All that was missing was the chalk silhouette.
Tom Stratton arrived by cab at 7:15 a.m., a haggard presence among the rabid, coffee-hopped reporters. Because he was carrying a fresh spray of flowers, Stratton was immediately marked as a grief-stricken relative and besieged with questions. Who would want to steal Mr. Bertecelli's body? Had a ransom note been received? Did Mr. Bertecelli practice satanism? How was the widow holding up?
Stratton deflected his interrogators and was relieved when a plump brunette woman identified herself as Violet Bertecelli and began to tell her sad story to the mothlike newsmen. The moment also offered a breather for Officer Sanderson, so Stratton walked up and asked what had happened.
"Some assholes ripped off a corpse here, which is grand theft, presuming the item taken has a value in excess of one hundred dollars. We're looking for two or three perpetrators, at least one of them armed with a pistol." Sanderson shrugged. "Who knows what to think? You want my opinion? Kids. Maybe it's some kind of sick fraternity ritual. Else it could be 'Ricans. They're all into that witchcraft shit. Voodoo, eatin' chicken heads. Could be that. Hey you! Get out of the fuckin' hole!" Sanderson waved his nightstick at a photographer. "Get out of the goddamn grave. What are ya, some kinda sick hump?"
"Somebody said there was an ambulance here," Stratton remarked.
"Yeah, that's the odd thing." Sanderson took out his notebook and read from the top page. "Victim's name was Charles Robinson, aged seventeen. Long juvenile record for b-and-e, shoplifting, boosting bicycles. Nothing like this."
"Was he hurt badly?"
"Naw, you know them people. You got to shoot 'em in the asshole to do any real damage." The cop laughed. "You a relative of Mr. Bertecelli or what?"
"No, I brought some flowers for my grandmother's grave. It's up the hill a ways.
I was just curious, that's all."
"Well, the little shit was shot in the arm. He'll live. I'm pretty sure he was involved in the whole thing. He's not talkin', naturally. Says he was walkin' by the graveyard on his way to church when some crazy Chinaman shot him." Sanderson shook his head admiringly. "You got to give these douche bags credit for imagination. Fuckin' weird, even for Queens."
The retinue clinging to Violet Bertecelli suddenly moved with her to the edge of the damaged grave. She stared at the broken casket and began to wail, accompanied by the sibilance of a dozen motordrive Nikons.
CHAPTER 24
They drove south. Broom was careful to stay at fifty-five, and even so he could not keep his eyes off the rear-view mirror. He was ragged and nervous. A shooting had been the last thing he had expected. The Chinaman had balls, that was for sure-how the hell had he gotten that gun?
As always, Wang Bin rode in silence. In contrast to Broom, the deputy minister was placid, almost serene. He seemed to pay particular attention to other cars.
The brighter and newer they were, the more he stared. One time, when a black Porsche flew past them, Broom thought he noticed Wang Bin smiling.
He's like a little kid, the art dealer thought. A little kid with a chrome-plated.38.
"I am hungry," Wang Bin said.
Broom found a Burger King. He used the drive-in lane, braking as they pulled abreast of a plastic menu board.
"What do you want?" he asked the deputy minister.
Wang Bin squinted at the colorful menu sign for a long time. A young girl's voice cracked on a speaker box and said, "Good morning, can I help you?"
Wang Bin sat back, startled.
"Tell her what you want," Broom commanded.
"Tell who?"
"The girl! Tell her what you want to eat!"
"I see no one." Wang Bin looked above and beneath the sign. "Who is speaking?"
"Welcome to Burger King, can I help you?"
"It's a bloody microphone, Pop!" Broom leaned out the window and shouted: "Two Whoppers, two fries and two coffees!"
After Broom paid for the food, he parked the car in the shade of a maple tree.
He tore open his hamburger carton, took two bites and said, "It's a good thing I'm your partner. Otherwise you'd fucking starve in this country."
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 chauffer, 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 and all its relentless noise. A city of bicycles had certain advantages.