The art broker huddled with Wang Bin as the two teenagers wrestled with the coffin. "You got to know how to talk to these people," Broom explained.

"I don't like them," Wang Bin whispered.

"Of course you don't."

"I don't trust them."

"Relax, Pop."

Broom hopped into the grave. Within minutes, he and the two teenagers had hoisted the coffin of John Bertecelli from the hole and laid it on the ground.

Tyrone sat down on a headstone and said, "So who's in it, Dracula?"

"I don't want to know," Charles said. "Let's split."

"No, man, I want the dudes to open it."

"You can go now," Broom said. "Thanks for the help, fellas."

"Open it, man!"

"No."

"Okay. I'll open it." Tyrone lifted the pick and windmilled it at the coffin.

The lid skewed from the hinges. Tyrone kicked it off with one of his basketball shoes.

"Shit," he said. "It's a mummy!"

Swaddled in plastic, a Chinese spearman stared through wise eyes into the firmament.

Broom stepped forward and said, "That's enough. You've seen it, now get the hell out of here."

"What's it worth?" Charles asked, leaning over the coffin, hands on his knees.

"Let's haul it out of there," Tyrone suggested. "You get that end-"

"No!" Wang Bin said.

The black teenagers looked up to see the old man pointing a chrome-plated pistol at them. They noticed that his arm was rigid. Charles chuckled and fumbled with the statue.

"Why you so uptight?" Tyrone said to Wang Bin. "This mummy must be somebody special for you, that right? Is this your old man?"

"Tell your friend to let go of the artifact," Wang Bin instructed.

"He ain't gonna break it."

The crack of the pistol got the dog barking again. Charles wriggled on the damp ground, clawing at his right arm. Tyrone was speechless.

"Oh shit, Pop," Broom said in a husky voice. "We've got to get out of here."

"I agree," the deputy minister said. "Mr. Tyrone, would you please help Mr.

Broom carry the artifact to our car? If you make trouble, I will shoot your friend again and again until he is dead."

By this time Charles was sobbing, and his New York Jets jersey was sticky with fresh blood. Tyrone gingerly lifted the Chinese spear carrier by the head while Broom-suddenly sober-carried the other end. The two unlikely pallbearers tenuously made their way up the hillside, weaving among the tombstones. Wang Bin held the pistol steadily on his captive and wondered sourly if this was going to be the only way to gain people's obedience.

The first cop on the scene was a patrolman named Sanderson, who borrowed a spool of kite string from one of the neighborhood kids and cordoned off the gravesite using four other tombstones as corner posts. The total effect, Sanderson noted with self-satisfaction, was to convey the impression of an actual crime scene.

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.