Thirty-Three Teeth

by Colin Cotterill Narrated by Clive Chafer

Overview

Feisty Dr. Siri Paiboun is no respecter of persons or party; at his age he feels he can afford to be independent. In this, the second novel in the series, he travels to Luang Prabang, where he communes with the deposed king who is resigned to his fate: it was predicted long ago. And he attends a conference of shamans called by the Communist Party to deliver an ultimatum to the spirits: obey party orders or get out. But as a series of mutilated corpses arrives in Dr. Siri's morgue, and Nurse Dtui is menaced, he must use all his powers-forensic and shamanic-to discover the creature-animal or spirit-that has been slaying the innocent.

Editorial Reviews

Dennis Drabelle

Cotterill, who lives in northern Thailand, is a crack storyteller and an impressive guide to a little-known culture.
— The Washington Post

Publishers Weekly

Dr. Siri Paiboun of Laos-"reluctant national coroner, confused psychic, [and] disheartened communist"-employs forensic skills and spiritual acumen to solve a series of bizarre killings in Cotterill's quirky, exotic and winning second novel, set in 1977. Could an old escaped bear be mauling Vientiane citizens? Or is it something more mystical-say, a weretiger? When Paiboun is summoned to the capital to identify the nationality of a pair of charred bodies, he quickly flags them as Asians killed in a helicopter crash, and his ability to connect them to the royal family annoys Communist Party leaders. As Paiboun learns of an effort to get the remaining royal family members out of town, he's arrested, accused of damaging government property. But the witness's testimony is questionable, and Paiboun, representing himself in court, escapes this scrape as handily as he's escaped others before. Paiboun's droll wit and Cotterill's engaging plot twists keep things energetic; the rather grisly murders are offset by comedy, including a scene in which a Party member attempts to impose regulations on the spirit world. The elegant, elderly Paiboun seems an unlikely vehicle to carry a series (he debuted in 2004's The Coroner's Lunch), but he does so with charm and aplomb. (Aug.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

The 72-year-old reluctant national coroner of Laos, Dr. Siri Paiboun, finds himself embroiled with a new Communist government, a deposed king, party leaders, and shamans in the follow-up to the debut The Coroner's Lunch. Cotterill lives in Thailand. A six-city author tour. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

An iconoclastic coroner attempts to come to terms with demons from his past while tracking a palpable monster. 1977. In newly Communist Laos, septuagenarian Dr. Siri Paiboun is settling into the job of national coroner, thinking less about retirement and ruffling fewer official feathers than in his first rocky year on the job (The Coroner's Lunch, 2004). He's even mentoring his assistant, an equally quirky young woman named Dtui with an impressive talent for forensic investigation. The diverse array of puzzling cases challenging Siri begins with a pair of corpses from opposite sides of the tracks. But a larger case, perhaps of serial murder, looms as several people suffer fatal animal attacks, presumably by an escaped black mountain bear. Aided by vivid symbolic dreams interspersed throughout the narrative, Siri develops a different theory supported by the nature of the wounds, but the bureaucrats are as slow as ever to believe him. Along the way, Siri visits his sister-in-law's rural home to settle unanswered questions about his dead wife, has a philosophical discussion with Laos' exiled king, observes a Communist conference of shamans and rescues an imperiled Dtui from the brink of death. Siri's second is as entertaining as his debut. Clever chapter titles ("The Randy Russian," "No Spontaneous Fun-by Order") put tongue even further in cheek.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940169690248
Publisher:	Blackstone Audio, Inc.
Publication date:	08/04/2011
Series:	Doctor Siri Paiboun , #2
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Vientiane, People's Democratic Republic of Laos, March 1977

The neon hammer and sickle buzzed and flickered into life over the night club of the Lan Xang Hotel. The sun had plummeted mauvely into Thailand across the Mekhong River, and the hotel waitresses were lighting the little lamps that turned the simple sky-blue room into a mysterious nighttime cavern.

In an hour, a large Vietnamese delegation would be offered diversion there by members of the Lao People's Revolutionary Party Politburo. They'd be made to watch poor country boys in fur hats do a Lao falling-over version of cossack dancing. They'd be forced to suck semi-fermented rice whiskey from large tubs through long straws until they were dizzy. They'd finally be coerced into embarrassing dances with solid girls in ankle-length skirts and crusty makeup.

And, assuming they survived these delights, they'd be allowed to return to their rooms to sleep. Next day, with heads heavy as pressed rubber, they'd sign their names to documents laying the foundations for the forthcoming Lao/Vietnam Treaty of Friendship, and they probably wouldn't remember very much about it.

But that was all to come. The understaffed hotel day shift had been replaced by an understaffed night crew. The sweating receptionist was ironing a shirt in the glass office behind her desk. The chambermaid was running a bowl of rice porridge up to a sick guest on the third floor.

Outside, an old guard, in a jacket so large it reached his knees, was locking the back gate that opened onto Sethathirat Road. At night, the gate kept out dogs and the occasional traveler tempted to come into the garden in search of respite from the cruel hot-seasonnights. An eight-foot wall protected the place as if it were something more special than it was.

Leaves floated in a greasy swimming pool. Obedient flowers stood in well-spaced regiments, better watered than any of the households outside along the street. And then there were the cages. They were solid concrete, so squat that a tall man would have to stoop to see inside. Two were empty. They housed only the spirits of animals temporarily imprisoned there: a monkey replaced by a deer, a peacock taking over the sentence of a wild dog.

But in the grim shadows of the third cage, something wheezed. It moved seldom, only to scratch lethargically at its dry skin. The unchristened black mountain bear was hosed down along with the bougainvilleas and given scraps from the kitchen from time to time. Its fur was patchy and dull, like a carpet in a well-trodden passage. Buddha only knew how the creature had survived for so long in its cramped jail, and the Lord had been banished from the socialist republic some fifteen months hence.

People came in the early evening and at weekends to stand in front of the cage and stare at her. She stared back, although her glazed bloodshot eyes could no longer make out details of the mocking faces. Children laughed and pointed. Brave fathers poked sticks in through the bars, but the black mountain bear no longer appeared to give a damn.

They naturally blamed the old guard the next day. "Too much rice whiskey," they said. "Slack," they said. The guard denied it, of course. He swore he'd relocked the cage door. He'd thrown the leftovers from the Vietnamese banquet into the animal's bowl and locked the cage. He was sure of it. He swore the beast was still in there when he did his rounds at four. He swore he had no idea how it could have gotten out, or where it could have gone. But they sacked him anyway.

After a panicked search of the grounds and the hotel buildings, the manager declared to his staff that the place was safe and it was a problem now for the police. In fact, he didn't think it would be wise to mention the escape to his guests at all. As far as he was concerned, the problem was over.

But for Vientiane, it had barely started.

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