The Adventures Of Indiana Jones (26 page)

In a second, a juicy moonfish rose, belly-up, to the shallow, stunned by Short Round’s concussions. He grabbed the fish by the tail, yanked it out of the water, smacked it against the piling. Then, crouching in the sand a few feet away, he slit it open with his dagger, and feasted on the tender yellow meat. He wondered if they had moonfish in America.

Thinking of America made him think of movies. It was hours before he had to meet Indy yet, so he decided to wander down to the Tai-Phung Theater, to see if anything new was playing. The Tai-Phung showed mostly American films, mostly for the international crowd that populated the banking or diplomatic sections of the city. The Tai-Phung is where Short Round learned most of his English.

He couldn’t read the marquee when he got there—he couldn’t read at all, hardly, except for the little bits Indy was teaching him—but the letters looked different from the markings that had been there last time he’d looked, so he decided to go check it out.

He crawled in the high bathroom window at the back of the building by standing on two garbage cans outside. Once in, he lowered himself down to the toilet tank, then to the floor. He offered to shine the shoes of the man sitting, a bit shocked, on the pot, but the man politely refused. Short Round scooted under the door of the stall, and out into the theater.

He sat in an aisle seat, near the exit, for quick departure if that should be necessary. He slumped down so the ushers who knew him by face wouldn’t spot him right away. He popped a lump of bubble gum in his mouth. He settled back to watch the movie.

It was a nifty show. This private eye named Nick kept making very funny big jokes to his wife, Nora, very pretty lady. They had a silly dog, too, named Asta. Nick was drinking another martini at a big party where the bad guys were lurking, when a fancy couple sat down right in front of Short Round, blocking his view.

He was about to move to another seat when he noticed the woman put her purse down in the space between the two chairs. This looked too easy to pass up. Short Round waited ten minutes—until they got absorbed in the film—then reached forward and slid the pocketbook back to his lap.

It was a silver lamé evening bag with a mother-of-pearl clasp. Short Round clicked it open, quickly rummaged through it. Wow! What great luck! There was a jeweled makeup compact with a small watch set into its back. Just what he needed to check the time for his meeting with Indy—when the little hand was on the four, and the big hand on the twelve. (Indy was teaching him numbers, too. Numbers were easier.)

This was a very good omen: it portended well for the rest of the night. Short Round gave a brief prayer of thanks to Chao-pao, his patron deity, He-Who-Discovers-Treasures. Then he stood, began panting loudly, and fell in the aisle, draping his arm over the woman’s chair.

“My word!” she gasped.

“Lady, big man just steal your purse!” Short Round panted, dropping the purse at her feet. “I catch him and take back for you. He hit me, but I get away. Here your purse.” He nudged it toward her with his knee, then he collapsed.

“You poor child!” she said, quickly looking in the wallet at the bottom of the handbag. All the money was still there.

“Shhh!” said her companion, trying to ignore the distraction, feeling it was always the wisest course to disregard the overtures of these street urchins.

The woman arched an eyebrow at her escort. Short Round whimpered in apparent pain. The woman gave Short Round two dollars. “There you are, you sweet thing,” she spoke as if she were confiding. “That’s for being so brave and honest.”

“Thanks, lady,” said Short Round. He stuffed the bills in his pants, jumped up, ran out the door. The lady, briefly startled, went back to her movie.

Outside, the night was flexing. Paper lanterns, incense, jugglers, hookers, hawkers. Short Round, feeling a lot like Nick Charles, approached a streetwalker who had one slit up the side of her dress, another up the side of her smile.

“Hey, sugar, got a cigarette?” He winked at her.

She was about to retort, had a second thought, reached into her bag, pulled out a stick of gum, and flipped it to him.

“Oh, boy!” he exclaimed, pocketing the prize. “Thanks, lady!” He ran off, ready for anything. What a night!

For a dollar he bought a top that played music and flashed lights as it spun. Three boys went after him for it, though. He had to hit one of them over the head with the toy as he was climbing over a fence to get away. End of chase; end of toy.

He was left holding the broken top handle. This he threw as far as he could, back down the alley he’d been chased, and that was pretty far. Someday he’d be as good a pitcher as the great Lefty Grove: Short Round, too, was a southpaw.

His other dollar he gave to an old woman who sat, begging, on a doorstep. It upset him to see old beggers, especially grandmothers. Family was more important than anything, of course. His own grandmother was gone, but what if
she
were begging on a stoop somewhere. It was important to remember this.

The old woman bowed to Short Round; he thanked her for allowing him to honor her.

It began to rain, a fine rain. Short Round hurried back to the warehouse in which he’d parked the Duesenberg. Several men sat in a circle near the far wall. One of them was casting the I Ching.

Short Round watched him for an hour. The man threw the yarrow stalks for each person there, but when Short Round asked for his own path to be read, the man refused.

Short Round took a nap behind some bales of tea for a while, put to sleep by the cheery mumblings of a band of sailors throwing dice in a nearby alcove. Dice, I Ching: same thing. When he awoke, he saw a young couple kissing beside another stack of bales against the wall. He watched them for a few minutes. They seemed very happy. He wondered if they had any children.

From the doorway, Short Round heard the static of an old radio. He walked over. The small box sat on the ground plugged into the wall; beside it a drunk American sailor crouched, tuning it to an almost inaudible station that replayed smuggled American recordings. Breaking up over the air waves now was another adventure of The Shadow, who knew what evil lurked in the hearts of men, and who could cloud men’s minds. Shorty loved this program; he listened whenever he could. The sailor kicked him away, though. This was apparently a private show.

Anyway, it seemed like it was getting late. He looked at the watch he’d found: time to go. He started up the car and eased it out into traffic. The rain had stopped.

He got to the club right when he was supposed to. No Indy, though. The doorman tried to make him move the car away from the front door, but he gave the doorman the jeweled compact-timepiece, so the doorman said he could stay there for a bit, if he didn’t cause any trouble.

Then Indy dropped in. With the lady.

“Wow! Holy smoke! Crash landing!” said Short Round.

“Step on it, Short Round!” said Indy.

Tires squealing, they tore off into the Shanghai night.

Willie couldn’t believe it. “For crying out loud, a
kid’s
driving the car?!”

“Relax, I’ve been giving him lessons,” Indy said nonchalantly.

“Oh, that makes me feel a
lot
safer,” she nodded.

As Short Round swerved around the next corner, Willie was thrown against Indiana. Without losing a beat, he put his hand down the front of her dress.

Willie became indignant. “Listen, we just met, for crissake.” Some men . . .

“Don’t get your hopes up. Where’s the antidote?” It was hard feeling around in there; his fingertips were numb with poison. Too bad.

He rubbed the glass vial with his palm, rolled it into his fingers, pulled it from her bra, screwed off the lid, tipped it to his lips, and swallowed. “Ech.”

“You don’t look very good.”

“Poison never agrees with me.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Short Round, pull a right and head for the Wang Poo bridge.”

“Check! Gotcha!” the kid shouted back. When he drove fast, he tried to look just like James Cagney.

Indy peered out the back window and noticed a large black sedan in pursuit. “Looks like we got company.”

Willie was suddenly depressed. If Lao caught her now, he’d
really
be hacked off. The club was a shambles, she’d lost the diamond, the kid was going to crash the car any minute, she had two broken nails . . . that was it. The last straw. She could cope with all the rest, but how was a girl supposed to get a job singing when she looked like—

She looked at herself in the reflection of the side window. Even worse than she thought. Tears began to well up in her eyes; tears of anger. “Look at what you’ve done to me,” she seethed. “My lipstick is smeared, I broke two nails, there’s a run in my stocking.”

Gunfire shattered the rear window, spraying them with glass. Indy and Willie crouched low; Short Round was already too low in his seat to be visible from behind.

“Somehow I think you’ve got bigger problems,” muttered Indiana, reaching for his shoulder bag. He pulled out a pistol, began firing back through the broken window. “There, Shorty!” he barked. “Through the tunnel!”

They screeched through the darkened tunnel. The pursuit car stayed right with them, its headlights burning like spectral eyes.

“What’re we going to do?” cried Willie. “Where’re we going?” The magnitude of the calamity was just setting in.

“The airport,” Indy snapped. “No, look out, Short Round! Left,
left
!” He reached over the front seat, put a hand on the wheel, helped Short Round navigate. Then, more softly: “You’re doin’ all right, kid.”

Willie sank lower.

The Duesenberg emerged on a crowded square: ten thousand merchants, beggars, hookers, sailors, thieves, buyers, and coolies with rickshaws wandered gaily amidst the jumble of bright paper lanterns, calligraphed banners, storefronts, and produce stands. They all scattered when the Duesenberg came roaring by.

Some of them scattered back over the street in the Duesenberg’s wake—enough to totally clog the thoroughfare by the time the black sedan came barreling in. It crashed headlong into a vegetable stand, then swerved and skidded against the curb, finally coming to a halt in a swarm of peddlers.

Indy peered out the back window. “Looks like chop suey back there.” Willie was afraid to look.

They put some distance on the stalled pursuer. Out onto the highway now; some fast, open countryside.

“Shorty, you called the airport?”

“Sure, Indy. Mr. Weber get seats for you, me, and Wu Han.”

“Wu Han’s not coming, Shorty.”

Short Round considered this. Wu Han wouldn’t have run; he was too loyal. Therefore he was either dead, captured, or holding off the bad guys—all very honorable occupations for Wu Han to have chosen. In any case, it was up to Short Round alone now to protect their beloved comrade and spirit-brother. “Don’t worry, Indy,” he assured. “Short Round number-one bodyguard now.”

Willie braved a glance out the back. Far in the distance, tiny headlights rounded a curve and followed them. “I’ll take the extra seat,” she said dryly. Her options seemed distinctly limited. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“Siam,” said Indy, reloading his gun.

“Siam?” she complained. “I’m not dressed for Siam.” She wanted to complain more, actually, but no gods, demigods, or justices in the whole pagan universe seemed to want to listen or care just now, much less the deranged yahoo beside her. She looked over at him suspiciously Outside, on the road, a sign flew by:
NANG TAO AIRPORT
. The headlights behind them seemed to be gaining.

Well, maybe it would work out. She’d never been to Siam . . .

Short Round wheeled the car up a gravel drive toward the airfield. Just past a small cargo area. Out on the runway, a trimotor was revving its engines. The Duesenberg squealed to a stop on the apron; the three of them jumped out. Short Round carried Indy’s shoulder bag.

At the boarding gate, the young English airline official ran up to meet them. “Dr. Jones, I’m Weber, I spoke with your . . . assistant.” He eyed Short Round curiously for a moment, then continued. “I managed to find three seats; unfortunately they’re in a cargo plane full of poultry.”

“Is he kidding?” Willie protested.

“Madam,” Weber began officiously, “it was the best I could do on such short—” He stopped suddenly, and smiled. “My heavens, aren’t you Willie Scott, the famous vocalist?”

Willie was completely taken aback, then instantly charmed: here, smack-dab in the middle of the worst day in a while, was a fan. “Well, yes, I am, actually.” She blushed.

“Miss Scott,” Weber fawned, “I’ve so enjoyed your performances. In fact, if you don’t mind my saying it—”

Willie was just beginning to think it maybe hadn’t been quite such a bad day after all when Jones shot off his mouth again.

“You can sign autographs, doll. Shorty and I have to go.”

Indy and Shorty took off for the plane. Willie hesitated for a second, but quickly found her allegiance when she saw the black sedan squeal into the airport. In her sweetest voice, with a look of majesty worn well, she said to Weber, “It’s always swell meeting a fan, Mr. Weber, but I really must run now.” And then, coarsely, to Indy: “Goddammit, wait for me!”

She hightailed it toward the plane. Weber waved. Willie jumped on.

The black sedan screeched to a halt at the fence of the loading area. Lao Che hopped out, followed by several henchmen with guns. The commotion—and the guns—aroused the notice of two airport policemen, who slowly wandered toward the car. Lao Che looked across the tarmac at the taxiing plane in time to see Indy give him a neat salute and slam the cargo bay shut.

Lao Che’s men looked to him for orders, for rage. He only smiled, though. As the plane swung around to gain speed up the runway, he could plainly see its legend inscribed along the fuselage of the blind side:
LAO CHE AIR FREIGHT.

Rolling past, the pilot saw Lao standing on the field, and saluted his boss. Laughing deeply, Lao Che returned the salute.

The plane lifted off with a roar, silhouetted crisply against the first orange light of dawn.