Read Online Assignment - Cong Hai Kill by Edward S. Aarons - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edward S. Aarons
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canal banks
were sampans, fishing huts made of pluang leaves, and raft
houses. In the gardens were tiny Thai temples, like birdhouses. To the right
were Hindu shops and a fish market with glittering, silvery fish laid out on
bamboo tables, covered with palm fronds. Durell glimpsed a wedding ceremony,
frozen into immobility as they screeched by. There was also a Javanese puppet
show, and beyond, the Chinese quarter with noisy tearooms and old men playing
Mah-Jongg under shaded awnings.
Muong‘s white
teeth gleamed as he tapped the driver’s shoulder. “To the right, Lao.”
The bridge was of Wood,
flanked by a temple of incredible age, with a central chedi of
gold leaf and towering prangs and a mother-of-pearl door.
Bells tinkled from the eaves. The jeep rocked to a halt Where the bridge
spanned the green water. Dust boiled from their locked brakes. The car ahead
had found the bridge blocked by several carts and a stubborn buffalo with enormous
horns. Two men jumped out of the Renault and ran along the ragged grass before
the temple.
The driver, Lao, said,
“We can go no farther, Major.” He was a young Chinese sergeant, Durell noted,
with a blank, obedient face. Muong got out and shouted to the two
running men to halt. One of them turned his head. He looked like a Thai
tribesman, in a ragged shirt and dungarees and a coolie hat that fell off and
rolled across the dusty green weeds. The other man, Doko Dagan, kept
running.
Muong shouted
again.
Then there came sharp,
methodical gunshots from behind Durell. The driver, Lao, was taking new aim at
the fugitives. The hillman sprinted ahead of Doko Dagan,
who was hampered by the straw suitcase he refused to abandon. The first man
stumbled and fell on his face and slid down the steep canal bank into the
scummy water. Dogs and children scattered from the scene. A woman screamed and
ran into the line of fire.
“Don’t shoot!” Durell
shouted.
He was ignored. Muong had
a Colt .45 out and was shooting, too; the heavy shots slammed and shattered the
sultry, brazen air. The first man, who had driven the Renault, floated face
down in the canal. Doko Dagan put down his straw suitcase and faced
them. He looked confused, as if about to burst into tears.
Muong’s next
shot dropped him as if he had been felled by an axe.
Durell swore and ran
past the bridge. The man in the canal was dead, the back of his head blown off
by Lao’s shot. It was good marksmanship. Perhaps too good.
Doko Dagan
lay on his back, his knees drawn up, his brown face upturned to the cobalt sky.
His chest heaved under his dirty, striped silk shirt. His dark string tie was
twisted under his left ear. Sweat plastered his black hair to his skull and ran
trickling into the dirty creases of his neck. He wore torn sneakers that had
seen better days.
“Dagan?” Durell said
softly.
The man’s eyes were
blind. His breath bubbled. A wide patch of blood stained his belly and his
groin.
Muong and
Sergeant Lao came up. Muong put a thin, fresh cigar between his
teeth. His face might have been one of the carvings on the ancient temple
nearby.
“It is Doko Dagan,
yes,” Muong said. He knelt with meticulous care in the dust and spoke
in English to the wounded man. “Doko, can you hear me?”
The man’s lips moved
without sound.
Muong said:
“Doko, We have been enemies for a long time. What did you do with all the poppy
you were running for Yellow Torch? You knew I was waiting for you here. Why did
you run, eh? You made me sin, to kill you.”
The man murmured
something in Hindi. His eyes were glazed like those of a dying bird. He brought
his flexed knees tightly together, then parted them. His groin was wet.
“Where is Yellow Torch?”
Durell put in quietly. “Who killed Chang? ‘Did you do it for the Cong Hai, Doko?
Did you enjoy cutting him up like that? Or did Yellow Torch do it himself? We
will help you, if we can.”
The man’s head rolled
from
were sampans, fishing huts made of pluang leaves, and raft
houses. In the gardens were tiny Thai temples, like birdhouses. To the right
were Hindu shops and a fish market with glittering, silvery fish laid out on
bamboo tables, covered with palm fronds. Durell glimpsed a wedding ceremony,
frozen into immobility as they screeched by. There was also a Javanese puppet
show, and beyond, the Chinese quarter with noisy tearooms and old men playing
Mah-Jongg under shaded awnings.
Muong‘s white
teeth gleamed as he tapped the driver’s shoulder. “To the right, Lao.”
The bridge was of Wood,
flanked by a temple of incredible age, with a central chedi of
gold leaf and towering prangs and a mother-of-pearl door.
Bells tinkled from the eaves. The jeep rocked to a halt Where the bridge
spanned the green water. Dust boiled from their locked brakes. The car ahead
had found the bridge blocked by several carts and a stubborn buffalo with enormous
horns. Two men jumped out of the Renault and ran along the ragged grass before
the temple.
The driver, Lao, said,
“We can go no farther, Major.” He was a young Chinese sergeant, Durell noted,
with a blank, obedient face. Muong got out and shouted to the two
running men to halt. One of them turned his head. He looked like a Thai
tribesman, in a ragged shirt and dungarees and a coolie hat that fell off and
rolled across the dusty green weeds. The other man, Doko Dagan, kept
running.
Muong shouted
again.
Then there came sharp,
methodical gunshots from behind Durell. The driver, Lao, was taking new aim at
the fugitives. The hillman sprinted ahead of Doko Dagan,
who was hampered by the straw suitcase he refused to abandon. The first man
stumbled and fell on his face and slid down the steep canal bank into the
scummy water. Dogs and children scattered from the scene. A woman screamed and
ran into the line of fire.
“Don’t shoot!” Durell
shouted.
He was ignored. Muong had
a Colt .45 out and was shooting, too; the heavy shots slammed and shattered the
sultry, brazen air. The first man, who had driven the Renault, floated face
down in the canal. Doko Dagan put down his straw suitcase and faced
them. He looked confused, as if about to burst into tears.
Muong’s next
shot dropped him as if he had been felled by an axe.
Durell swore and ran
past the bridge. The man in the canal was dead, the back of his head blown off
by Lao’s shot. It was good marksmanship. Perhaps too good.
Doko Dagan
lay on his back, his knees drawn up, his brown face upturned to the cobalt sky.
His chest heaved under his dirty, striped silk shirt. His dark string tie was
twisted under his left ear. Sweat plastered his black hair to his skull and ran
trickling into the dirty creases of his neck. He wore torn sneakers that had
seen better days.
“Dagan?” Durell said
softly.
The man’s eyes were
blind. His breath bubbled. A wide patch of blood stained his belly and his
groin.
Muong and
Sergeant Lao came up. Muong put a thin, fresh cigar between his
teeth. His face might have been one of the carvings on the ancient temple
nearby.
“It is Doko Dagan,
yes,” Muong said. He knelt with meticulous care in the dust and spoke
in English to the wounded man. “Doko, can you hear me?”
The man’s lips moved
without sound.
Muong said:
“Doko, We have been enemies for a long time. What did you do with all the poppy
you were running for Yellow Torch? You knew I was waiting for you here. Why did
you run, eh? You made me sin, to kill you.”
The man murmured
something in Hindi. His eyes were glazed like those of a dying bird. He brought
his flexed knees tightly together, then parted them. His groin was wet.
“Where is Yellow Torch?”
Durell put in quietly. “Who killed Chang? ‘Did you do it for the Cong Hai, Doko?
Did you enjoy cutting him up like that? Or did Yellow Torch do it himself? We
will help you, if we can.”
The man’s head rolled
from
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