stared in woozy wonder. It was Aunt Lily. But different—taller, her voice clearer. Aunt Lily strode toward Ken Kiang, her lips trembling in a manic half grin, her eyes glowing wild and astonished, as if her body were moving on its own and she were only enjoying the ride.
Ken Kiang pointed the gun at Aunt Lily. “Watch it, old lady! Not a step closer, or I’ll—Hey! I’m going to—Okay, not one more step, or I’ll—”
Aunt Lily walked up to Ken Kiang. Then she yanked his gun away, and slapped him.
“Get out of my house,” she said.
Jo was flabbergasted. For a moment even Ken Kiang was too stunned to react.
Then the doors flew open, and in charged thirty-seven senior citizens, led by Korsakov and Sefino, all setting upon Ken Kiang at once, baying and coughing and hobbling. The Chinese millionaire turned, shouting and swinging wildly as he was thrashed, clobbered, and overwhelmed by the citizens of Dust Creek.
The old people of Dust Creek were rejuvenated in the glory of battle. Whether their enthusiasm came from the thrill of fighting, or the prospect of finally getting rid of Lily Larouche, it was difficult to say. Jo reeled through a violent, smoky blur, thrown from Mrs. Cavendish to Mr. Tibbets, who ran interference over to Mrs. Horpness, who slung Jo over her shoulder and carried her down the stairs; another mob led by Mr. Cavendish and Mrs. Beezy charged at Ken Kiang from every side, whacking him with canes, walkers, and wheelchairs.
Jo never got a chance to thank them. Before she knew it Korsakov was hustling her up the gangway of his plane, its engines already keening in a rising wail. Seconds later the gangway swung shut and the plane rocketed down the highway, lifting into the air. Jo watched out the window as the ruby palace fell away, and then Dust Creek, and then the desert. Soon there was nothing but clouds.
“Blast!” screamed Ken Kiang, limping out of the burning palace.
Hoagland Shanks ambled out with his pie, chewing it happily.
“Quick, lend me your plane,” said Kiang, waving at the handyman’s crop duster.
Shanks seemed not to hear. He took another bite of pie.
Ken Kiang barked, “Listen up! I’m a rich man. I’ll pay you double what that plane is worth, on the spot! Cash! Just let me use it, now!”
Hoagland Shanks swallowed the last of his pie and looked at Ken Kiang blankly.
“Come on!” shouted Ken Kiang. “They’re getting away! Fine—I’ll pay
three times
what your plane is worth. Well? Do
you
speak English?”
Hoagland Shanks considered this for a moment. Then he said:
“I only speak the language of delicious pies.”
B UT who is Ken Kiang?
Let us rewind to several years ago. Imagine a room—a large room, the size of a theater or cathedral. The room is almost empty, the walls bare, the floor nearly deserted.
In the center of the room there is a small desk.
Sitting at the desk is a small man.
He is Ken Kiang.
He is a Chinese millionaire.
And he is watching a donkey.
It is a small, wind-up brass donkey. Ken Kiang watches it trudge across his desk. The donkey is a medieval Arabic automaton he unearthed at a recent archaeological dig in Syria. He wants to be impressed by its unique workmanship. He longs to glory in its exquisite detail. He aches to be fascinated by its stunning ingenuity.
It bores him.
Ken Kiang bites his lip. He plucks the mechanical donkey off the desk and turns it around. Then he gives a long, weary sigh.
Ken Kiang was a collector. He collected objects, the most rare and beautiful; he also collected experiences, the most exhilarating and sophisticated.
But there was something disquieting. Every time he would complete a certain collection—whether it be medieval surgical instruments, or elephant skeletons, or even mysterious black boxes—he would lose interest, and fall into depression. And there he would languish until some new passion grabbed him.
But nothing grabbed him anymore.
Still, Ken Kiang was a
Ken Kiang pointed the gun at Aunt Lily. “Watch it, old lady! Not a step closer, or I’ll—Hey! I’m going to—Okay, not one more step, or I’ll—”
Aunt Lily walked up to Ken Kiang. Then she yanked his gun away, and slapped him.
“Get out of my house,” she said.
Jo was flabbergasted. For a moment even Ken Kiang was too stunned to react.
Then the doors flew open, and in charged thirty-seven senior citizens, led by Korsakov and Sefino, all setting upon Ken Kiang at once, baying and coughing and hobbling. The Chinese millionaire turned, shouting and swinging wildly as he was thrashed, clobbered, and overwhelmed by the citizens of Dust Creek.
The old people of Dust Creek were rejuvenated in the glory of battle. Whether their enthusiasm came from the thrill of fighting, or the prospect of finally getting rid of Lily Larouche, it was difficult to say. Jo reeled through a violent, smoky blur, thrown from Mrs. Cavendish to Mr. Tibbets, who ran interference over to Mrs. Horpness, who slung Jo over her shoulder and carried her down the stairs; another mob led by Mr. Cavendish and Mrs. Beezy charged at Ken Kiang from every side, whacking him with canes, walkers, and wheelchairs.
Jo never got a chance to thank them. Before she knew it Korsakov was hustling her up the gangway of his plane, its engines already keening in a rising wail. Seconds later the gangway swung shut and the plane rocketed down the highway, lifting into the air. Jo watched out the window as the ruby palace fell away, and then Dust Creek, and then the desert. Soon there was nothing but clouds.
“Blast!” screamed Ken Kiang, limping out of the burning palace.
Hoagland Shanks ambled out with his pie, chewing it happily.
“Quick, lend me your plane,” said Kiang, waving at the handyman’s crop duster.
Shanks seemed not to hear. He took another bite of pie.
Ken Kiang barked, “Listen up! I’m a rich man. I’ll pay you double what that plane is worth, on the spot! Cash! Just let me use it, now!”
Hoagland Shanks swallowed the last of his pie and looked at Ken Kiang blankly.
“Come on!” shouted Ken Kiang. “They’re getting away! Fine—I’ll pay
three times
what your plane is worth. Well? Do
you
speak English?”
Hoagland Shanks considered this for a moment. Then he said:
“I only speak the language of delicious pies.”
B UT who is Ken Kiang?
Let us rewind to several years ago. Imagine a room—a large room, the size of a theater or cathedral. The room is almost empty, the walls bare, the floor nearly deserted.
In the center of the room there is a small desk.
Sitting at the desk is a small man.
He is Ken Kiang.
He is a Chinese millionaire.
And he is watching a donkey.
It is a small, wind-up brass donkey. Ken Kiang watches it trudge across his desk. The donkey is a medieval Arabic automaton he unearthed at a recent archaeological dig in Syria. He wants to be impressed by its unique workmanship. He longs to glory in its exquisite detail. He aches to be fascinated by its stunning ingenuity.
It bores him.
Ken Kiang bites his lip. He plucks the mechanical donkey off the desk and turns it around. Then he gives a long, weary sigh.
Ken Kiang was a collector. He collected objects, the most rare and beautiful; he also collected experiences, the most exhilarating and sophisticated.
But there was something disquieting. Every time he would complete a certain collection—whether it be medieval surgical instruments, or elephant skeletons, or even mysterious black boxes—he would lose interest, and fall into depression. And there he would languish until some new passion grabbed him.
But nothing grabbed him anymore.
Still, Ken Kiang was a
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