Cold Hit

by Christopher G. Moore

  It would be easy to kill such a man, since he looked already on his journey into the next life. Anyone who had received as many death threats as Naylor should possess a certain bearing, an edge, a jao poh demeanour of automatic authority, the ability to strike terror simply by looking straight into another man’s eyes. While he fell short of jao poh material, Naylor was not by appearances just another ordinary farang. He had a certain style, like one of those child actors who forty years later gets invited to appear on a late night TV talk show.

  “Mr. Naylor,” said Pratt in perfect, official English as he was no more than two feet away.

  Wes Naylor stopped dead in his tracks as if someone had pressed a gun barrel into the back of his neck. Colonel Pratt walked up to him.

  “Is there a problem, officer?” asked Naylor in a stressed-out, reed-thin voice. He knew of the stories of the Americans, his web site members, who had gone home in body bags having been befriended by strangers at Don Muang.

  “Welcome to Thailand. I am Colonel Prachai. A friend of LAPD Officer Jessada. Follow me, I will help you clear Immigration and Customs.”

  Naylor loaded his carry-on bags onto a trolley. “I don’t know any Jessada. Do you mind if I see some ID?” His right hand started to shake.

  Pratt showed him a police ID card.

  “His nickname is Jess. Maybe you know him as Jess,” said Pratt.

  Naylor looked at Pratt’s photo on the card, turned it over, not being able to read a word of what was on the card and handed it, hand shaking, to Pratt. “Was it Jessie’s idea to give me the red carpet treatment?”

  Pratt nodded. “There’s no red carpet. We want to see that you have no problem from the airport to your hotel.”

  That was the Thai way, cast the situation as a “problem” because powerful people helped less powerful people avoid “problems”; that was their function, the nature of relationships was premised on keeping one another problem free. Putting out the small brush fires before they burnt down the forest.

  “You mean you are here to keep me alive. I’ve lost some friends in this town. So-called heroin addicts. I think they were killed. And what are the police doing to find the killers?” He asked, turning his feeble joke into a demand for action. That was putting a precise spin on a particular kind of problem.

  Pratt preferred that any “problem” be kept vague and imprecise. Putting a name to a problem was a “problem” itself. He passed on Naylor’s invitation to discuss the nature of these deaths. He had been through the cases dozens of times with Calvino. Standing in the airport, Pratt had no appetite to debate the fine points of homicide theories versus overdose with this stranger.

  Naylor was looking for reassurance, expecting Pratt to say something like, “There is no killer. These guys stuffed themselves with drugs and checked out. It happens every day in every big city right around the world. And, in any event, even if they were murdered, you are totally safe in our hands.”

  Instead what he got from Pratt was a cold stare.

  “Jess is waiting. If you please,” said Pratt pointing the way.

  “I know. You are the government and you are here to protect me,” said Naylor.

  Pratt responded, “Life is uncertain, Mr. Naylor.”

  “You don’t instill a lot of confidence, Colonel Prachai. Life is uncertain. What does that mean? Is that ancient Asian wisdom? If something happens, it is my tough luck?” But this police colonel in brown dress uniform walked alongside silently. “You don’t say much, do you?” Wes Naylor continued, eyes peering out from under the hat.

  Other passengers rushed past as Naylor trundled along, slowly pushing his trolley. Pratt escorted him to a special clearance area. The Immigration officer on the desk looked up at Naylor, a flicker of a smile on his lips, and then he saw Pratt and his colonel rank on the uniform. “VIP,” said Pratt. The letters stuck a little in his throat as he spoke but Pratt managed to get them out, slow, one at a time. “VIP.” The Immigration officer took Naylor’s passport and processed the paperwork, stamped the passport, pushed it back over the desk to Naylor, and nodded towards Pratt. It was over in a couple of minutes.

  “We can go,” said Pratt. No other passengers were around. Naylor seemed nervous. “I said we can go.”

  They walked down a short corridor, turned left and right, and came to an unmarked door. Pratt spoke to an armed guard who took out a key and opened it. Naylor walked out into the hot Bangkok early afternoon air. Jess and Calvino waited on the other side of the door, and spotted Naylor huffing under the weight of his suitcases as he came out of the door.

  “He’s all yours,” said Pratt, giving Calvino one raised eyebrow before he disappeared. “We will be out front with a police escort.”

  Naylor blinked, screwed his eyes against the sun. He was pulling cash out of his wallet.

  “Thanks,” said Jess as Colonel Pratt walked away towards a waiting police car.

  “Hey, I want to give you a tip,” Naylor said, calling after Pratt.

  Jess turned and held his hand out and started shaking Naylor’s hand, the one holding the cash.

  “Not you. Him.”

  Pratt had half-turned around as Calvino stepped in front of Naylor and Jess, blocking Pratt’s line of sight. “See you out front.” Calvino flashed a left-eye wink, meaning Jess was a crazy.

  Naylor stood on the pavement, his luggage on the pavement, attracting a crowd with his fistful of American dollar bills.

  “Glad to see you, Wes. Good flight?” asked Jess. He saw the money. “And put away the cash.”

  “Boy, am I glad to see you. That cop’s a strange bird. Wouldn’t take cash. What has happened? Reform?” He gestured at Pratt who was standing beside the police car with the blue light on top flashing. Two police motorcycles were parked in front of Pratt’s BMW, and two officers mounted their bikes, strapped on their helmets, as Pratt opened the car door.

  “Not strange at all,” said Jess. “There are a lot of good, honest cops you never hear about.”

  Naylor’s lower lip shot out in a mock pout. “Sure, and you’re gonna introduce them to me.”

  Jess shook his head. Arguing with Naylor wasn’t going to change his mind. What was foremost on Naylor’s mind was the intense fear he had felt. “For a moment, I thought I was being set up. I really thought, yeah, this is it, I am gonna die. Right here in the airport. No one would even know that I arrived. This cop leads me down a series of small hallways, through hidden doors. I thought it was a trap. Baam, baam. They would never find my body.” Naylor held his fingers out like smoking guns, looking at the police car, as he spoke.

  When he turned back around, he saw Calvino staring at him.

  “You have an active imagination,” said Calvino.

  “Who are you?” asked Wes Naylor. “And what the fuck happened to your face?”

  “This is Vincent Calvino, and he’s working with me. Vincent is a pro. His job is to help me watch over you for the next few days.”

  “Calvino looks more like an unsuccessful tour guide than a bodyguard,” said Naylor. “And, Jesus, have you had a doctor look at your face? Your girlfriend put in those stitches? Crude stuff. You want us to take you to the hospital? Get you patched up right?” Beads of sweat dripped down from the rim of his hat.

  “Get rid of the hat,” said Calvino.

  “What’s wrong with my hat? This hat is my signature in LA.”

  It seemed like a good time to avoid a pissing contest with the client, so Calvino decided to ease up, not challenge the man; to try one more time to establish a connection with Naylor. Then he thought, what the hell. Give Naylor a taste of reality and see how he swallows. “It’s not that the hat makes you look more like a pimp than a lawyer. And it may be your John Hancock in LA. But in Bangkok, that hat makes you an easy target. If someone is trying to whack you, all they have to do is look for a white Panama hat. No one but bald guys wears a fucking hat in Bangkok,” said Calvino.

  “Jai yen, bro!” said Jess.

&
nbsp; “Have a cool heart,” said Naylor. “You see, I know my Thai.”

  Naylor and Calvino had just met and already hated each other. This wasn’t a good start. Why was the initial reaction of the two farangs so hostile? Jess asked himself. Not that it mattered; it wasn’t in the job description that Calvino had to like Naylor, only that he would work to keep him alive. Thais prided themselves on civility and cool heart. Why couldn’t the farangs be more like the Thais? Jess asked himself. Naylor might know some Thai but did he understand the Thais?

  Wes Naylor smiled, took off his hat, found a handkerchief and wiped his brow, then his face before blowing his nose. He was bald with a fringe of blond hair running in a monk-like ring around his head. “A pimp? I like that. It sounds like the punch line to one of those terrible lawyer jokes.” His voice had a hollow, echo quality, now that he’d cleared a half-mile of snot out of his head.

  “That’s my car over there,” said Calvino, nodding to the beat-up Honda.

  “Now that is a good disguise for a car,” said Naylor. “In LA no one would be caught dead in that car.”

  “I had a minor accident,” said Calvino.

  “Several accidents, I would say. Remind me to give you one of my cards.”

  The tension eased. “We booked you at the Oriental Hotel,” said Jess, as he got into the back with Naylor, leaving Calvino up front to drive. “All the arrangements have been made. It is the best hotel in Bangkok.”

  The two police motorcycles pulled in front of Calvino’s car, and Colonel Pratt’s car pulled in behind. They left the airport with lights flashing.

  “Whoa, my friend. Who asked you to put me in the Oriental? I’ve made my own hotel arrangements,” said Naylor.

  Calvino looked at him in the rear view mirror.

  “Which hotel?”

  “The Brandy Hotel of course. That’s where I always stay.”

  “But the Oriental is the best hotel in Bangkok. Maybe in the world. Security will be far less of a problem. In fact there will be no security problem.”

  Calvino wasn’t surprised that Naylor wanted to stay at the Brandy; he picked out the crescent-shaped blue pin on Naylor’s lapel. These guys displaying their blue www.causemember.com pins booked into a dozen different “Cause friendly” hotels on Sukhumvit Road. The Brandy Hotel was a haven for the single male tourist, and the Cause had given the hotel a full five starlet rating. In terms of security, the Brandy would be a total nightmare. Working yings were in and out of hongs—rooms—all night long; a disco downstairs attracted hundreds of people. There was no question Wes Naylor hadn’t made a mistake by booking himself into the Brandy—he had stayed there before. Only he had forgotten people weren’t trying to kill him before. Calvino had a pretty good idea by the time he had pulled away from the curb that this was not going to be any ordinary assignment.

  “You two guys were hired by Nat to baby-sit me. It wasn’t my idea. I think it’s a fucking waste of money. You know what I could do in this town with that kind of money? But Nat wants to spend the money out of his pocket. Who am I to complain? But remember one thing, I am not a baby. I know Bangkok. I am perfectly capable of choosing where I am going to stay. And I am staying at the Brandy Hotel. End of story.”

  “This must be a new five-star hotel,” said Jess.

  “It has at least five stars,” said Calvino. “And most of them go short-time for a gray.”

  Jess had left Thailand at age thirteen and on his trips back had stayed with relatives far away from Sukhumvit Road. He had not been back since there had been a thousand-baht note in circulation. It bothered him slightly to have to ask Calvino to translate what he was saying.

  “The Brandy’s a ‘Cause friendly’ hotel on the Causeway,” continued Calvino. “Am I right, Mr. Naylor?”

  Now he had the man’s attention. He leaned forward, patted Calvino on the shoulder.

  “You know about the Cause? Maybe you’re a member?”

  “I saw your blue pin. And I’ve seen the website. But mostly I know about your club from a number of clients who have crashed and burnt along the Causeway. They thought there was no speed limit in the Zone. Until they hit the wall.”

  “Jesus, you are full of gloom. Must have something to do with what happened to your face.”

  Calvino dialled through to Pratt on his mobile phone. “Slight change of plans. Mr. Naylor is not staying at the Oriental. He’s booked himself into the Brandy.”

  There was a moment of dead silence. “Pratt, are you there?”

  “In that case, we have a slight change of plans. His escort has ended. He makes his decision; we make ours. And, Vincent, watch yourself. Phone me when you get him checked in.”

  As Pratt’s car pulled along Calvino’s, he nodded, then his car shot ahead, his two motorcycle escorts following behind.

  “Where is he going?” asked Naylor. “And I still can’t believe he didn’t take the cash.”

  “Fighter escort decided not to follow this bomber to the new target destination,” said Calvino. “Meaning, no way are the cops giving a VIP escort to the Brandy Hotel. It would be less embarrassing if they shot you, Wes. No offence. But face matters.”

  “Would someone mind telling me what the Causeway is?” asked Jess.

  The traffic was moving on the expressway; their car passed the Thai International Building on the left. Calvino noted they had reached the half way mark to Sukhumvit Road and the Brandy Hotel.

  “I keep a map of the Causeway in my head,” said Wes Naylor. “I’m the financial backer of www.causemember.com. We have about ten thousand members from all over the world clicking in twenty-four hours a day, and the membership keeps growing and growing. In two years, I can see us taking the company public. This is the IPO everybody has been waiting for.”

  “I thought you were a lawyer,” said Jess.

  “Been there, done that. Still keep a hand in. Like on this deal with Nat. But the Internet’s where it’s happening, and our Causeway in Bangkok runs from Buckskin Joe Village under the expressway ramp all the way down Sukhumvit Road to Soi 33.”

  “So?” said Jess, more confused than ever. “On the Causeway you are looking for what?”

  “The Monster Fuck,” said Calvino. “Am I right, Wes?”

  “Bull’s-eye.” Naylor clapped his hands.

  “My instructions were that you came here to negotiate a contract for Dr. Nat.”

  “That’s right. With the cash from our membership, we are looking to buy into suitable hotels. So Nat comes to me with a possible deal. I said, ‘Okay, I’ll think about it.’ Then Nat says, ‘We have a deal. A couple of things need to be worked out. Nothing serious. Go close the deal. We are partners.’ So here I am. But I don’t work like my website twenty-four hours a day,” said Wes Naylor. “Besides, this bullshit of a hit squad doesn’t wash with me. I know you’re a Thai and all of that but Nat is really Thai and a pretty weird guy. A control freak. He’s the nervous type. He’s never done deals. Just practiced medicine. So there’s a little friction and he starts to fall apart. I’ve seen it a thousand times. That’s why he wants me in the deal. I’ve got street smarts, common sense, and a business that can help the hotel business. One hand washing the other hand.”

  What he didn’t have was modesty.

  Naylor had laid it out. He was no newbie to Bangkok and he was hell-bent on heading straight for the Causeway. Calvino figured Jess had a reasonably good idea that the asset they were hired to protect was as much interested in Monster Fucking as in closing any deal on behalf of Dr. Nat, who suddenly was a partner and not just a client. And if they were smart, Calvino was thinking, they would dump this asshole at the Brandy Hotel, call Dr. Nat and tell him there was no way they were going to guard this lunatic from LA.

  “What’s your name on www.causemember.com?” asked Calvino.

  “Tail-gunner7,” said Wes Naylor with a squeaky glee in his voice, as if revealing a deep secret. “And what is yours?”

  “Pickup the Pieces for Hire,” said
Calvino as a ripple of anger rolled over him.

  “Hey, that’s too long for a name.”

  “That’s why I never joined,” said Calvino. “Every time I see the word member on any door, even one in cyberspace, I get nervous. In the old days it usually meant Jews were excluded. My mother was a Jew. So I avoid membership places. And I never found a cause that was naturally right that needed to recruit members to keep it going.”

  “Very noble of you, Mr. Calvino. But you have been given some bad information about the Cause.” He clearly had had enough of Calvino and focused his attention on Jess. “There is very good information on where to stay, eat, the best bars, short-time hotels, the price of short-times, experiences from real life from men who have fallen in love. From people who have been there. These men know what they are talking about. They share with each other. Bangkok is the ‘Show’ and everywhere else is the minors. That’s why many of our members save all year so they can make a pilgrimage to Bangkok.”

  Jess, hands rested on his knees, looked straight ahead, catching Calvino’s eyes in the mirror. “My only cause is to get you back to Los Angeles alive,” said Jess.

  Wes Naylor smiled a wounded smile and put his white Panama hat back on.

  “Now you have made me a happy man.”

  That was more than Calvino could say for himself. The truck behind him was following too close; it was bothering him, getting on his nerves. Minutes after Pratt’s car sped away, lights flashing, with the motorcycle escort, he had picked it up in his rearview mirror. Pratt and the boys had shot out of sight in an instant. Calvino moved over into the far left lane, letting the faster traffic pass him. He kept the truck in his mirrors, switching to the center lane and saw that the ten-wheel truck stayed on his tail. He braked, then switched back to the slow lane. The truck driver eased off the accelerator until the truck could fall behind Calvino’s Honda once again. The truck was riding his back bumper hard. No question he was coming in for contact.