Thirty-Three Teeth by Colin Cotterill Page A

the Luang Prabang district office, something was wrapped up in an old U.S. Army parachute. The unfriendly local cadre walked across the dirt floor and forced open the shutters. The afternoon shone directly onto the gray silk.
    “That’s them,” he said pointing at the heap. “They don’t smell as bad as they used to, but they still turn my gut.”
    The man, Comrade Houey, was one of those who had never learned the maxim of not saying anything at all if you have nothing positive to say. He was the provincial chief: the head communist honcho of Luang Prabang, and he had long since foregone politeness and manners as a waste of good grumbling time. Siri disliked his type.
    “How long have they been here?”
    “Couple of days.”
    Siri leaned over and slowly started to unwrap the bullet-holed tarpaulin. Inside, two carbonized corpses were slotted together in fetal position. He looked up at the fat man whose brow was permanently scowling.
    “Thanks for taking such good care of them.”
    “Good care? What do they want, coffee and room service?” He laughed at his own sarcasm.
    “You could have made some effort to keep them separate. If you really wanted an accurate autopsy, you should have—”
    “Just as well, then. I don’t want an autopsy at all. You’re here for one reason and one reason only. We just want to know where these bastards come from.”
    Siri lowered his head and looked up at the man through the mat of his eyebrows. “You surely don’t mean their nationality?”
    “I certainly do. They told me in Vientiane you were some tit-hot genius when it came to solving puzzles. Well, here’s a puzzle. Solve it.”
    “Now, wait. It isn’t as easy as that. How the hell am I supposed to know where they came from?”
    “You’re the expert.”
    “I can probably tell you what killed them, but…”
    “Doesn’t take a genius to tell that. Look at ’em. It wasn’t bloody lung cancer. Just get on with it.” He turned and walked to the door.
    “Hey.”
    “What?”
    The man stopped and looked back.
    “Where am I supposed to look at them?”
    “What? You don’t like a little bit of dirt? Just put some of those newspapers down if you’re afraid of getting your nice white coat dirty.”
    Siri was an amazingly calm man. If he ever raised his voice, it was generally a deliberate ploy for the benefit of the misguided person in front of him. He considered it his duty to teach good manners to those whose parents had omitted doing so. He took a deep breath.
    “You will find me a clean room—”
    “I’ll do no such thing.”
    “—and if you interrupt me again, I promise you’ll be very sorry.”
    This was a showdown. The man’s alcohol-suffused pores began to turn his bloated face the color of a gibbon’s backside.
    “Who do you—?”
    “You’ll find me a clean room with a table and—”
    The man was fit to burst. He trembled. It was obvious he’d never been spoken back to.
    “Don’t…don’t you know who I am?”
    “‘Who’ doesn’t matter. I know what you are. And what you are is rude. From now on, I shall tell you exactly what I need, and you’ll arrange it for me. Perhaps it’s you who don’t know who I am, or who I have lunch with every day. I am the national coroner, and as such I deserve more respect than you’ve shown so far. Off with you, and find me a room.”
    Siri sat on the pile of books beside the corpses and folded his arms. He could see indecision on the fat man’s face mixed with rage, yet Houey tried one final volley.
    “You’ll be sorry for this. I’ll—”
    Siri stood up very quickly and stepped toward him. There was no intent of malice, but the man saw it as an attack and hurtled himself out of the shed and across the yard. Siri stood in the doorway and watched him go. He knew the district chief would return with either a loaded pistol or news of a vacant room. He hoped the reference to his lunch companion was enough to make it the latter.
     
    The room had once