A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [93]
“Okay, okay. I’m not hiding anything. Let me see if I can get this open.” The Malaysian played with the latches on the Samsonite and it popped open. “Go ahead, see for yourself. Just clothes and some junk I brought back from Singapore.”
“Do you live in Singapore?” Dooley asked as he picked through underwear, socks, snapshots, toothpaste, a packet of condoms.
“No, I live here in Frisco,” said the young man. “Lived here since I was ten. My father still lives in Singapore. I got two brothers there, too. I go back five or six times a year.”
This was the talking phase. Dooley smiled to himself. He took his time. It was here somewhere.
“I’m a chef,” the young man volunteered. His eyes were glued to Dooley’s hands, sifting and exploring. “It’s a Chinese joint off Market Street. Li-Siu’s. Have you been there? I make good money. And I send half of it home every month—”
“What’s this?”
“Film. Kodak film.”
Dooley studied the two yellow packages. The end flaps of one were creased, and off square from the carton.
“I bought those here, before I left.”
“Really?”
“I didn’t take as many pictures as I thought I would.” The Malaysian grinned nervously.
Dooley opened one of the film cartons and removed the black plastic containers. He snapped one of the caps and looked inside. The two agents behind him edged closer. The Chinese man, waiting in the customs line, craned his neck to get a glimpse.
Dooley showed the inside of the canister to the two agents. Gingerly he probed with his pinky finger; it came out covered with what looked like flour. Dooley tasted it with the up of his tongue. Then he popped the top back on the container.
“Heroin,” he said.
“No!” exclaimed the young Malaysian. “You’re kidding.”
“High-speed film, all right,” one of the agents growled.
The Malaysian was led away, squirming. A third agent appeared and confiscated the Samsonite and the film packages.
“Sorry for the delay, folks,” Lance Dooley said to the rest of the passengers. “We’ll move right along now. Next?”
The Chinese man wrestled his huge suitcase to the conveyor belt. Quickly, almost frantically, he opened the latches.
Dooley looked at the passport. “You are returning from the People’s Republic of China. Is that right, Dr. Wang?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Says here you’ve got some scrolls and some pottery.” Dooley was reading from the customs declaration form.
“That’s right.”
“Worth about?”
“One hundred dollars. Approximately.”
Dooley opened the suitcase. The scrolls were on top—inexpensive but delicately painted wall hangings. You could find them all over the place on Fisherman’s Wharf.
The pottery had been carefully wrapped in several layers of Chinese newspaper. Each piece was packed for protection between stacks of clothing. Dooley unearthed two large parcels.
“Vases.”
“I’ll be careful with them, Dr. Wang.” Dooley peeled the newspaper away, making a lame effort not to rip it.
Cobalt dragons writhed on the body of each vase, beneath a crest of ornate blue scrolling, a field of peonies and, nesting there, a mallard. The vases were identical.
“Very nice,” remarked Lance Dooley.
“Imitations, I’m afraid, but lovely bookends. For my office at the university.”
“How much did these cost?” Dooley asked.
“Sixty-five dollars. A tourist shop in Peking.”
Dooley set the vases on the conveyor belt, next to the suitcase. “Dr. Wang, could I see the sales receipt for these?”
“Certainly, it should be right here.” He sorted through a billfold. “That’s odd. I can’t find it. See here—the receipt for the scrolls—”
Dooley gave it a cursory glance and handed it back.
“I keep all the receipts in the same place. It must be here …”
“Do you recall the name of the store?”
“No … no, I don’t. But it was printed on the receipt.”
Dooley’s boss shot him another glare from the next aisle. “Lance, you got another one?”
“No, sir.” Dooley could take a hint. Quickly he rewrapped the vases in their paper cocoons and placed them back in the suitcase.
“Where is your final destination, Dr.