Cold Hit

by Christopher G. Moore

  There was a slamming of doors, shuffling of feet and officials waiting to take them through Customs and Immigration. Passing through the various desks, not one of the officials showed any emotion. What they understood with absolute clarity was that some top brass had come to the airport. They knew that from a glance at Colonel Virat and the DEA agents. Bigwigs putting people through Customs was something they had witnessed before. The rest was none of their fucking business. Panya and his three sons were whisked through first without anyone asking them a single question. Jess waited behind for ten minutes—sufficient to give enough separation so as not to necessarily connect him with Panya—then the DEA agents walked him through. If there had been any representatives of the gangster contingent among those working the airport counters, and if they had been able to put together what was happening, they were powerless to do anything. There was no percentage in backing a horse that clearly had fallen. That race had been run. The winners were on their way to the States. The losers on their way to jail or exile. No allegiances survived once the horse stumbled, and before it hit the ground, the punters would be denying they had ever had a ticket on the loser. The odd official winced, or maybe it was only a normal pissed-off glance officials develop over years on the job, the way the neck muscles stiffened, the fixing of a lip, pressed down hard as Panya’s passport was presented, and they were told that the boys didn’t have passports but they had clearance. They didn’t need passports. Okay. A few minutes later Jess slipped through by flashing a Thai police ID Pratt had given him.

  The other DEA agent, a black guy from Detroit named Andrew, looked like a tunnel of ice ran like an expressway through his eyeholes. He was someone who could show his teeth without it looking like he was smiling; and when he did smile, he had a right incisor that when it caught the light shone a pure solid gold. In the parking lot, Andrew had let Dean do all the talking. Calvino figured she out-ranked him. More than rank, Andrew was the ferret who Dean sent down the hole to chew off the face of whoever was hiding below decks. He had to be six four with a thick neck that seemed as wide as his shoulders. Andrew was huge and had a serious don’t-even-think-about-fucking-with-me attitude. When TJ saw Andrew about one inch away from his face, sniffing the dog shit and wrinkling up his nose, TJ passed out again.

  Andrew walked ahead of everyone else; he was like a guard on an American football team who had pulled, clearing bodies out of the path on a quarterback sweep. Just behind him were Pruet, Lek and Chaiwat; the three brothers stepped up like the three monkeys who spoke, heard and saw no evil. Andrew looked at the official with a dead-eye look, and said, “They are cleared at LAX.” He flashed his DEA badge. Colonel Virat translated what Andrew had said, not that it needed any translation. A rule of thumb as wide as a kneecap was always avoid confrontation with those who were in a superior position of power. Whatever they wanted they got; they cannot ever be stopped from attaining their goal, and standing in their way was like trying to stand in front of tanks. Sooner or later that guy at Tiananmen Square moved out of the way and the tanks rolled on. Above all, the code was: be practical, don’t draw attention, and don’t talk too much. No one ever got transferred to an inactive post for following the unwritten code.

  The two DEA agents walked Jess to the departure gate where Panya, his boys, and Colonel Virat and two of his men were waiting. Andrew pointed to chairs and nodded towards Panya and the three sons. He had clearly taken control of the situation and was giving orders. Jess sat off to the side between Calvino and Pratt. Panya and his three sons sat just in front in total silence except for this hiccup the old man would let out, or it could have been a sob. And right next to the Panya boys were Dean and Andrew. The boys glanced mainly at Andrew, who sat with his arms folded, showing his gold tooth, twisting his neck which made a cracking noise. This was the start of their new life. American law enforcement personnel with that dead-eye stare, part contempt, part hate, and part suspicion. As if to say, Hey, motherfucker, we know you’re dirty. That you have committed crimes. And you are gonna pay and pay and get a new asshole along the way.

  Most criminals like most whores come with a long rap sheet of priors. Later Colonel Virat told Colonel Pratt who told private eye Vincent Calvino that the DEA agents had more than babysitting duty; they had been assigned another mission—once the plane landed at LAX, Kowit would be waiting and he would claim the coffin. They wanted to be the first to find out how he did his business. Watch who he did his business with. The DEA had decided this was a Federal operation. Their baby. Dean and Andrew had patience and plans—for promotions, decorations, and public recognition—dreams of making this a high-profile bust that would justify the DEA Southeast Asia budget for the next two years. The main idea was for Kowit to hang himself with the piece of rope they had given him. Panya would turn up once Kowit had claimed the coffin and identify Kowit. Calvino imagined Kowit to be a small, slender man, looking up at Andrew; Kowit would drop like a puppet with the string cut. He would see the rope, then the drop, and then they would find out the story. Jess would be given a footnote reference in the DEA final report. Colonel Virat and his special forces unit—after all they had been trained by the DEA—would get just enough credit to make them heroes in Thailand and little enough to cast them in the also-starring role in the States. Pratt would not be mentioned. Naylor, Noi, Calvino—such people were like the best boy, the key grip, the foley artists; only insiders really knew what these people did, why they were needed in the movie, and besides, even in a movie, no one stuck around long enough except the cleaning crew to read that deep into the crawl as it scrolled down to the copyright notice.

  FOR Panya and his three sons, there had been no time to kiss a lover, to say goodbye to a friend, or to pack a case. Whatever they had, they had on them; but what they had most of all were their lives. They squirmed in their seats, looking out the tiny airplane windows at the tarmac.

  The old man unbuckled his seat belt and started to get up.

  “I can’t leave everything. I won’t. I am going home,” said Panya.

  Colonel Virat put his hand on Panya’s shoulder and pushed him back into the seat.

  “You can’t force me to stay on this plane,” said Panya.

  Dean was already in the aisle, efficient, smart, deadly. She stood just behind Colonel Virat. She had the look of someone who knew how to put the boots in, heels first, hard and fast, stomping and kicking. A shit-kicking bitch. And there was that huge Andrew guy right behind her, his eyes bulging out, making his hands into fists like a professional wrestler.

  “You won’t live twenty-four hours, if you go back to your house,” said Dean, in a drone of a DEA instruction video kind of voice. “The drug operators are the big boys. They will kill you.”

  Andrew leaned in close to Panya and said in a soft voice. “These men will cut you and your sons into pieces to fit the size of a rat’s mouth. Is that what you want? Because if it is, then you and your boys get up and move your ass back to Bangkok and good luck to you.”

  No good cop/bad cop. These were both playing the same in-your-face motherfucker role.

  Panya looked at Dean, then at Andrew. Whatever resolve he had vanished. Dean leaned forward and buckled his seat belt. He got the message—good luck in the next life because if you get off this plane then you are totally fucked. You can’t ever go back.

  Panya sucked his teeth in a look of total defeat, the look of a generation of Chinese who had fled oppression with nothing but their lives, only to have their new life torn apart, their success stripped away, forced to flee once again. He was still wearing that terrible golf shirt and black undertaker’s tie and it seemed strange to see tears fill the undertaker’s eyes. Panya and his three boys stayed bolted to their seats on the plane. The main hatch was closed, and from the departure lounge Colonel Virat, Colonel Pratt, and Calvino watched the plane back away from the gate and taxi to the runway. The physical evidence was stored in the cargo hatch; oral evidence sat in first class. This was starting to look li
ke a good international drug bust case in the making. Hands across the seas in unity; the kind of bullshit that politicians use to get themselves elected on.

  AFTER they returned to the VIP parking lot, Colonel Virat’s men and a doctor were talking to TJ, who was wide awake, groaning, saying he was in great pain and screaming for a doctor, and then choking, spitting and demanding to see a lawyer. Calvino stood looking inside the back of the van.

  “I hope they salvage the motherfucker,” said Naylor. He was sitting up front and talking through the panel between the front cab and the back. This made him feel safe. Not even Calvino could touch him that far away.

  “Salvage him,” Naylor said again.

  This was Cause lingo from someone in the Philippines who had posted to his buddies that murdering someone who had injured you or caused your manhood offense was to “salvage” the offender. Revenge talk.

  “I don’t think you know what the fuck you are talking about, Wes,” said Calvino. “No one is going to hurt TJ. He is a valuable asset. And if you weren’t such a dickhead you would understand that and not try to be cool using a word when you have no idea what it means.”

  After TJ had regained consciousness, he blinked his eyes, looked around and the light went on in his head; he was being held in custody in an underground airport parking lot. He had started screaming.

  “Where is that big black guy?” His head jerked from side to side. He slurred his words.

  “On his way to LA,” said Colonel Virat.

  “Are you sure?”

  TJ blinked a couple of more times. “Very sure,” said Colonel Virat. “Time for you to rest.”

  The doctor opened his bag, removed a needle and much to TJ’s horror stuck it into his arm. The ultimate American cry of anguish died in his throat as the injection brought him to the edge of unconsciousness. He mouthed the words, “Get me a doctor; get me a lawyer.” Neither was forthcoming. Then he made no more sound. No more protest or demands. He was out, his mind closed down, left with the sepia image of the monk who had cleaned the dog shit off his face. Otherwise his mind was empty. In the land of smiles there were no Miranda warnings, no right to a lawyer. No right to remain silent if he knew what was good for him.

  TJ opened his eyes, blinked a couple of times, and looked around. It took him about a minute before he realized that he was in a prison cell. His bloodied Chicago Bull’s T-shirt was caked with dog shit. He sat up shivering and hungry. He looked out the window. It was dark outside and he was alone in the cell; except for a large rat and about a thousand cockroaches. He lay back down, his arm over his eyes and cried. He lay on a bamboo mat, knocking the cockroaches back, trying to think how to get out of the cell. TJ decided the best plan would be to call their bluff; what did the police really have? The pickup wasn’t in his name. He hadn’t actually been caught in possession of the drugs. He would tell them he had no fucking idea that heroin had been hidden in Daniel’s coffin. He had gone to a fucking funeral service. What goddamn right did they have to throw him in a prison cell? Yeah, that worked for TJ.

  The next morning Pao, his girlfriend, was allowed to visit him. She brought him cigarettes and told him to show the warders a little respect. And the police. He wanted to hit her. And what was worse was that he could see that she knew he wanted to belt her and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do. She smiled at him. She was playing with him. Pao could say whatever she wanted and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. So she started about how the police wouldn’t have him in prison unless he had done something wrong. She believed that he was guilty and she was the only person in the entire city he could trust. In her face, TJ could see that she had already given him up; he saw exactly how lost he was by the way she stared at him, as if he were dead. He tried to explain to her that the cops were holding him on an assault charge.

  “I got in a fight with that guy who gave you that birthday card. It’s no big deal,” he said.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  He found himself screaming that he had nothing to do with any drugs. Besides, the main witnesses were in Los Angeles. They would not be coming back to Bangkok to testify at his trial. Sure, the Panya’s sons would blame him for the drugs in the coffin, and had they pointed the finger at him in person, in a Thai courtroom, he knew who the judge would believe. But they weren’t going to be in the courtroom. They had no evidence.

  “They can go fuck themselves,” TJ shouted.

  Taking a mirror out of her handbag, Pao, who was dressed like a real babe on the make, turned it so that he could see his face. From the pain every time his face moved he knew that it was going to be bad. But he had no idea what the real damage had been inflicted by that asshole Thai with the .9mm. Must have been a cop, he thought. TJ saw that blood had leaked into his right eye, the eye looked loose in the socket, like it might fucking fall out. His nose and face bloated, turning shades of black and blue; an infection had set in—it must have been the dog shit—and unless he received medical attention, he was going to have doctors cutting parts of his face off and throwing them into the hospital garbage for burning.

  She might have been a whore but she knew the outcome, the end game, and that certainty of her knowledge rattled him. Whatever scheme, plan, hope he had been harboring had vanished as he put down the mirror.

  “My brother go to jail. My uncle go to jail. My father was in jail three times,” she said. “Now my farang boyfriend go to jail.”

  TJ spurted, his lips forming a large oval shaped ‘O’ like he was trying to blow bubbles, only he had no bubbles to blow; he blubbered that he loved Pao and he was going to fight, goddamit. Tears and snot splashing off his broken upper lip and onto the table. Somehow from the expression on Pao’s face it seemed she probably had seen this performance from her brother, uncle, and father. It didn’t move her.

  After a minute or so, TJ calmed down a little. “They can’t keep me here,” he whined.

  TJ was slowly coming apart. He had been tough enough to cuff her around when he wanted, and the guards would give him the same treatment. There was justice after all, she thought.

  “I think you are in very big trouble, TJ. And they can keep you here for as long as they want.” She hit the word “long” and stretched out the sound.

  “But I didn’t do anything.” He blinked at her, his head cocked to the side as if maybe some more of the dog shit was about to purge.

  “Don’t worry, TJ. They will find something.” Pao was proving to be a real comfort in his moment of crisis.

  TJ remembered that he had either heard or read these words—They will find something—before, and now Pao was saying them, making him feel even more desperate. It was the matter-of-fact way she said those words that was disturbing, as if she had total faith in the system to frame his ass so he would spend years and years in some hell hole prison. Someone else had said them, but who? TJ was already losing his ability to concentrate, his ability to think. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t done anything? Well, anything they could pin on him. Logic, relevance, causation—since when did any such concepts ever explain why one guy ended up going to jail and another walked free? Caught up in the system like the pig in the mouth of a python, it would take a very long time for the Thai justice system to digest TJ and spit out his bones.

  She leaned forward on her elbows and smiled at him, “Who do you think the court’s going to believe? The farang or the Thai?”

  A guard tapped TJ on the shoulder and he jumped like someone had strung electrical wires around his balls and hit the switch. His eyes bulged, and his mouth formed that terrible ‘O’ again. He hung his head and pleaded. “Please, five more minutes. Pleasssse.”

  The guard cuffed him on the ear. This made Pao laugh. “Go on, TJ. He’s just playing with you. He didn’t really hit you. You better go now. Bye.”

  Later that afternoon, TJ cut the best deal he could with the Thai cops. They had started to play the good cop/bad cop routine and he told them it wasn’t necessary;
they were all bad guys, and he wanted to make a deal. They promised him seven years if he helped them, and life if he didn’t. It was that simple; if he wanted to avoid life inside a Thai prison, then it was up to him. TJ caved in, signed a confession as to his involvement, providing details of his relationship with Daniel Ramsey and others inside the heroin smuggling operation. Fortunately for TJ, Ramsey was dead, so he could lay off all the blame onto Ramsey and claim he had only done the heavy lifting along with Panya’s sons who, by the way, were up to their necks in the business. Firewalls had been built to insulate TJ from the higher levels of the smuggling operation. No, he didn’t fucking know who made the deal in Burma. No, he had no fucking idea who brought the shit from the border area to Bangkok. No, he never saw anyone packing the shit in the coffins. That was Daniel’s fucking job, and he didn’t trust anyone else except Lek to touch the product. He, however, had a rich ore of details about getting the bodies, burning them, filling ashes into urns, driving coffins to the airport. TJ was more like an ordinary foot soldier who knew nothing of the larger war he was fighting, who had walked the trails assigned to him, and after he was ambushed and captured all he could do was babble about burning civilians and houses and so forth, making it clear to everyone who heard him that outside his small free-fire zone, TJ was as ignorant as any bar ying in a geography quiz. He really didn’t know anyone other than Daniel, Chaiwat, Lek, and Pruet. Sure he had seen Panya but he didn’t really know the undertaker. The DEA tried its hand on TJ, thinking the Thais had given in too soon. But the DEA found nothing more after a two-day interrogation. The DEA agents reported to Dean that in their view the crime scene (meaning the wat) had been contaminated by civilians (meaning Calvino and Naylor) who had no business being near the operation.

  “What the fuck are these civilians doing here?” Andrew had asked at the wat. He was looking at Calvino and Naylor as if they were a couple of white guys on 125th Street in Harlem at two in the morning. “Take them in.” Andrew had a personality rough enough to file down an elephant’s toenails.