Hillerman, Tony Read Online Free PDF Page A

desk man.
    “Then there’s another sidebar on Cambodia that maybe ought to go on page one. Sounds like the Khmer Rouge is gobbling up Phnom Perth.” Rooney’s tone had lost its flipancy earlier in the recitation of the day’s woes. Now it was grim. “Some of this stuff sounds like Attila the Hun is loose again. Everything but the giant pyramids of skulls.”
    “Yeah,” Moon said. He felt a twinge of anxiety through the fatigue. “Well, tell Hubbell I’m at the Airport Inn and that Shirley has my number. And switch me back to her.”
    “Debbie’s been calling. Asking about you. I think she misses you.” Unlike Shirley, Rooney liked Debbie. All males liked Debbie.
    “What’s she want?”
    “To know when you’d be coming back.”
    “Tell her I’ve been trying to call her,” Moon said. “And, look, did I ever tell you how nasty Shakeshaft gets about drinking? If I didn’t, I’m doing it now. When he hired me I got the temperance sermon. My first job is to make sure nobody drinks in the newsroom. And my second job is to make sure nobody’s been drinking before they come in. After that, I worry about getting the paper out.”
    “I’m not drinking,” Rooney said. Coldly.
    “Good,” Moon said. “But did I tell you old Jerry has a habit of looking into desk drawers, poking around under piles of papers, and—”
    “And smelling your breath,” Rooney said. “I used to have a managing editor like that.”
    “You still do. I smelled it last Monday,” Moon said, and dropped it there.
    He called Colorado Mortgage and Title Insurance. The woman on the reception desk was somebody he didn’t know. She said Debbie’s line was busy. She took his hotel number and said, yes, she’d tell Debbie he’d called and to call him.
    “You did say J.D., didn’t you?” she asked.
    “No,” Moon said. “Tell her Moon Mathias called;”
    He looked at his watch. Probably too soon to try the Manila number again. Not the hour to sleep either. He was tired, almost dizzy with fatigue, but too tense to sleep. The shower would help. He rescued his shirt from the floor and inspected it. He’d packed without any real thought—shirts, socks, and underwear for a couple of days. The shirt he’d been wearing was knitted of something or other and could serve a second day. He carried it into the bathroom and carefully rinsed out a smudge below the pocket. He was hanging it up to dry when he heard a tapping at the door.
    “Just a second,” Moon said. He pulled on his trousers.
    Two men were at the door, the one in front small, frail and old, the one behind big and young. Both Chinese, Moon thought and, as he thought it, amended the thought to Oriental, and amended that to Asian. It seemed clear that his dead brother was pulling him inevitably into a world where one would need to know the difference between Chinese and Vietnamese and Japanese, Cambodians, Indonesians, and all the rest.
    The small man dipped his head slightly and looked up at Moon through thick round glasses. “Mr. Malcolm Mathias?” the man said. “I beg your pardon for this intrusion.”
    “Yes,” Moon said, “I’m Malcolm Mathias. What can I do for you?” The man was wearing a brown suit made of some expensive-looking silky material which, so it appeared, had been slept in. Behind him, the big young man was smiling an apprehensive smile.
    “My name is Mr. Lum Lee. I wish to express my concern about the health of your mother.” He dipped his head again. “Also, I wish to express my condolences at the death of your esteemed brother, Mr. Richard Mathias.” Mr. Lum Lee cleared his throat. “Your brother was a good friend to me. . . .” He paused, inspecting Moon, and added in a voice not much above a whisper, “And sometimes an associate in business.” He cleared his throat again, looked at Moon, and added, “Sometimes. Yes. And I hope the health of your mother is improving.”
    “Yes,” Moon said. “Thank you.” He held out his hand.