Free Hillerman, Tony by Finding Moon (v4) [html] Page A

nipping at the bottle again.
    “Bad?”
    “You tell me,” Hubbell said. Papers rustled. Hubbell read three of yesterday’s headlines and started a fourth one.
    “Lordy,” Moon said. “Did they go to press like that?”
    “Those were the ones I didn’t catch.”
    “Let me talk to him.”
    “He just left,” Hubbell said.
    “Tell the son of a bitch to stay sober until I get back or I won’t just fire him, I’ll whip his butt right there in the office.”
    “All right,” Hubbell said.
    “What else? Any good news?”
    “J.D.’s been asking about his truck,” Hubbell said. “Said he wanted to go to Denver.”
    “Tell J.D. it was the fuel injection pump. I fixed it, and all he needs to do is put in new glow plugs. He can put it back together himself. Or ask one of the guys down at the truck stop if he has troubles.”
    Hubbell laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “Can you imagine that happening? Getting his hands greasy?”
    Moon couldn’t, but he didn’t want to talk about it. He told Hubbell he’d be home as soon as he could. Then he just sat on the bed awhile staring at the telephone, mood somewhere between dismal, disgruntlement, and sleepy stupor. He fell back against the pillow, yawned hugely, and went to sleep.
    The phone awoke him. Nine-ten. Who would be calling?
    It rang again.
    He picked it up and said, “Mathias.”
    “Hello. Is this Mr. Mathias?” The voice was hesitant, accented, and feminine.
    “Yes. Yes,” Moon said, “this is Mr. Mathias.”
    Brief silence. “This is then the room of Moon Mathias? Am I correct?” The voice was small, tone abashed. Moon had a vision of Shirley’s spaniel when Debbie yelled at it.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound-so grouchy. But, yes, this is Moon Mathias talking.”
    “I am Mrs. Osa van Winjgaarden. I had written you a letter. I hope I can talk to you.”
    “Of course,” Moon said. What was the accent? Probably Dutch, from the sound of the name. “What can I do for you?”
    Silence again. Moon waited. “It is too complicated for the telephone,” she said. “I had hoped we could sit down and talk.”
    “Probably,” Moon said. “Where are you calling from? And what will we be talking about?”
    “I am at the airport. The Manila airport. I called Mr. Castenada, and he told me you were here. He told me he had given you my letter instead of mailing it on to America. And we would be talking about getting my brother out of Cambodia.”
    Good God, Moon thought. What next?
    “Look,” Moon said. “I don’t know anything about Cambodia. Or getting people out. What makes you think—”
    “I thought you would be taking charge of Ricky’s company. And you are getting Ricky’s daughter out,” she said. “From what Mr. Castenada told me, I understand you are doing that.”
    Now the silence was on Moon’s end. Was he doing that? He guessed he would if he could. He didn’t have much choice. But, of course, he couldn’t.
    “I would if I could.”
    “It won’t be much out of your way,” she said. “And I could be of some help.”
    “How?” And what did she mean, out of your way? Did that mean she thought she knew where he was going? Did she know where the child might be?
    “If you don’t speak the Cambodian version of French, I could be useful there,” she said. “And I speak one or two of the mountain dialects. A little, anyway.”
    “Hey,” Moon said, “what did you mean, getting your brother wouldn’t be much out of my way? Where is your brother? What’s the—”
    But now Moon was hearing Osa van Winjgaarden saying something to someone away from the telephone mouthpiece. She sounded angry and tired.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t hear you.”
    “You’re calling from the airport?” He was thinking, The woman has just got in from Timor, wherever the hell that is, and probably on some little prop-driven airline. She sounded exhausted.
    “Yes. A coin telephone box here by the doorway. I am trying