A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [34]
“We must go,” Fat Lips said worriedly. “It would be bad not to go, Professor.”
“Arrangements are ready for you,” the other cadre added. “The deputy minister—”
“It’s impossible, comrades. Thanks just the same, but my bus is about to leave.” Stratton turned away and hurried along the sidewalk. The green minibus was idling. The driver tapped on the horn three times.
“Coming!” Stratton shouted, breaking into a trot.
Then he felt an arm on his sleeve. Angrily, he whirled to face Crooked Teeth. The other cadre jogged a few steps behind, puffing.
“Come now,” Crooked Teeth said. This time it was a command, and there was nothing polite about it.
“What is this?” Stratton demanded.
Inside the tour bus, the Americans watched the confrontation with shock. Stratton towered over the cadres, shouting down into their impassive faces.
“Fuck off!” is what he said.
“My God,” sighed Alice Dempsey.
“He’s nothing but a troublemaker,” mumbled Walter Thomas. “He’s going to spoil this for all of us.”
“He’s a little upset, that’s all,” Weatherby said. “He’s just upset about his friend.”
The other Americans craned for a glimpse of their colleague haggling with the government cadres. Miss Sun quickly moved to the front of the bus and whispered to the driver: “Go now.”
As the tour departed for the railway station, Alice Dempsey saw Stratton being guided down the sidewalk toward the limousine, a resolute Chinese at each elbow.
“I missed the fucking bus,” Stratton was growling. “Get your hands off me, comrades.”
“All is arranged,” Crooked Teeth said as they walked.
Stratton sneaked a backward glance over his right shoulder as the minibus turned down Dongdan Street and disappeared. Fat Lips slipped away from Stratton’s side long enough to open the door to the cavernous Red Flag.
“Okay,” said Fat Lips, with a shove.
“No okay,” said Stratton, uncorking a nasty left jab that snapped flush in the cadre’s face. Fat Lips fell backward like a domino. His head cracked on the rear fender.
Instantly, Stratton stumbled forward, gasping. His right side cramped from a kidney punch; he caught himself with both hands on the Red Flag and spun around. Crooked Teeth coiled in a crouch, snarling. His cap was on the pavement. Other Chinese pressed in a growing circle, yammering excitedly. The fight did not last long.
Crooked Teeth feinted a punch, then spun forward on one leg, aiming a powerful kick at Stratton’s neck. It was a prosaic maneuver, and Stratton deflected it from memory. Deftly, he seized the cadre’s ankle in midair, and seemed to hold him there—flustered and grunting—before delivering a decisive punch to the poor man’s testicles. Crooked Teeth fell in a blue heap, bug-eyed, semiconscious.
Instinct warned Stratton to run, but he could hardly move. The bystanders formed a wall—hundreds of them, packed shoulder to shoulder in front of the hotel. Soon the police would arrive.
Sideways, Stratton edged through the heaving crowd with deliberate slowness. Stratton resolved to keep calm, to stop the fear from reaching his eyes, where people could see it. Obviously, the Chinese in the street were confused; some hastily moved out of the tall American’s path, while others stood firm, scolding. The worst thing would be to run, Stratton knew, so he held himself to a purposeful walk; a man with someplace to go.
After three blocks, Stratton appropriated an unlocked bicycle and aimed himself on a wobbly course toward Tiananmen Square. He had no map and very little time. The square was the heart of Peking, a central magnet, lousy with tourists. Somebody there surely would be able to tell him the quickest way to the trains.
Inexorably, Stratton was drawn into a broad, slow-moving stream of bicycles. He had hoped that the clanging blue mass would swallow him and offer concealment—but his stature and blond hair betrayed him. Among the Chinese he shone like a beacon.
From somewhere a car honked, and the cycling throng parted grudgingly. Stratton dutifully