a remote corner of his mind; he began to feel galvanized, perversely exhilarated by what lay ahead. One