{"product_id":"love-songs-from-a-shallow-grave-isbn-9781569479612","title":"Love Songs from a Shallow Grave","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe seventh Dr. Siri Paiboun mystery\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen a Lao female security officer is discovered stabbed through the heart with a fencing sword, Dr. Siri, the reluctant national coroner for the People’s Democratic Republic of Laos, is brought in to examine the body. Soon two other young women are found killed in the same unusual way. Siri learns that all three victims studied in Europe and that one of them was being pursued by a mysterious stalker. But before he can solve the case, he is whisked away to Cambodia on a diplomatic mission. Though on the surface the Khmer Rouge seem to be committed to the socialist cause, Siri soon learns the horrifying truth of the killing fields and finds himself thrown into prison. Can the seventy-four-year-old doctor escape with his life?\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eLove Songs from a Shallow Grave \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eA\u003ci\u003e New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Notable Crime Novel\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You get a real feeling for what Laos was like in the ’70s. The humor is wonderful, too—very subtle, very British.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eNew York Post\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is the seventh and most sardonic of Mr. Cotterill's Dr. Siri series, and it is not easy to cope with the combination of misery and merry melancholy that he employs. His writing, as always, is skillful and smooth and his plot is artfully strung together. The book fascinates as it chills.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Washington Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Colorful.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eSeattle Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I love this elegantly written series, set in Laos with clever, septuagenarian coroner Dr. Siri. This one, the seventh, is the best, but all of them are terrific . . . A delightful mix of history and politics, and an excellent mystery.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Globe and Mail\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eShallow Grave\u003c\/i\u003e carries on in the wry, unpredictable manner of previous Cotterill books. Unlike the earlier novels, this one contains sections of first-person narrative by Siri. His voice is as marvelous as everything else about him.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eSacramento News and Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“It's a rare treat to say that a book placed so far into a series is the best one. Authors more often than not run out of steam by the seventh book. Not Colin Cotterill.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Oregon Live (\u003ci\u003eThe Oregonian\u003c\/i\u003e)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Cotterill, a resident of Thailand, has a gift for creating memorably eccentric characters, while spinning a fascinating array of Southeast Asian history and folklore into his narratives.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eJapan Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Cotterill's superb seventh mystery . . . has it all—a heroic protagonist, a challenging puzzle, and an exotic setting.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In his seventh installment (after \u003ci\u003eThe Merry Misogynist\u003c\/i\u003e) Cotterill vividly depicts a Southeast Asia still traumatized by the Vietnam War—the horrors perpetrated by the Khmer Rouge, the shocking poverty, the rampant corruption, and the steadfast spirit of the people, And Dr. Siri is a one-of-a-kind protagonist rivaled only by Eliot Pattison’s Shan Tao Yung. Highly recommended for series fans and readers who enjoy international mysteries.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dr. Siri, his friends and colleagues are charming, and the puzzle is intriguing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eFree Lance-Star\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eColin Cotterill is the author of ten other books in the Dr. Siri Paiboun series, including \u003ci\u003eThe Coroner’s Lunch\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThirty-Three Teeth\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eDisco for the Departed\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eSix and a Half Deadly Sins\u003c\/i\u003e. His fiction has won a Dilys Award and a CWA Dagger in the Library. He lives in Chumphon, Thailand, with his wife and five deranged dogs.HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DR. SIRI\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI celebrate the dawn of my seventy-fourth birthday handcuffed\u003cbr\u003eto a lead pipe. I’d had something more traditional\u003cbr\u003ein mind: a few drinks with my new wife, some gay \u003ci\u003emolum\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003emusic on the record player, shellfish plucked fresh from\u003cbr\u003ethe Mekhong. But \u003ci\u003ehere\u003c\/i\u003e I am in Hades and not a balloon in\u003cbr\u003esight. My ex-roommate, a gray-faced youth in his early twenties,\u003cbr\u003eis chained by the ankle to the far end of the same pipe.\u003cbr\u003eThey dragged the boy in during the night and we struggled\u003cbr\u003eto communicate. We scratched for words to share. But as\u003cbr\u003esoon as he understood that we were different animals in\u003cbr\u003ethe same abattoir, tears of despair carved uneven grooves\u003cbr\u003edown his bloody cheeks. I could do nothing but sit back\u003cbr\u003eagainst the flaking plaster and watch the life drain from\u003cbr\u003ehim. He didn’t live to greet the new day. When the sun\u003cbr\u003efinally sneered through the wire mesh of the window, it\u003cbr\u003ecast a shadow like a fisherman’s net across the body. The\u003cbr\u003ecorpse lay trapped, expired from the effort of untangling\u003cbr\u003eitself from all this unnecessary misery. But his soul was free.\u003cbr\u003eI envied him that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am Dr. Siri Paiboun, the national and only coroner of\u003cbr\u003ethe People’s Democratic Republic of Laos, a medical man, a\u003cbr\u003ehumanitarian, but I’m still unable to summon an appropriate\u003cbr\u003eemotion. I listened through the night to the sobs and screams\u003cbr\u003eof my unseen neighbors. I didn’t understand the words they\u003cbr\u003ecried but I knew people were being killed all around me. I\u003cbr\u003escented their essence and saw their fleeing spirits. I am well\u003cbr\u003eaware that I will soon be joining them. Yet the overriding\u003cbr\u003ethought in my mind is that I didn’t have the foresight to\u003cbr\u003esay goodbye or thank you to the people I love. That sounds\u003cbr\u003ecorny, I know, but what’s wrong with corny? It has its place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wonder whether they might know instinctively. Really. I\u003cbr\u003ewonder whether they’ve been able to see through this crusty,\u003cbr\u003eannoyingly stubborn exterior to the warm and fluffy Siri that\u003cbr\u003enestles barely visible inside me. If only I could squeeze the hand\u003cbr\u003eof Madame Daeng one final time, ruffle the newly permed hair\u003cbr\u003eof Mr. Geung, sniff the cheeks of Nurse Dtui and her milkscented\u003cbr\u003ebaby, and slap Inspector Phosy on the back. If only I\u003cbr\u003ecould raise one last glass with my best friend, Civilai. But those\u003cbr\u003eopportunities will never come. The amulet that protected\u003cbr\u003eme from the malevolent spirits was ripped from my neck,\u003cbr\u003estolen by one of the teenaged guards. I am exposed. Once\u003cbr\u003ethe ghosts are aware their enemy is unprotected, they will\u003cbr\u003ecircle me like hungry jungle dogs and close in for the kill.\u003cbr\u003eAll things considered, at this almost final analysis, I am\u003cbr\u003estuffed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ***\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman read from the carbon copy in front of her. The\u003cbr\u003esheet was of such proportions as to defy filing and of such\u003cbr\u003epoor quality that it was almost inevitable the words would\u003cbr\u003ebe sucked back into the fibers like invisible ink returning\u003cbr\u003ewhence it had emerged. The clerk had a pleasant voice,\u003cbr\u003esoothing like honey balm, and the two old men opposite\u003cbr\u003estared at her luscious lips as she spoke.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Of course, it isn’t finalized,” she smiled. “But it will certainly\u003cbr\u003eread something like this.” She coughed. “The People’s\u003cbr\u003eDemocratic Republic of Laos would have it known\u003cbr\u003ethat Dr. Siri Paiboun, national coroner, hero of the Revolution\u003cbr\u003eand lifetime member of the Communist Party, passed\u003cbr\u003eaway on the second of May 1978. Dr. Siri had fought tirelessly\u003cbr\u003eand fearlessly for the Revolution and was—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fearlessly first,” one of the men interrupted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m sorry?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It would be better to have ‘fearlessly’ before ‘tirelessly,’\u003cbr\u003ethen nobody would be in doubt as to whether he’d been\u003cbr\u003etired out by the lack of fearing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Absolutely,” the second man agreed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What? Hmm. I’m not sure I understand that.” But the\u003cbr\u003egirl conceded the point and made a note on the pad beside\u003cbr\u003eher. “I’ll mention it to Comrade Sisavee. It is only the first\u003cbr\u003edraft but, to tell the truth, we called you in to check on the\u003cbr\u003efactual, rather than the syntactical elements of the eulogy.\u003cbr\u003eWe have people to deal with all the technicalities in later\u003cbr\u003eversions. I’ll read on if I m—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And ‘was struck down dead’ has a more heroic ring to\u003cbr\u003eit,” the second old man said. “That’s factual.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Struck down?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Rather than ‘passed away,’” he added. “‘Passed away’\u003cbr\u003emakes it sound like bodily wind, a collection of stomach\u003cbr\u003egases on their way out. Do you know what I mean? We’re\u003cbr\u003etalking about heroism here. Heroes don’t just ‘pass’ like\u003cbr\u003eflatulence in a strong breeze.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With or without scent,” added the first man most\u003cbr\u003eseriously.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe clerk glared from one old gentleman to the next,\u003cbr\u003ethen back to the first.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Are you playing with me?” she asked sternly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Certainly not, sweet young lady,” said the skinnier of the\u003cbr\u003etwo men. He was bald as a bowling ball with a long camellike\u003cbr\u003ethroat sporting an Adam’s apple so large it might well\u003cbr\u003ehave been Adam’s original. “This is a most serious affair.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No laughing matter,” agreed the first.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill uncertain of her ground, the young lady pressed\u003cbr\u003eon. “The nation will never forget the contribution Dr. Siri\u003cbr\u003emade to the development of this great nation, nor\u003cbr\u003ecan—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s two nations,” said the bald man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, do let her finish,” said the other. “Didn’t she tell\u003cbr\u003eyou they have a department that handles syntax? Probably\u003cbr\u003ean entire ministry.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The Ministry of Getting Words Right?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Or it could be a branch of the Ministry of Making\u003cbr\u003eThings Up and Bamboozling People.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe clerk was miffed. She slapped the paper onto the\u003cbr\u003ewooden table top and drummed her fingers on it noisily.\u003cbr\u003eShe seemed to be wrestling down a darker inner person. Her\u003cbr\u003evoluptuous mouth had become mysteriously unattractive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t think either of you appreciate what a great\u003cbr\u003ehonor this is,” she said at last. Her eyes watered. “Anybody\u003cbr\u003eelse would be proud. Dr. Siri, I’m particularly disappointed\u003cbr\u003ethat you would take all this so lightly. Given your record, it’s\u003cbr\u003ea wonder your name is on the list at all.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSiri raised the thickets of coarse white hair he called\u003cbr\u003eeyebrows and scratched at his missing left earlobe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“To be fair, you’re not giving me much time,” he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How can I take life seriously when I’m forced to squeeze\u003cbr\u003eall those remaining pleasures into a mere twelve days? And\u003cbr\u003elook at this. You’re passing me away on my birthday of all\u003cbr\u003eoccasions. The happiest day of the year.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s odd, Doctor,” she said through clenched teeth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I thought I had explained myself very clearly.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tell him again,” said ex-politburo member Civilai. “He’s\u003cbr\u003eelderly.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“As I said,” she began slowly, “the actual date of your\u003cbr\u003edeath will be filled in later.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In the event of it?” Siri said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Exactly.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So you aren’t actually expecting me to . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe transparent northeastern skin of her neck revealed\u003cbr\u003ean atlas of purple roads heading north in the direction of\u003cbr\u003eher cheeks. The men admired her composure as she took\u003cbr\u003ea deep breath and continued.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You will pass away naturally, or otherwise, as your destiny\u003cbr\u003edictates. At that stage we will delete your date of birth\u003cbr\u003eand substitute it with your date of death. When that happens\u003cbr\u003ewe will issue the announcement. Is that clear now?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And I will become a hero,” Siri smiled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It probably won’t be instantaneous . . . in your case.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Department of Hero Creation, the DHC, was housed\u003cbr\u003ein a small annex of the propaganda section of the Ministry\u003cbr\u003eof Information. Based loosely on a Vietnamese initiative\u003cbr\u003ealready in place, the DHC was responsible for identifying\u003cbr\u003erole models, exaggerating their revolutionary qualities, and\u003cbr\u003ecreating a fairy story around their lives. A week earlier, Dr.\u003cbr\u003eSiri and Comrade Civilai had received their invitations to\u003cbr\u003eattend this preliminary meeting. They’d heard of the DHC,\u003cbr\u003eof course, and seen evidence of its devious work. Everyone\u003cbr\u003eover seventy who’d done the Party the great service of\u003cbr\u003estaying alive was under consideration. If selected, school\u003cbr\u003etextbooks would mention their bravery. Histories would\u003cbr\u003ebe written detailing their supernatural ability to surmount\u003cbr\u003ethe insurmountable and carry the red flag to victory. Siri\u003cbr\u003eand Civilai could hardly pass up a chance to scuttle such a\u003cbr\u003enefarious scheme.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What is my case?” Siri asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You said, ‘In your case,’ suggesting I have some flaw.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t hold back,” Civilai urged the clerk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s really not my place to . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Go ahead,” Civilai prodded. “We won’t tell anyone.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe seemed pleased to do so.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We are aware of the doctor’s . . . problems with authority,”\u003cbr\u003ethe clerk said. She was now ignoring Siri and talking\u003cbr\u003edirectly with Civilai. “But history has a short memory. It has\u003cbr\u003ea way of smudging over personality flaws no matter how\u003cbr\u003eserious they might be.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Voltaire said that history is just the portrayal of crimes\u003cbr\u003eand misfortunes,” Siri said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And why should I care what a wealthy eighteenth century\u003cbr\u003esnob aristocrat has to say about anything?” she\u003cbr\u003esnapped. “Don’t you have thoughts of your own, Doctor?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSiri smiled at Civilai, who raised his eyebrows in return.\u003cbr\u003eThe old friends were constantly on the lookout for fire,\u003cbr\u003eintelligence, and passion within the system and, when\u003cbr\u003efound, it brought out their untapped paternal instincts.\u003cbr\u003eMost cadres wouldn’t have known Voltaire from a bag of\u003cbr\u003ebeans. Their early-evening visit to the Ministry of Information\u003cbr\u003ehad not been a waste of time after all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFollowing a politburo decree, the words \u003ci\u003eMinister\u003c\/i\u003e and\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMinistry\u003c\/i\u003e had been liberated from the dungeon of antisocialist\u003cbr\u003epolitical rhetoric and new ministries had mushroomed.\u003cbr\u003eThere was infighting within each ministry as each department\u003cbr\u003eand section vied for its own ministerial status. Everyone\u003cbr\u003ewanted to be a minister. The secretarial pool at the\u003cbr\u003enew Ministry of Justice had put in an application to become\u003cbr\u003ethe Ministry of Typing and head clerk Manivone had put\u003cbr\u003eher name down to become the minister of Changing Ink\u003cbr\u003eRibbons. Dr. Siri had helped her with the paperwork and\u003cbr\u003eit had taken several bottles of rice whisky to get it right. Of\u003cbr\u003ecourse, they hadn’t submitted the form. The system didn’t\u003cbr\u003ehave a sense of humor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was nothing inherently funny about the People’s\u003cbr\u003eDemocratic Republic of Laos in the 1970s. The socialists\u003cbr\u003ehad taken over the country three years earlier but the fun of\u003cbr\u003ehaving a whole country to play with had soon drained away.\u003cbr\u003eEuphoria had been replaced by paranoia, and anyone who\u003cbr\u003edidn’t take the Republic seriously was considered a threat.\u003cbr\u003eDissidents were still being sent to “seminars” in the northeast\u003cbr\u003eto join the ranks of officials from the old regime who\u003cbr\u003ewere learning to grit their teeth and say, “Yes, Comrade.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Siri and Civilai, forty-year veterans of the struggle, were\u003cbr\u003etolerated. They posed no threat to the status quo and their\u003cbr\u003erants against the system could be dismissed—with sarcastic\u003cbr\u003elaughter—as senile gibberish. But there was nothing senile\u003cbr\u003eor gibberitic about these two old Comrades. Their minds\u003cbr\u003esparkled like a March night sky. Given a chance, they could\u003cbr\u003eoutstrategize any man or woman on the Central Committee.\u003cbr\u003eTo find a young crocodile with a good mind among\u003cbr\u003ethat flock of flamingos was a rare delight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re quite right, of course.” Siri bowed his head to\u003cbr\u003ethe clerk. “Forgive me. I’m prone, like many men my age,\u003cbr\u003eto presuppose that young people have no minds. I assume\u003cbr\u003ethey all will be impressed with my bourgeois philosophy.\u003cbr\u003eYou are obviously a cut above the rest.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And you aren’t going to win me over with your flattery\u003cbr\u003eeither,” she added.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Or with pink mimosa or sugared dates, no doubt,” Siri\u003cbr\u003eadded. He thought he noticed a germ of a smile on her\u003cbr\u003elips. “You really have to see the funny side of all this, you\u003cbr\u003eknow?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And why is that?” she asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You really want me to tell you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well, I’m tempted to suggest you fabricate people’s\u003cbr\u003eexperiences here. I noticed, for example, that your DHC\u003cbr\u003ehas Comrade Bounmee Laoly charging into battle armed\u003cbr\u003ewith only a machete at the age of sixty.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A lot of people are still very active at sixty.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I know that, but I also happen to know from personal\u003cbr\u003eexperience he was already blind as a bat when he turned\u003cbr\u003efifty. He couldn’t find a machete, let alone brandish one.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe blushed, “I . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“All we ask,” Civilai took over, “is, should this great honor\u003cbr\u003eof herohood befall us—hopefully not posthumously—that\u003cbr\u003ewe earn it from merit, not with the aid of major reconstructive\u003cbr\u003esurgery from Information.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We’d like people to remember and respect us for what\u003cbr\u003ewe are,” Siri said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Warts and all,” Civilai added.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSiri and Civilai sloshed and slithered hand in hand through\u003cbr\u003ethe rain to the ministry car park. A cream Citroen with a\u003cbr\u003emissing taillight and a sturdy Triumph motorcycle were the\u003cbr\u003eonly two vehicles there. They were parked in muddy water\u003cbr\u003elike boats. Drowning grass poked here and there through\u003cbr\u003ethe brown gravy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Smart lady,” Siri said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“She certainly put us in our places.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nice lips.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Exceptional.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They did remain clenched when you asked about your\u003cbr\u003ewarts, though.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They did.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCivilai opened the unlocked door of his old car and sat\u003cbr\u003ebehind the steering wheel. Siri climbed into the passenger\u003cbr\u003eseat. They sat for a moment staring at the unpainted side\u003cbr\u003ewall of the building. As the concrete absorbed the endless\u003cbr\u003erains, Siri fancied he saw the outline of New Zealand stained\u003cbr\u003ethere, or it could have been the silhouette of a twisted balloon\u003cbr\u003epoodle. Following a disastrous year of drought, the\u003cbr\u003efarmers had smiled to see the early arrival of the 1978 rains.\u003cbr\u003eIt was as if the gods had awakened late and, realizing their\u003cbr\u003enegligence, had hastily attempted to make up for the previous\u003cbr\u003eyear. The rain fell heavily and ceaselessly—three times\u003cbr\u003ethe national average for April. The Lao New Year water\u003cbr\u003efestival celebrations—a time to call down the first rains of\u003cbr\u003ethe year—were rained out. The earthen embankments of\u003cbr\u003ethe new rice paddies were washed flat; the bougainvilleas\u003cbr\u003ehad been rinsed colorless. The earth seemed to cry, “All\u003cbr\u003eright. Enough.” But still it rained. It was nature’s little joke.\u003cbr\u003eLike the Eskimos with their four million words for snow,\u003cbr\u003ethe Lao vocabulary was expanding with new language to\u003cbr\u003edescribe rain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eToday the water hung in the air like torn strips of gray\u003cbr\u003epaper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What is that?” Civilai asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s what?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That noise you’re making.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s not a noise. It’s a song. I have no idea where I heard\u003cbr\u003eit. I can’t get it out of my head.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well try. It’s annoying.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSiri swallowed his song.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What do you think they’ve got on me?” he asked. “I\u003cbr\u003emean, the DHC.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Huh,” Civilai laughed. “I knew it. You do want to be a\u003cbr\u003enational hero.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I do not. I’m just . . . curious.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“About your warts?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, where do I start? How about your abrasive\u003cbr\u003epersonality?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Personalities change. And history has a way of smudging\u003cbr\u003emy character, don’t forget.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So I heard. All right. . . .” Civilai beeped his horn for no\u003cbr\u003eapparent reason. “There’s the spirit thing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How could they possibly know about that?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They probably don’t know the specifics. Not that you\u003cbr\u003eactually chat with ghosties. I doubt they know that. But they\u003cbr\u003emust have heard the rumors. This is a small country. People\u003cbr\u003elike Judge Haeng must have accumulated a good deal of circumstantial\u003cbr\u003eevidence of your supernatural connections.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But no proof. By its very nature he can’t have accumulated\u003cbr\u003eevidence.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Then they don’t have anything.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“All right. Well, they probably don’t like your Hmong\u003cbr\u003ecampaign either.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s hardly a campaign.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You walked up and down in front of the Khaosan Pathet\u003cbr\u003eLao News Agency office with a placard saying we need\u003cbr\u003eanswers on the plight of our hmong brothers. People\u003cbr\u003ehave been shot for less. You seem to think that the government\u003cbr\u003ehas a policy to intimidate minorities.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It does.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well then. With that attitude I can see the Central Committee\u003cbr\u003emaking little pencil crosses beside your name, can’t you?”\u003cbr\u003e“Things have to be sorted out before it’s too late.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re right. If I were the Minister of Pinning Things\u003cbr\u003eonto Chests I’d make you a Knight of the Great Order of\u003cbr\u003eValor right away. Sadly, I’m just a retired has-been.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey sat silently for another moment, watching the moss\u003cbr\u003egrow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thirsty?” Civilai asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSiri twisted around on his seat. The leather squeaked\u003cbr\u003eunder his bottom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Perhaps just the one.”","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300774760677,"sku":"NP9781569479612","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781569479612.jpg?v=1767731906","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/love-songs-from-a-shallow-grave-isbn-9781569479612","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}