Slash and Burn

standing,” said Phosy, “but the lettering on the cap says UNC. At the orientation they told us that Boyd played college football for the University of North Carolina.”
    “The boy might very easily have found it at the secondhand market,” said Haeng.
    “Together with atomic submarines and Elvis Presley wigs,” mumbled Civilai.
    Phosy turned over the cap. Sewn inside the lining was a label.
    “Peach, could you read this for us?” Phosy asked.
    She took hold of the cap and smiled.
    “It’s printed with the name “BOYD BOWRY, 1960.” If Bok found this in the market, he got real lucky.”
    The discovery caused elation in all but the judge. He continued to argue that the hat, like the tailplane, could have been blown away in the explosion and found at a later date. He wasn’t able to explain how it escaped the flames. It didn’t irrevocably prove that the pilot had survived the crash but Sergeant Johnson apologized to Civilai for doubting his hypothesis. He promised to buy him a beer and the Hollywood deal was still on. As they walked back to the trucks, there was just the one remaining mystery to be solved.
    “Since when could you read English?” Civilai asked Phosy.
    The policeman smiled.
    “I may be an old dog,” he said, “but Dtui’s been teaching me some tricks. I can’t have a wife who’s smarter than me, can I now? English this year. Russian next. By the end of the seventies I’ll be a chief inspector at Interpol.”

16
    THE MAN WHO MISTOOK HIS WIFE’S HAND FOR A NAPKIN
    Toua, the manager of the Friendship Hotel, greeted the returning trucks by running down the front steps and waving his arms frantically.
    “The senator. The senator,” he shouted.
    “What about him?” asked Lit, jumping down from the flatbed before the truck had come to a complete stop.
    “Somebody shot him,” called Siri, who was sitting at the rattan table on the veranda with what looked like a can of Budweiser beer in his hand. He was looking remarkably cool, considering. Ugly was looking even cooler in the chair opposite.
    “Is he dead?” called Phosy.
    “No. But he sustained an injury which might end his career.”
    “Where was he shot?” asked Lit. Everyone had climbed from the truck. One group surrounded Toua, who was acting out the shooting quite dramatically, and the other stood in front of Siri.
    “He lost the tip of the index finger of his right hand,” Siri told him. “He may never shake again.”
    “I don’t consider it fitting to take this so lightly, Doctor,” said Judge Haeng, who ran inside with the Americans.
    “Where is he?” asked Phosy.
    “Dining room, basking in sympathy. I dare say he could use some more.”
    “This is getting out of control.” Phosy shook his head.
    “And you haven’t heard the half of it,” Siri told him. “Go do your investigating and I’ll tell you the rest when you get back.”
    Civilai and Daeng opted to join Siri at his table. Ugly eyed them both and decided to let them sit there.
    “I didn’t do it,” Siri told them.
    “I didn’t think for a minute you did,” said Daeng patting his hand.
    “I wanted to,” he confessed. “I’ve had to put up with his whining all afternoon. There’s never a gun around when you need one.”
    “How’s his finger?”
    “He’ll live. He bled like a geyser though. Quite impressive.”
    “Do you think that was the plan?” Civilai asked. “Just to wing him?”
    Siri sipped his beer and Civilai looked around for service. He could barely see the inn door. The murky sky had brought on the dusk an hour early. The generator clunked and rattled and gurgled in the distance and a small pale bulb came to life above their heads.
    “I went to the Russian Circus once,” Siri said. “Saw a man shoot the tassel off a woman’s bra. She didn’t even flinch. But in the real world I can’t say I’ve ever seen a sniper good enough to pick off a joint.”
    “So they were…?”
    “Aiming at his heart? Quite possibly.”
    “He let you treat his wound?” Daeng asked.
    “Reluctantly. Yamaguchi argued that he was better at cutting them off than stitching them on.”
    “Where was the hit?” Civilai asked.
    “Just here,” said Siri, pointing to a scrubbed area beyond the table.
    “And I assume they didn’t catch the shooter.”
    “No.”
    They stared out at the dark shadows that lingered between the bushes.
    “So, it probably isn’t wise to be sitting here under a lamp,” said Civilai.
    “Buffalo dung