Hillerman, Tony Read Online Free PDF

“Malcolm Mathias,” he said. “How do you do. Come on in. Find a place to sit down.”
    Mr. Lee’s hand was small and dry. Totally without strength. It made Moon think of bird bones.
    “Excuse me,” Mr. Lum Lee said. “I would present the son of my oldest daughter, Mr. Charley Ming. Mr. Ming has been good enough to be of assistance to me while I am in the United States.”
    Mr. Ming’s hand, in contrast to his grandfather’s, was a wrestler’s: broad, hard, strong. But his smile was bashful. He held one of the room’s two chairs for his grandfather, refused Moon’s offer of the second one, and sat ramrod erect on the edge of the bed, holding his hat in his lap. Mr. Lee had placed his hat on the dresser beside his chair. His thick gray hair was cut short, into military bristles.
    “I think your secretary will have told you I called,” Mr. Lee said.
    “Yes,” Moon said. “But she didn’t tell me anything about your business. She didn’t say you would be coming to see me.” How had this man located him? It must have been through either the airline security office or the hospital. And, if his courtesy went deeper than his words, why hadn’t he called from the lobby to see if this visit was welcome? Was it because he didn’t want to take a chance that Moon would want to avoid him? Moon found himself smiling at that. He’d seen too many movies about Oriental intrigue.
    Mr. Lee looked abashed. “I am very sorry about this,” he said. “I hope this visit is not inconvenient to you in any way. If it is—” Mr. Lee reached for his hat and started to rise.
    “No, no. Not at all,” Moon said. “I’m delighted to meet a friend of my brother.”
    “And a business associate as well,” Mr. Lee added.
    “We don’t know much about his death,” Moon said. “Just what his attorney told my mother, and what the American consulate told us. All about the same. But no details.”
    “It was a tragedy,” Mr. Lee said. “A genuine loss. A fine young man. An honorable man.” He shook his head solemnly. His eyes behind the thick lenses seemed even more watery and vague.
    “Could you tell me anything more about it? All we were told is that he was in a helicopter in Cambodia, and it crashed in the mountains near the border with Vietnam, and Ricky was killed.”
    “I understand the wreckage was found by a unit of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam,” Mr. Lee said. “The helicopter had burned when this unit arrived.”
    “Ricky was flying it?” Moon said.
    “I think not. Another man was the pilot, I believe, excuse me,” Mr. Lee said. “A Mr. Pol Thiu Eng, who works for R. M. Air. I believe it was him. I beg your pardon.”
    “They never told us anything,” Moon said. “Just that it was an accident. Do you know how it happened? Or what Ricky was doing? They said he was flying out of Cambodia.”
    Mr. Lee looked thoughtful. “Business,” he said. The sound of jet engines overhead engulfed the room. Mr. Lee sat patiently, studying his hands, waiting for silence. “I would think it would have been business.”
    “His business was helicopter repair and maintenance,” Moon said. “Mostly avionics. Repairing the electronic gear on aircraft. He has a maintenance contract with the South Vietnamese Air Force. Or had one.”
    “With the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, I believe,” Mr. Lee said. “With ARVN and with the RVN, the navy, too. Excuse me. With General Thang, I believe. Yes. But Mr. Mathias also had other business as well, and in Cambodia I believe it would be primarily the delivery business.”
    “Delivery?” Of course Ricky would have other businesses. Ricky wasn’t the sort to be happy with just one iron in just one fire.
    “A good business in recent times,” Mr. Lee said. And added what sounded like “Unfortunately.” But the word was drowned by another jet overhead. When it had passed, Mr. Lee allowed his small round mouth to shape itself into a smile. “Delivering things out of