A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [108]
“Okay, no disco. But we gotta eat,” the art broker said.
“I want to rest before we work.”
“Look out there, old man. That’s the greatest city in the world. Don’t you want to have a good time?”
“I am tired.”
“Hey, Pop, let’s celebrate a little. We’re rich, remember? You and me, we’re on a roll now. Packed our little pal off to our Florida buyer yesterday—that’s one down, two to go, and money in the bank.” Broom rubbed his hands together hungrily and gave the deputy minister another one of his winks. “Let’s see the sights!”
“You go ahead,” Wang Bin said, stepping away from the window. “I want to sleep.”
THE DEPUTY MINISTER was dressed for the graveyard when Harold Broom returned at one in the morning.
“Hey there, Pops, you missed a good time.” Broom weaved across the room and eased down on the sofa. He kicked off his shoes and scratched at his feet.
“You are drunk,” Wang Bin said angrily.
“Don’t worry, partner,” Broom struggled out of his clothes without assistance, but Wang Bin had to guide the art broker’s arms and legs into the dark gray coveralls that they had selected as their grave robbers’ uniform.
“Didya see the Post tonight?” Broom babbled. “It made the headline on one of the back pages: VANDALS DESECRATE JEWISH GRAVES AT FLORIDA CEMETERY. Just a little story, no big deal, but they printed part of my poem. Even had a photo of one of the headstones.”
Broom stretched out on the sofa and groaned feebly.
“It’s time to go now,” Wang Bin said, standing over him.
“In a minute.”
“Now!” said the deputy minister, grabbing Broom’s arm.
The art dealer easily shook himself free and pushed the old man away. “Don’t fuck with me, Pop! I got a tiny headache right at the moment so I’m gonna rest. I’m the driver, ’member? We go when I say.”
Wang Bin sat down only when he heard Broom start to snore.
TOM STRATTON SLOUCHED glumly in the Eastern Airlines lounge that overlooked the main runways at the Tampa—St. Petersburg Airport. A long line of jets sat in the slashing rain, the wing lights flicking red and white and red again, the pilots waiting for the weather to clear. Stratton’s flight to New York had already been delayed thirty minutes.
Stratton was on his second beer when he got the idea for a modest head start. He found a nest of deserted pay phones in the main lobby near the gift shops.
In a neat brownstone in one of the better neighborhoods of Queens, Violet Bertecelli cracked her shin on a coffee table as she fumbled in the dark for the telephone. When she finally found it, she was in too much pain to say a gracious hello.
“Do you know what the hell time it is?”
“Is this Mrs. Bertecelli? Mrs. John Bertecelli?” asked a fuzzy voice.
“Yes. Yes, it is. Is this long distance?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tom Stratton said. “I apologize for calling at such an hour, but it’s morning here in China—”
“What? You’re calling from China?”
“Yes, ma’am. Peking. I’m Steve Powell, with the United States Embassy. I handled the arrangements after your husband’s unfortunate …”
“Death,” Violet said helpfully.
“Yes, of course, back in July. That’s the reason I’m calling, Mrs. Bertecelli. I’m not exactly sure how to go about telling you this, but in recent months there have been reports of irregularities in the shipment of human remains from China back to the United States.”
Violet said, “Johnny died of a coronary.”
“Yes, I know. But we’ve had complaints from a couple of families about the quality of the metal on the coffins. In the case of one poor fellow, the hinges snapped off and the lid came loose.”
“The coffin was just fine. It was actually very nice. Did you pick it out yourself, Mr. Powell?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, it was lovely. Everything was just fine with Johnny. They sent him to Riordan’s Funeral Parlor and he was buried at St. Francis with his ma.”
“That’s excellent,” Stratton said. “And our files show he was laid to rest in plot E-seventy-seven.”
“No, sir, that’s wrong,” Violet said. “It’s plot number one-sixty-six. I remember ’cause one-sixty-six was Johnny’s best-ever score in the bowling league. That’s