A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [7]
“What’s that?”
“‘It beats the shit out of me, baby.’”
Stratton laughed.
“I’ll get out of your hair, but let me ask a quick question. I was supposed to meet a friend of mine today, a Chinese-American professor who’s here on a personal visit. He never showed up. How do I go about tracking him down?”
“You sure he’s here in Peking?”
“Almost. He was supposed to come back yesterday from Xian.”
“Plane probably didn’t fly. The national airline only flies when the weather is good. No joke.”
“That’s probably it. Still, I’d like to try. He’s a very old friend of mine and I’d hate to miss connections.”
“I could have the interpreter call the hotels, but it would be a waste of time. The one constructive suggestion I can make is that you ask about your friend at the American Embassy. If he’s an academic type, they should have some record of him, an itinerary.”
“Who could I ask?”
“The culture vultures would be most likely to know, but they are turds to a man. Try the consul, Steve Powell. He won’t know, but he’s the kind of guy who could find out.”
“At the consulate?”
“Never on Thursday mornings. Steve plays tennis every Thursday. Over at the International Club, the courts they call the Rockpit. Do you know where it is?”
“I’ve passed it.”
“I have to go out, but you’re welcome to use the corporate bicycle.”
“Corporate bicycle?”
“No correspondent is complete without one,” said McCarthy, fishing a small key off a large ring. “Downstairs at the bike rack, license number oh-oh-two-seven-two. It’s black, like all the rest of them. Do you know how to get there?”
“I have a map, thanks. Do you ride much?”
“Only in the line of duty.”
SEEN FROM a hotel window or a tourist bus, the infinite procession of bicycles is one of China’s most impressive sights. On every major street, broad lanes are reserved for bicycles. Even in downtown Peking they outnumber the trucks and cars by a thousand to one. Alice and her friends rhapsodized about the bicycles. They could talk for hours, insulated in the air-conditioned bus, of the silent, measured stream, as massive and as unstoppable as the Yangtze. They found in the bicycles a symbol of the progressive New China. At faculty teas it would, no doubt, sound quite profound.
Stratton learned some different things before he had wobbled two blocks. For one thing, the Chinese bicycle, copy of old English Raleigh though it may be, is more tank than scooter. It weighs a ton, steers hard and pedals harder. McCarthy’s corporate bike had no gears, and by the time Stratton passed the old imperial observatory he was sweating. What astonished him most, though, was the chaos into which he had plunged. Bicycles, he decided, as a pert young thing nonchalantly cut him off and he swerved to avoid a three-horse cart, were the ultimate bastion of Chinese individualism. To outsiders, the cyclists might look like an army of blue ants. To somebody who pedaled among them, the Chinese all had fangs. They veered without warning. They knifed through lanes of cross traffic with terrifying, expressionless élan. Chinese flirted as they rode. They hawked and spat. They sang and cursed.
The left turns were worst of all. The first time Stratton tried to make one he found he could not maneuver into the left segment of the bike lane in time. The second time he saw no way of getting across the oncoming flux of trucks and bikes. The third time he tensely negotiated the turn in the protective shadow of an old man who looked only straight ahead and miraculously emerged unscathed.
Twenty-five minutes later, Stratton pedaled past the iron gates of the International Club. He locked McCarthy’s bike near a willow tree and walked to the tennis courts. Two