Cold Hit

by Christopher G. Moore

  “Exactly what do you and your brothers and sisters want?” asked Naylor.

  “We were thinking a joint venture might suit everyone much better.”

  “A joint venture?” asked Naylor, his jaw clenched as he pushed the check back into his briefcase. The knuckle cruncher had pushed all of his fingers back so they touched his wrist.

  “A fifty-one percent, forty-nine percent joint venture. Of course, we will adjust the purchase price. Only one million two.”

  “And you keep fifty-one percent of the hotel?”

  The nervous laugh accompanied the nodding of Kitti’s head. In an oddball way, Kitti, like his brother with the moustache, bore a striking likeness to the dead father: same big ears and bad skin. “Yes, of course.” Roses off the same dead branch.

  “Over my dead body,” said Naylor. He rolled up his sleeves, leaned over the table as if he were about to stick a needle in his arm, and showed the family his Chinese triad tattoos. They stared at the blue dragons, and from the way one of the sisters was moving her lips, she appeared to be reading the Chinese tattooed scroll. “You know what these mean?”

  No one said anything.

  “They mean I am connected with the Chinese Mafia. My Chinese family is much bigger and meaner than all of you.”

  Kitti, the grin never leaving his face, translated as Naylor spoke. The other family members sat stone-faced staring at the tattoos. Then they stared at Naylor. One yawned and rubbed his eyes. Another lit a cigarette. One peeled an orange and sucked on a slice, showing long, yellow ratlike teeth, spitting the seeds on the floor. Another took hard candy from a large ornate bowl in the center of the table, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. Soon the entire family was eating, smoking, yawning, and talking. Calvino could imagine them watching a public execution in a football stadium with fifty thousand other people. Bullshitting, eating, watery eyes, detached, as if the sound of a rifle recoiling was no different from a two-stroke motorcycle being started. So much for Naylor’s secret weapon, his ultimate threat. He had no idea of such people.

  “I don’t think you are taking this seriously,” shouted Naylor.

  He was getting angry and one thing that was taboo in Thailand was showing anger or, even worse, forcing people into a corner and confronting them with gangster tattoos. Threatening them with Chinese dragon tattoos. This was not a good start and could not have a good ending.

  “It is nearly lunch time. We have arranged lunch for you and your friends,” said Kitti. A face-saving suggestion, and a way to defuse the tense situation. A wise move, thought Calvino. Before the family started choosing lots to see who would reach across the table and put a knife in Naylor’s neck.

  “They aren’t my friends. And I am eating my lunch back at the Brandy where sometime in the last six months someone in the kitchen attempted to wash the spoons and plates.”

  “Have a good lunch,” said Kitti.

  If irony was ever a weapon, the entire family had been dipped in Kevlar.

  Jess and Calvino exchanged glances. This was the first they had heard of Naylor’s lunch plans. Naylor gave almost no resistance to the lunch break idea. It was already in his head to get back and rub more cream onto Jep’s ass. A combination of greed and the desire to rub the mosquito bites on a teenage ying’s ass conspired to bring a halt to the meeting without any resolution on the contract. As the family began leaving the conference room as quietly and secretly as they had arrived, Calvino’s mobile phone rang. McPhail was on the other line.

  “Man, this is some fucked up woman you’ve lined me up to meet, Calvino.”

  “What’s the problem? She didn’t show?”

  “No, she showed all right. But she ain’t making the phone call to LA.”

  “Why?”

  “She wants you at the Emporium, Big Daddy, when she phones this guy Gabe. Apparently she’s afraid of him big time. I said I would break his jaw in five places. But no way, Jose. She says either Vincent Calvino gets his ass down to the Emporium or she’s going off to hong Kong tomorrow morning and she doesn’t give a flying fuck if she ever talks with that asshole again. Those are her exact words.”

  “I’ve got a problem here.”

  “Man, you’ve got a problem right here where I am standing, too. It’s up to you. What do you want me to do? Cut her loose or tell her that you are on the way?”

  Calvino paused, looking over at Jess, who caught his eye. “Tell her that I will be there in fifteen minutes. If she leaves the building, follow her. Better yet find a way to keep her in the building.”

  “Don’t worry, I will pin her down to the floor. Sit on her. She’s right here. You want to talk to her?”

  “What’s the point?” asked Calvino.

  “You might try and persuade her.”

  “Fifteen, twenty minutes. Stay on the second floor. Where I told you to meet her and wait for me.”

  Kitti stood up from his chair.

  “I propose we start again at 2:00 p.m.,” he said.

  Naylor sneered. “Let me think about that.” He thought for a moment. “Yeah, I can live with two.”

  NINE

  NAYLOR’S MOOD TURNED vile and nasty. “I pay for sex in Thailand because free sex is too fucking expensive in America.” He pushed his floppy Truman Capote hat forward, maximum attitude position, just over his eyebrows as he stood in front of the hotel, his bare, tattooed arms raised palms up like a country preacher. His eyes surveyed the gnarled rose bushes, the chickens, the goat, the sleeping dogs, the peasant burning garbage at the end of the driveway. “But the hotels in America are better,” he said. The Grand Rose Hotel had been his dream; his chance to set up a business that dovetailed with the Cause, his own private escape penthouse on top, a pied-a-terre, the ultimate hong to impress yings. As he surveyed the grounds, Naylor couldn’t help but wonder who in their right mind among the Cause-members would come for a Monster Fuck in a hotel occupied by the Adams family. They had patents pending on greed, stupidity, sloth, and corruption.

  “They want a joint venture? Are they out of their fucking minds?” He turned away from the garden. “Did you see that guy do that bending thing with his fingers? The whole family is weird.”

  Jess held the rear door open. Calvino was already inside the car. He switched on the engine and checked his rear view mirror. He rolled down his window and gestured at Naylor to get in.

  “I suspect they will want to keep the roses,” said Calvino. “Let’s go.” Not doing due diligence on a deal ran the same level of risk as not doing due diligence on a ying only to find out down the road that what she had promised bore no relationship to what she was prepared or able to deliver. Blinded by the beauty of the rose, the buyer had forgotten about the hidden treasure of thorns ready to draw blood.

  Naylor kicked the toe of his boot in the dirt, sending up a small cloud of red dust. He waved his fist at the hotel, huffed and muttered, and then climbed into the back of the car. Jess shut Naylor’s door, walked around to the opposite side and got in. Chickens flew in all directions as Calvino gunned the engine, peeling out of the Grand Rose Hotel grounds. Calvino’s car looked like it belonged to the hotel; it fit into the overall ambiance of broken objects, things gone to ruin, the rewards of neglect and accident. Naylor stuck his arm out the window and gave everyone in sight the finger, only no one in particular noticed. None of this acting up had improved Naylor’s mood; if anything he was more agitated, slamming his hand against the seat. Calvino said nothing as he felt the muffled blow. After all, Naylor’s Hollywood show of anger was more for Jess and him than for the family of owners who were nowhere to be seen.

  “I don’t think you gained anything by showing your tattoos,” said Jess. “Or giving the street vendors the finger.”

  “Fuck them. I felt like a monkey in a bag hung on a shithouse door.”

  Calvino caught Naylor’s flash of anger in the rear view mirror. Where the hell did he get that expression? “Monkey in a bag? Or was it money in a bag? How’s that feel, We
s?”

  “It’s monkey in a bag. Monkey is money with a “k” jammed in the middle. I had this ying last year. Fon was her name. You know, ‘Rain’ in Thai. She gave the best blow jobs in the entire fucking world. Rain would just keep at it. Three, four times in one day she would go down. I mean again and again. She was relentless in her desire to go down. Fon had a pet monkey she called ‘Lucky Luke’—a guy had given it to her along with the usual gold and fridge—and that goddamn monkey went everywhere with her. It thought the world of her, Luke was crazy about her. And she loved the monkey like it was her kid. It put me off with Lucky Luke watching her going down on me. Her moaning and Lucky Luke looking like she didn’t have to take any responsibility. Today, I understand exactly how that poor bastard monkey felt. Kitti was doing the same thing as Fon. He was pretending not to know how I got in the bag. And he just let me bang my fucking head on his shithouse door while he and his crazy family were jerking off.”he had some strange rain forest disease. She said it was just an ear infection. But I couldn’t keep an erection. So I made her put the monkey in the bag she used to cart it around in. But Lucky Luke wasn’t stupid. He knew how to get out of the bag. There I would be with my pants around my ankles with Rain falling down and that monkey would jump on her shoulder and fucking stare. Those big monkey eyes, and Lucky Luke’s upper lip riding up slowly and showing razor sharp teeth. Fon couldn’t understand why I made such a big deal about her goddamn monkey. I told her Lucky Luke was jealous and one day he was going to take a run at me. I finally figured out that after putting Lucky Luke inside the cloth bag, if I pulled the string tight at the top of the bag and hung it on the back of the bathroom door, he couldn’t get out. Then I could get down to concentrating on business with Fon. All the time, I could hear Lucky Luke struggling inside the bag on the shithouse door. This dull thump, thump against the wooden door. Lucky Luke screaming in total monkey rage. There I was in the bedroom with Fon on her knees and her goddamn monkey banging the bathroom door, trying to find a way out of the bag, knowing it was stuck in the dark, shut out, cut off from the world, and for the life of that monkey Luke had absolutely no fucking idea why he had been tied into a bag and suspended in mid-air on the back of a door. Afterward Rain would say, ‘Lucky Luke pai nai?’ Where did Lucky Luke go? This was one of those ying questions that ring false. She knew full well that Lucky Luke was in the bag hanging on the door. She pretended not to know. That way

  Halfway through the telling of his Lucky Luke story, Naylor had started to unwind, grow calm, his voice smoothed out with the rough, hard edges sanded down by the memory of all those blow jobs. Like a lot of angry people without someone to fuel the fires of rage, and left alone to think about what had happened, he put the experience in the context of what he knew. Getting a blow job with a monkey kicking up a storm in a bag. Naylor looked contemplative as he stared out the car window. Thinking about Kitti, thinking about Lucky Luke, and remembering Rain on her knees, eyes looking up, making those sucking noises as her monkey screamed bloody murder from the bathroom.

  “She left you for the monkey,” said Calvino. He was thinking: what goes around comes around. He liked the idea of Naylor being the monkey in the bag. There was some justice in the world after all.

  Naylor nodded his head. “I hate to admit it but she did. I trust Rain and Luke are happy in some upcountry jungle hovel. Enough of monkey business, tell me again,” he said. “Why are we stopping at this shopping mall? After meeting these assholes, you want to go shopping? Dr. Nat’s four grand is burning a hole in your pocket, right?”

  Before they had got into the car, Calvino had laid the groundwork for the diversion, casually saying he had to meet someone for a few minutes at the Emporium. As they left the conference room, Naylor was still too upset with the hotel owners and had not focused on Calvino’s request and certainly had been in no state to respond to this request. It took a monkey story for him to remember Calvino had been leading up to something.

  “I have a personal problem I need to fix. It will take ten minutes and then I buy lunch,” said Calvino. After looking over the family, the threat to Naylor had diminished in Calvino’s eyes. Not that he was easing off—someone had taken a shot at them on the expressway—but right up close none of them seem capable to doing much of anything but argue over their share of the family pie.

  “Yeah? I thought you were working for me. Now you have a problem and I am supposed to approve your plan to ruin my lunch with Jep.”

  “Let’s say I’ve got a monkey on my back,” said Calvino.

  “We pass the Emporium on the way to the hotel,” said Jess.

  Out of the blue, back-up was coming from LAPD; something that Calvino had not expected. Maybe Jess had tired of baby-sitting this asset, with Naylor’s attitude, the tattoos, his murky business connections, his degrading ying stories, so any excuse to shove back had to make Jess feel as good as landing a foot into the jaw of a kick-boxing opponent. “I need to buy a new battery.” He was playing with the device that picked up transmitting devices.

  “Ten minutes, Wes,” said Calvino.

  Ten minutes should be more than enough time, thought Calvino. But nothing in Bangkok ever happened in ten minutes. It was a way of speaking, a time span that meant a short-time, not that other short-time where a ying was selling her sabai time. Calvino had planned out what he was going to do—he would first find McPhail and Noi, and even before finding them, he would have Gabe on his mobile phone ready to talk to Noi. He planned it out in his head—he’d walk straight up to Noi, and say. “How’s it going Noi? Glad to see you. Gabe’s on the phone from LA. Just tell him hello. That’s it. No other commitment.” Then he would put the phone to her ear. She’d say a few meaningless words and listen to him plead to come back, she’d refuse and then it would be over. Some yings were mistresses of the quick brush off.

  Naylor was about to say something when Jess cut him off. “And you can buy something nice for Jep at one of the shops.”

  Calvino smiled to himself, exchanged a glance with Jess in the rear view mirror. “You don’t want to go back to the room with nothing in your hands and only tattoos on your forearms,” said Calvino.

  “Do I have any choice?” asked Naylor as Calvino pulled into the underground parking lot of the Emporium.

  Choice and purpose were the two elements missing from the known universe that no scientist would ever locate. They were not permanently lost, they had never existed, thought Calvino.

  He followed the down ramp into the underground parking lot, slowing to take the ticket from the uniformed security guard. No place to park, he turned right, taking the ramp down to B2, pulling into a parking spot within sight of the entrance for the elevators. The B2 parking lot level was half-full. The recession had cut the power on their aircraft, turning most of them into glider pilots. Naylor was out of the car last. He slammed the door hard. “I could use a drink. You think that is going to be a problem here?”

  “I am buying,” said Calvino.

  “Goddamn right you are buying,” said Naylor.

  Jess was out the other side of the car; he closed the door and he leaned against the side of the Honda. “I’ll stay with the car. Pick me up a new battery, will you?”

  “Forget it,” said Naylor. “This Italian is buying both of us a beer.”

  Jess smiled. “I don’t drink on duty.”

  “Then I’ll drink your fucking beer if that makes you feel any better.”

  “It won’t take long,” said Calvino. “Come along, Jess. No one’s going to bother the car.”

  Jess tapped his fingers on the roof of the Honda, then broke into a smile. The car was a write-off, a wreck. Who would bother with such a car? “Okay.”

  They crossed the parking lot; Jess taking point, then Naylor with Calvino following behind. Jess pushed open the glass door, looking around before waving Naylor to move forward.

  “You buy the Lucky Luke story?” Jess asked through the mic. He was scanning the area for transmitting d
evices. There was always the possibility someone was intercepting their radio transmissions.

  “Monkeys are jealous,” replied Calvino, looking over the parking lot. “And they are curious. And on the whole much better companions than someone like Naylor. The girl made the right choice.”

  Jess watched as Naylor came through the door. “I am feeling better already,” Jess whispered into the mic.

  Naylor breathed deeply, waiting for Calvino to catch up. He was smiling. The recovery had been rapid. He had already shaken off the meeting with Kitti and his nutty and dangerous brothers and sisters. For a moment he had stopped wishing that he had never met Dr. Nat and invested in a hotel venture in Thailand. Fon had reminded him of why he had come in the first place—to buy hongs and to hunt yings.

  They rode the elevator to the second floor. As the door opened, Calvino dialed the country code and LA city code and Gabe’s home number. All he had to do was press the ‘yes’ button and the call would connect. As they walked out of the elevator, a farang in a cowboy hat, late twenties, muscle shirt and no gut, swung at Naylor, landing the punch smack on the side of his jaw, sending him reeling against the wall. Naylor hit the wall, looking like a stunned prize-fighter. Calvino moved in front of Naylor, waiting for the farang to come in. He didn’t have to wait long. Jess reacted with a kicking-box maneuver, coming off the floor, his right leg hitting the cowboy as he moved in to hit Naylor again. The farang absorbed the blow, which caught him in the chest. He threw a series of punches at Jess, who easily ducked away from the blows, waiting for the precise moment when the farang was off balance, and then Jess nailed him three, four times on the neck and head with his fists, and, spinning him around, brought his foot up hard under the farang’s jaw. The sound of the jaw cracking echoed off the walls and windows of the lobby near the elevator. The farang hit the marble floor and he wasn’t moving. Unconscious.