Frogmouth (2 page)

It might as well. So might they all. The fly was doomed. So were they. O'Yee made a groaning noise.

The Assistant Feng Shui Man said, "He isn't Chinese, is he?"

Lim said, "No."

"American?" Out of the corner of his eye, the Assistant Feng Shui Man, pretending to check up on one of the holes in the universe where the dragon's breath came out, glanced at O'Yee.

Lim said, "American-Chinese-Irish." Lim said in Cantonese, "Mr. O'Yee is Eurasian."

The Assistant Feng Shui Man said, "Bad luck." He asked, "He doesn't speak Cantonese?"

"Yes."

The Assistant Feng Shui Man said in a whisper, "Oh." He turned his eyes from the dragon breath hole and smiled to O'Yee. The Assistant Feng Shui Man, smiling and nodding, said, "It's the weather. Lightning in the sky always upsets the forces of—" He didn't want to tax him too much. "Always makes the—gets the forces in the world we Chinese believe in a little . . . jumpy." That explained two thousand years of celestial metaphysics—more than enough for the average Westerner. "Don't you worry now. It's just a little thing Constable Lim and I have to do and it won't take very long and then everything will be all right again." Through the window by O'Yee's desk there was a sudden flash of heat lightning that lit up O'Yee's face and showed every hollow and line on it and turned it haggard. The Assistant Feng Shui Man said, "You just sit there and—" He followed O'Yee's eyes. "And—" He asked Lim, "What's he doing?"

Lim said softly, "He's watching the fly."

"Why?"

Lim said, "He's a detective."

"Oh." The Assistant Feng Shui Man, totally at a loss to understand the Occidental mind said, "—and watch the fly." They were inscrutable, Westerners. And they didn't say much. The Assistant Feng Shui Man said as if he were dismantling a bomb, "I . . . am now . . . going to . . . place a reflective mirror against . . . the wall . . . so the spirits will see only their own reflection and think there's no one human . . . in the room."

Lim said in gratitude, "Thank you very much." He looked over at O'Yee. He was stone-faced, unmoving, watching the fly. There was only the faintest tic working at the side of his mouth. In the air, the fly did an Immelmann turn above the Assistant Feng Shui Man's head and began gliding toward the wall where he worked. Lim said softly in English, "It'll be all right Mr. O'Yee. You'll see. He's only an assistant feng shui man, but my brother-in-law who recommended him said he does wonders with evil spirits."

O'Yee said in Cantonese in a strange voice, "The only thing to do is to tear the entire place down and build it somewhere else."

Lim said, "No, sir. Trust me . . ."

"It is." O'Yee staring at the wall, staring at the fly, staring, said with his face haggard and white, "And then, after it's been torn down, get a big three-inch steel plate and bolt it into the earth above the hole."

The Assistant Feng Shui Man said, "There!" He had his little mirror in place against the wall. The fly flew over to have a look. The Assistant Feng Shui Man said, "There, now all that's—"

O'Yee shouted to the fly,
"Get away from the wall!"
It was going in a beeline for the glittering mirror like a lover, entranced by the picture of the fly in the mirror also going in a beeline like a lover for it. O'Yee, jumping up as lightning flashed in the window, shouted, "Don't go near the—"

The Assistant Feng Shui Man said, "Calm yourself—"

Lim said, "Sir— Mr. O'Yee—"

The fly, in heat, went
bzzzzzz
. . .

O'Yee yelled—

There was a
zap!
and the fly, touching the wall, straightaway, without a twitch—poor goddamned fly—fell down dead.

The Assistant Feng Shui Man said in amazement, "Well, I must say, I—" He looked down at his little round mirror.

Against the wall, the mirror fell over.

The Assistant Feng Shui Man said, "That's strange." He looked at Lim.

In the wall, somewhere, there was a strange creaking.

He looked back at O'Yee and there was lightning in the window.

There was a groan. It hadn't come from O'Yee.

The Assistant Feng Shui Man, touching at one of his mirrors on his coat, said thoughtfully, "That's funny . . ." He looked at O'Yee's face. The Assistant Feng Shui Man asked, "There isn't anything you didn't tell me?"

O'Yee said, "No."

The Assistant Feng Shui Man said, "Because I—"

He heard something in the wall. It wasn't any dragon. It wasn't an evil spirit. It wasn't any tiger's tail swinging. It was . . . It was a sort of moving sound, an unwinding, a— The Assistant Feng Shui Man said, "Um . . . The science of geomancy, wind and water and all the influences in the celestial mechanism, has been effective in China for—" He said, "The— My master has always taught me that the—" He heard a hissing sound, then another groan, then a sort of building-up sound like steam, like something breathing, like something coming closer. The Assistant Feng Shui Man, backing away from the wall and squelching the dead fly with his heel, said nervously, "Um . . . It's been going on since—since dawn, you say." He scratched his head. He would have made notes. If he had had a pad. The Assistant Feng Shui Man, backing toward the door, said, "Did you ever see that movie
The House That Dripped Blood?
"

O'Yee said in a strange, strangled voice as the noise in the wall got louder and louder, "So far there hasn't been any blood." He saw the fly. There was blood. O'Yee said, "Yeah, I saw that movie."

"Now, now, sir." Lim, going forward and touching the Assistant Feng Shui Man on the shoulder, smiling at O'Yee, said, "Now, sir, surely as three intelligent people from differing cultures, with a world of experience and knowledge at our disposal . . ."

From inside the wall, The Terror That Had No Name had had enough. The Terror That Had No Name shrieked, "AAARRAGAH—
Wah!
"

Lim said in English, "Oh, shit!"

The Terror inside the wall shrieked, "RAAAHHGGGG!!" It moved. It shuddered. The whole wall, about to drip blood at any tick of the clock, went WHOOMPH! and moved.

AAAARRAGAH—
Wah!
RAAAHHGGGG! . . . Whoomph!

Doomed. They were all doomed.

Gathering up his broken mirror and his feet as the wall, moving, pulsating, working itself up went Whoomph! Whoomph! Whoomph!, the Assistant Feng Shui Man didn't even stop to say good-bye.

"Are you out of your mind?"
In Old Himalaya Street, Detective Inspector Auden, his mouth hanging open, said in a strangled gasp, "Are you crazy? You said it was a slight rise, you didn't say it was a ladder street, you didn't say it was a fucking mountain! You didn't say it was
Sagarmatha Hill!
"

He got a reassuring pat on the shoulder. What he should have gotten was a wheelchair. Detective Inspector Spencer, smiling (it was obviously one of Auden's little jokes), said with a careless toss of his head, "I know you can do it."

King Charles I once tried a little careless toss of his head too. Auden, looking around for an axe and a black mask, said in horror, "That's Sagarmatha Hill! You said P.C. Wang took a little turn—if he pounded up Sagarmatha Hill after the bloody Tibetan Tornado he didn't take a little turn, he probably dropped dead from fucking
altitude sickness!
" He looked down the end of the still wet road to where what had once been a natural hill had been turned by dint of over ninety years of hard work, excavations, town planning and redevelopment into what looked like a mountain. Auden said, "It's a ladder street! It's so fucking steep that they had to put stairs on it so a bloody human being could even get up the first twenty feet to take a breather!" He counted the stone landings. Auden said, 'There is a landing every eight steps!" Auden said, "Look, at the top"—at least he thought it was the top—"there's a bloody mist up there it's so high!" Auden said, "Let me get this straight: you want me to chase after someone all the way down Himalaya Street after he's swiped a handful of money from a customer working an autobank and—and if I don't catch him on the flat—you want me to chase after him up those stairs!" It was obviously a joke. Auden said, "Where's P.C. Wang now?"

Spencer said, "Anyone could catch him on the flat. The real challenge is to catch him on the stairs." Spencer said, "He runs barefoot for God's sake!"

"He runs barefoot so that when the paramedics come they won't have to waste time cutting his shoes off before they amputate both his legs!" Auden, his eyes narrowing, asked, "Where's P.C. Wang now?"

"P.C. Wang was weedy."

"P.C. Wang was the Police Weightlifting Champion for three years in a row!" Auden said, "Where is he, Bill?"

Spencer said, "Mmmpzxzzp tripmphhgern."

"What was that?"

Spencer said, "The St. Paul de Chartres gerzuffgarn . . ."

Auden said, "Oh."

". . . hospital, ghizzm ward."

Auden said, "Uh huh."

"Intensive care!" Spencer said, "Look, you can do it, Phil. You're fit. He's just a weedy little Tibetan who steals money from an autobank and runs away like a thief in the night up a little hill and then—"

"Why can't you do it?"

"It's a challenge I can't meet." Spencer said, "I haven't trained my body the way you have. When you go to the gym in your lunch hour, I read." Spencer said, "
Chariots of Fire, Rocky
—all that." Spencer said, "Don't you feel the need to strive, to fight, not to yield?" Obviously, from the look on his face, he didn't. Spencer said desperately, "The New Conservatism needs heroes'."

Auden said, "Wang had a coronary, didn't he?"

"A mild one." Spencer said quickly, "But he's all right. From what I could make out when I spoke to him, he's even happy. He said that at his time of life it was a good thing to test himself physically and realize that his best days were over. He said now he's found inner peace."

"How old was he?"

Spencer said, "Twenty-three." Spencer said, "You can do it, Phil. Are you going to let a Tibetan thief in the night lay you low?" Spencer said in his best Churchillian, "Phil, never surrender, never, never, never!" Spencer said, "You'll do it, right?"

Auden said, "How long does he take to do the hundred yards down Himalaya Street, grab the money, catch his stride and then get up the hill?"

"He's slow."

"How slow?"

Spencer said, 'Twelve and a half seconds."

"WHAT?"

"More or less."

"I couldn't get to the bank from the other side of the street in twelve and a half seconds!" Auden said, "He's hit the bank six times in two days. He isn't slow, he's like fucking greased lightning! Even if he gave me twenty yards start I still couldn't—"

"You could."

"I couldn't!"

"You could." Spencer said entreatingly, "Do it for P.C. Wang!"

"P.C. Wang is happy! P.C. Wang has inner peace!"

"P.C. Wang hasn't got any money! P.C. Wang isn't going to get any inner peace until he gets a decent stake from—" Spencer said suddenly, "Phil, if you could have seen him lying there in that public ward looking so pathetic and broken . . ."

Auden said, 'Tough."

". . . all his youth and dreams gone in a single cruel twist of fate . . ."

Auden said, "Huh."

". . . with nothing to look forward to but a lifetime of friendless penury and a pension so niggardly and . . ." Spencer said, "Beaten by an unwinnable challenge, defeated by odds so great that only a man of superhuman muscle development and . . ."

Auden said, "Oh, no."

Spencer said, ". . . viselike endurance and—"

Auden said, "You've bet on me, haven't you?"

". . . a will to win . . ."

"You've found a goddamned bookie and you've laid Wang's pension on me, haven't you?" He could hardly hear himself bawl for the violins and hearts and flowers,
"Haven't you!"

Spencer said, "Poor P.C. Wang was so—"

"Haven't you!?"

Spencer said,
"Yes!"
Spencer, admitting it, said, "Yes! I bet on you! They all said it couldn't be done, that the only way to catch the Tibetan Tornado on Sagarmatha Hill was to shoot him and then—"

Auden said, "Whoever they are, they're right."

"—but I told them that out there there was a man to whom no battle was too great, no call too distant, no cause too lost, no burden too great . . ."

Auden said, "I don't even like P.C. Wang—"

"—no fellow human too low, no cur too loathsome that he—"

"Bill, I don't think I can do it."

Spencer said, "You can do it." Spencer said, shrugging, "Anyway, it's only a small pension. Considering that Wang was going to have to try to support his wife and three children and his wife's grandmother on it, he's probably better off without it. The medical bills would have swallowed it all up anyway." He said, nodding, "You're right, you can't do it. P.C. Wang is better off just dying quietly in the hospital with no hope of recovery at all. It's kinder on his family. At least they'll have one little moment of importance at his funeral." Spencer said, "If 11 give them a little glow, all the pageantry, to warm them on their cold, friendless, ragged walk back from the cemetery to their doorway or cardboard crate in the street."

Auden looked up at the hill. It was like looking up at the Eiffel Tower. At the top of the hill there was a haze of carbon monoxide where it met Wyang Street. Either that or it was a mist of cloud where it met the sky. There was a flash of lightning. Either that or it was a comet. Auden said, shrugging, "Maybe I could do it . . ." Auden said, "The guy at the gym did say if I hadn't been a cop I could have been a pro footballer or a—" Auden said, "I keep myself fit and clean, you know . . ."

Spencer said, "I know."

Auden said, "I read books too. It's just that you have to choose sometimes between the mind and the body and there are some of us—"

Spencer said, "Lucky for the poor and downtrodden and sick like P.C. Wang—"

Auden said, "This Tibetan character or whatever he is, he probably doesn't keep himself in shape anyway. If he has to grab money off people at autobanks he obviously can't afford to go to a good gym or—" Auden said, "I'll do it."

Spencer said, "I knew you would."