Cold Hit_A Novel by Christopher G. Moore

Author:Christopher G. Moore [Moore, Christopher G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: bangkok, cold hit, thriller, christopher g moore, thailand, mystery, Asia, vincent calvino
ISBN: 9789748711645
Goodreads: 969092
Publisher: Heaven Lake Press
Published: 1999-10-18T00:00:00+00:00

BUN led them along a narrow dirt path, passing empty stone benches and a stone table as the sun disappeared in the late afternoon haze. Under foot were layers of garbage bleached by the sun—discarded plastic bottles, paper cartons, wrappers. Dead leaves had been raked into piles under a bare tree; a rope hung down from one branch. Hundreds of flies buzzed over the garbage, filtering into the open entrance. The front door was decorated with faded Mickey Mouse decals peeling at the edges. They removed their shoes and placed them among the several rows of shoes and sandals near the door. As they stepped inside, they found sixteen or more people crowded into every corner of the small shop house. The dying man lay on a mat at the far end. Friends, family, and neighbors gathered for the deathwatch. Standing, sitting, squatting, leaning against the door frame, they had come running as Father Andrew’s presence indicated the dying time had arrived.

The shelves were stocked with shampoo, Fab, cooking oil, toothpaste, noodles, eggs, and rice. Father Andrew knelt on a mattress, his back to the door; his eyes, closed, his lips moved as a faint sound of prayer filtered across the room. Quietly Jess and Bun joined him, standing at his side. He didn’t acknowledge them immediately. Calvino stayed back, hunched near the door watching the LAPD cop and the Thai singer playing their roles as the other people in the room watched them. He glanced at his wristwatch, and checked his time with the shop clocks. What would the time of death be? Calvino wondered. There were three choices. One green and pink clock with a jumbo elephant had been hung upside-down on the wall. Another clock had a run-down battery causing the second hand to twitch, almost moving ahead but never mustering sufficient strength to move past the number seven. Only one clock functioned as a clock: it had Disney characters on the face, a child’s clock. Calvino figured it belonged to whoever had put the decals on the door. The Mickey Mouse clock kept time right side up. The three clocks made him think about time-rats, the yings, but it was more than just yings who devoured time—a life fell away minute by minute in a thousand small ways like the grains of sand falling down the neck of an hour glass. He looked over at the dying man and wondered how he would account for the hours and minutes when it came to his time.

Behind the Mickey Mouse clock was a table with six Buddha images surrounded by flowers. Incense sticks had been burned down to the red stick base in the cups of sand. All of the images faced away from the dying man. Each Buddha image faced the door.

The dying man lay on his back, bare chest mopped by a relative. His ribs visible under the skin. Another relative wiped the sweat from his face. His eyes were closed, his head turned to the side.

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