A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [112]
Wang Bin meticulously unwrapped his hamburger. He lifted the bun and examined the meat. He was overpowered briefly by the hot smell.
“Go on, eat,” Broom said. “We’ve got a long ride.”
Wang Bin forced himself to take a bite, and chased it down hastily with black coffee. “I would have preferred to wash myself before—”
“Sorry if I offended your Oriental hygiene, Pop. After all this is over, I’ll take you to Hong Fat’s for real won ton soup.”
Wang Bin said, “I would like an accounting of the moneys.”
“Finish your lunch. We’ll talk about it later.”
Wang Bin sipped at the coffee, but found himself longing for tea. Broom was impudent, and shamefully greedy; this the deputy minister had known from the first day. Now, in the final stages, it came down to trust. Wang Bin studied his oily partner as Broom gnawed on a french fry. In a cold rush it struck him how foolish he had been. Broom was his chauffeur, his travel guide, his interpreter, his caretaker; Wang Bin needed him. There was no doubt.
Yet Broom did not need him. Not anymore. The soldiers had arrived. The buyers were in place.
Coldly, Wang Bin began to see himself as excess baggage.
“What of the money?” he asked again.
“We’ve been through this.”
“Once more, please.”
“All the accounts are in the name Henry Lee. That’s both of us. We’re both Mr. Lee. Both signatures are good at all the banks. As of today we got money in Texas and Florida. Lots.”
“You said the spearman is for a Washington museum.”
“The curator of an important museum. An expert,” Broom muttered. “He would only agree to three hundred thousand, C.O.D. No money down.”
That extinguished Wang Bin’s faint hope that Harold Broom might be an honorable man. Broom was a liar. Wang Bin knew there had been a substantial down payment on the Chinese spear-carrier. He had found the deposit slip in Broom’s wallet, three hundred thousand dollars at the Riggs National Bank in Washington.
The date on the deposit matched the date Broom had met the curator.
Wang Bin sighed. If only David had been cooperative, there would have been no need for an alliance with Harold Broom. If only David had agreed.
Now he was dead, and Broom was on his way to being a millionaire.
“Three hundred thousand for the spear-carrier is an insult,” Wang Bin declared.
“I agree, Pop. But the buyer has me over a real barrel. He heard about the other soldiers—don’t ask me how—and accused me of cheating him. See, I’d promised him an exclusive. I had to. Anyway, when he heard about the other two soldiers he almost threw me out of the museum. I had to do some fast talking to jack him back up to three hundred, believe me.”
“Find another buyer.”
“It’s too late.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re hot now,” Broom said urgently. “The papers will have fun with our noisy escapade last night at St. Francis. And if that little spade you plugged decides to talk, we could be in trouble.” Broom jerked his thumb toward the trunk of the car. “I’m going to unload Charlie Chan on a train to Texas this afternoon. After that, just one more. Then we split the money and disappear, the sooner the better. By the way, where did you get that gun?”
“I purchased it last night, while you were sleeping off the liquor.”
“Where?”
“In a place where people speak in my language.”
Broom grinned, a yellow half-moon. “Chinatown! You old son of a bitch.”
Wang Bin turned away.
“Eat your french fries, Pop. I’ve got a couple important calls to make, then we’ll be on our way. Can’t keep the customers waiting.”
Broom sauntered down the street to a corner telephone booth. Wang Bin collected the lunch debris and placed it in a trash can outside the Burger King. He stretched his legs and breathed deeply of the summer day. He felt the butt of the pistol dig into his midriff, and he adjusted the gun a fraction in his waistband. From the highway overpass came the now familiar din of speeding traffic. Wang
Bin thought how pleasant it would be to find a place untouched by the big road