Thai Horse

by William Diehl

  In a corner near the bar, a Wurlitzer juke box in mint condition was murmuring the Beach Boys’ ‘Surfin’.’ On the opposite side of the room and raised two steps above floor level was a smaller room shielded by a curtain of twinkling glass beads. Several people were playing cards at one of two tables in the alcove while at the other end two men were shooting pool on a table covered with red felt. At the end of this secluded room, in an overstuffed chair flanked by a floor lamp with a fringed shade, sat a portly gentleman in a white suit, his hair a wisp of white, his double chin bulging over a white shirt and black tie. There was a small table in front of him containing a large strongbox and a bottle of red wine. The man was reading. As he reached the end of the page he dipped a finger in a glass of wine he was holding in one hand, licked the wine off the finger, and turned the page with

  A tall, lean man with a white handlebar mustache sat at the end of the bar nearest him chatting quietly with a tall, elegant black man in a black T-shirt covered by a suede vest, blue jeans, cowboy boots and a cowboy hat big enough to take a bath in. A red, yellow and green parrot feather was stuck in its band. The butt of a large pistol peeked from under the tall man’s jacket, and as he spoke he continually cast glances at the portly man in the white suit. The only other person in the main room had long blond hair and sat hunched over the bar.

  A phone rang somewhere in the back room, a muffled anachronism. The bartender Went through a door, was gone for a few seconds and then reappeared. He wiggled a finger toward the tall man, who went behind the bar and, as he entered the rear office, took out a pistol the size of a cannon and handed it to the bartender. He entered the office and closed the door behind him. A few minutes later he returned. His face was stern and angry, the muscles at the corners of his jaw twitching.

  ‘I gotta leave,’ he told the bartender. ‘Tell the Honorable to close up the bank until I get back.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Kilhanney killed himself,’ he said simply and stalked out of the bar. As he stepped outside he left the past and was suddenly enveloped by the night life of the Patpong nightclub section that was in full swing. Music and chatter filled the night. The tall man motioned to a tuk-tuk, one of the three-wheel motor vehicles that seem to dominate the choked traffic of Bangkok. The little Thai driver started up the tiny vehicle and pulled up to the tall man.

  ‘Sam Peng,’ he said quietly as he entered the cramped two-seater. ‘Just off Tri Phet Road.’

  The little two-seater pulled down a deserted alley in Yawaraj, the Chinese section of Bangkok, and slowed to a stop. From the shadows a stooped Chinese scurried from a doorway and got in beside the tall man.

  ‘What happened?’ the Oriental’s voice whispered.

  ‘The way I get it, four nights ago Kilhanney took the overnight train south and drove a bunch of women laborers to the border crossing near Kangar. A dozen of the women were carrying babies. The babies had all been suffocated, and each of the bodies was stuffed with three kilos of China White.’

  The Oriental man hissed softly but said nothing.

  The tall man shrugged. ‘Baby killers,’ he said. ‘But ingenious. Hell, you can buy a child on the streets of Bangkok for fifty dollars. Done every day in the week.’

  ‘How did this happen?’

  ‘Wol Pot.’

  ‘Damn! Damn, why did he keep this from you?’

  ‘I don’t know. He told Max that Wol Pot leaned on him to do the run. He didn’t know about the babies. Max says Padre thought he could make the run and come back and forget it, but the thing with the babies blew his mind. By the time he got to Max’s place he was a raving maniac. This morning he went over to the beach, swam out into the surf, and didn’t come back. His body washed up an hour ago.’

  The two men sat without speaking for a block or two. Finally the Chinese spoke.

  ‘I wonder how much Wol Pot has told them?’

  ‘I’d say as little as possible. What the hell, we’re his ace in the hole.’

  ‘The little weasel should have been killed a long time ago.’

  ‘Well, you know what I say,’ said the tall man. ‘Better late than never. Maybe we can set it up so they’ll take out Wol Pot for us.’

  ‘How do you propose to do that?’

  ‘Thai Horse,’ said the tall man.

  AMERICA

  THE PRESENT

  BIRD

  In Interpol’s highly classified files known as the Holy Ghost Entry and available only to those with first- and second-level clearance, the flier — he, she or them — was known simply by the code name Bird. The reports were deeply classified because none of the authorities in Europe or America wanted the press to get wind of the moniker. In particular, they didn’t want Bird — or the press — to know they had linked the Paris and Chicago jobs.

  The Bird knew it anyway. He was flying at that very moment, seven feet above the floor of the French Impressionists room of the International Salon of Art.

  Outside on Sixty-fourth Street life went on. Monday night: wives or husbands hurried home to their husbands or wives — from work, from their lovers, from a movie matinee, a business meeting or a quick drink on the way home.

  The custodian of the Salon had left early, so the night watchman had cheated a little and locked up at five to six. In the last hour there had been only one customer, a strange fellow with a thick red beard, who was huddled in a bright yellow slicker. Apparently he had left the museum unnoticed. At least, that’s what the watchman thought.

  But the Bird had not left. He had hidden himself in a hallway broom closet and waited while the watchman followed his usual procedure: he had locked up, turned on the alarms and electric eyes, punched out the digital combination that controlled the floor sensors, checked the eight screens that monitored each of the museum’s rooms. Then he sat down to watch Dan Rather and eat one of the two sandwiches his wife always prepared for him. Tonight it was his favorite, chicken salad wi.th a slice of pineapple dressed with hot mustard. He could get lost in chicken salad, pineapple and hot mustard.

  The Bird waited until the watchman was just that, totally engrossed in his sandwich and the CBS News. He left the closet, walked ten feet down the hall to the small room containing the electric terminal boxes, and jumped the trigger switches for the window alarms and electric eyes. He ignored the floor sensor. It was too complex to bother with, and besides, it wouldn’t be a problem. He never went near the floor.

  The Bird’s pulse raced as he made his way up to the roof. He loved the challenge. Working the air, he called it, and the tougher the job, the faster his pulse raced. The score didn’t matter nearly as much as doing it. He had stashed his kit on the roof two days earlier, presenting his forged fire inspector credentials to the day security man and then casually checking out the whole building without being disturbed. He had hidden his operating kit — a large black nylon bag filled with what he called ‘the necessities’ — inside the air-conditioning vent. This one was a cakewalk, almost too easy. Security was not that tough and the watchman would never suspect that the museum would be hit so soon after closing.

  He pulled off the beard and slicker and stuffed them in the bag, blackened his face, then picked the lock on the skylight over the French Impressionists room. Attaching a large, aluminium vise to the sill, he threaded a thousand- pound-test nylon rope through the rings in the vise and the rings in his thick harness, and rappelled down.

  Now he was flying seven feet above the floor, close to the south wall so the TV monitor could not see him, his lifeline attached to his waist. Using his head as a fulcrum, spinning around, sometimes hanging head down, sometimes feet down, the Bird was a living Peter Pan surrounded by Monets and Manets, Cassatts and Signacs, Gauguins, Van Goghs, Sisleys, Cezannes and Renoirs.

  51

  Beautiful, thought the Bird. Who else works in such an atmosphere of creative splendor?

  But as he swung in a leisurely arc, enjoying the wondrous works that covered the walls, his eyes suddenly fe
ll on a bench in the center of the room. On the bench lay a cat.

  The Bird froze. The ions in the air froze. Everything froze but the cat, who slept peacefully.

  If that cat jumps, the Bird thought, the floor sensors will knock the old watchman into the middle of Canarsie. He swung on the end of his line for several seconds watching the cat, a big gray-striped feline. He had to move slowly and quietly and hope he did not wake it up.

  The Bird slowly moved his head back and forth, swinging himself until he could almost touch the wall. He reached into his kit, took out two pressure clamps, then swung against the wall and quietly fixed the two suction cups to it, using them to stabilize himself.

  He used a small pressure wrench to pry open each of the frames, lifted a Monet, a Cezanne and a Renoir and slid them out, carefully covered each with a sheet of tissue, rolled them tightly, and put them in the tube slung over his shoulder, which he strapped tightly to his back so it would not swing free. He released the suction cups and swung back in the air, free of the wall, his head hanging down toward the floor.

  The cat rolled over on its back, stretched, opened its eyes and stared up at the biggest bird it had ever seen in its life.

  The Bird stared back.

  The cat’s eyes widened. It jumped to its feet. Its back arced and it spat up at him.

  Don’t jump, thought the Bird, please, don’t jump.

  The cat jumped on the floor.

  The floor sensors set off an alarm beside the monitor screen in the office. The watchman, startled by the buzzing noise, stared at the monitor, but the cat was standing directly under it and the watchman could not see it on the screen. The room appeared empty.

  ‘Damn,’ the old man muttered under his breath.

  Loosening his revolver in the holster, he walked down the hail and stood for a moment outside the open archway leading into the large room, then took out his gun and, holding it in both hands, jumped into the room TV style. The cat streaked past him and ran down the hall.

  ‘Damn you,’ the watchman yelled.

  The watchman holstered his weapon, took a few steps into the room and stood for a moment with his hands on his hips.

  The Bird dangled directly over his head, a foot away.

  ‘You little son of a bitch, gonna give me a heart attack,’ the watchman said aloud. ‘That’s the second time this week you scared the piss outa me.’

  The Bird held his breath. If the watchman looked up, they would literally be eye to eye. But he didn’t. He gave the room a cursory once-over and went back down the hail, calling, ‘Kitty, kitty.’

  The Bird sighed with relief. He was well named. He hated cats.

  SLOAN

  It was four-twenty-eight when Stenhauser left the twenty- eighth-floor offices of Everest Insurance on East Fifty- seventh Street, took the elevator to the second floor, walked down one flight and left by the west-side fire door.

  Sloan was in a coffee shop on Fifty-seventh between Second and Third avenues. It was a perfect location for him. Through its glass window, he could see three sides of the Everest building. The fourth, the back side, led to a blind alley that emptied on Third Avenue. No matter what route Stenhauser took, Sloan could spot him. Sloan took out his small black book and made a notation, as he had been doing for the last three days. Then he followed the little man.

  Stenhauser’s name had been filed discreetly in Sloan’s computer for two years. Until three days ago he had no idea what Fred Stenhauser looked like or anything else about him other than his profession. It wasn’t necessary before now. The names in Sloan’s file were like savings accounts, and Sloan was big on savings accounts, on keeping something for a rainy day. He was also a neurotically patient man. Sloan was never in a rush, he could wait forever. Or at least until he was ready. Now he was ready to cash in one of the accounts, the one with Fred Stenhauser’s name on it.

  Stenhauser was an easy mark. He was as precise as Sloan was patient. He always left his office a little before four-thirty. He always stopped for a single martini at Bill’s Safari Bar on Fifty-sixth Street. He was always home by six and by six-ten was back on the street with his yappy little dog.

  Life, to Stenhauser, was a ritual. He wore double- breasted glen plaid suits, with a sweater under the jacket, and a paisley tie. Every day. He bad his hair trimmed every Tuesday morning at eight-thirty at the St. Regis Barber Shop, ate the same breakfast at the same coffee shop on Fifty-seventh Street every morning, always read the paper, the Wall Street Journal, from the back forward, always went to Cape Cod on his vacation. Everything Stenhauser did he always did.

  Even Stenhauser’s one little eccentricity was predictable, for while he followed this ritual day in and day out, he rarely left his office by the same door or took the same route to Bill’s or took the same route from Bill’s to his brownstone on Seventy-fourth Street. It was as if he were playing a game, as if someone were constantly following him and his gambit was to evade them. Sloan loved the irony of it. Now someone was following Stenhauser and he didn’t even know it.

  On this day, Stenhauser, a short, slender man in his mid-thirties with heavy-lidded eyes like a frog’s, went east to Second Avenue, south to Fifty-sixth Street, then turned right and walked two blocks to Bill’s Safari Bar. He walked briskly, always looking at the ground in front of him, as if he were afraid he would step on something. Sloan had decided to brace him in Bill’s. The bar was never too crowded, which was the main reason Stenhauser took his evening-cap there. And while the decor was a little heavy on ferns and stuffed animal heads, it was small and quiet, and the bartender made a perfect martini.

  When Stenhauser turned off Second Avenue onto Fifty-sixth, Sloan crossed the street and picked up his pace. He passed Stenhauser, waited until the short man neared Bill’s, and entered it a few seconds ahead of him, killing time until Stenhauser had hung up his coat and found a place at the bar. Sloan sat down next to him. Stenhauser ignored him, reading a copy of Art World while the bartender concocted a perfect martini. He put it in front of Stenhauser, then turned to Sloan. ‘What’ll it be?’

  ‘A light draft,’ Sloan said. He looked over at Stenhauser. ‘You prefer Bombay gin over Beefeater’s, I see,’ he said for starters.

  Stenhauser, staring at him from under his heavy lids, appeared somewhat annoyed. ‘It’s the bartender’s option,’ he said in a nasal voice that was almost a whine. ‘Frankly, I doubt that I could tell the difference between the two.’

  ‘But you do prefer a rather wet martini.’

  ‘Let’s just say I don’t like straight gin,’ Stenhauser said absently while leafing through his magazine.

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing that you’re interested in art,’ Sloan persisted.

  Stenhauser tapped the magazine cover with a nervous finger.

  ‘Business and pleasure,’ he said curtly.

  ‘No kidding,’ Sloan said. ‘What’s your line?’

  ‘My line, if you want to call it that, is insurance.’

  ‘Life insurance, corporate —‘

  ‘Actually I’m a claims adjuster,’ Stenhauser said, turning his attention back to the magazine

  ‘No kidding,’ Sloan said enthusiastically. ‘How does that tie in with the art world?’

  The little man placed the magazine back on the bar and sighed. ‘I’m a specialist,’ he said. ‘I specialize in recovering stolen art works.’

  ‘Hey, that sounds interesting. And profitable, right?’ He winked at Stenhauser.

  ‘Well, I’m not ready to retire yet, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Sloan said, taking a sip of beer and not looking at him.

  Stenhauser’s eyes narrowed. The man was beginning to annoy him. It was almost as if he were prying. Stenhauser studied him. His face was weathered and leathery, he had a small scar under his right eye, his body was square, like a box, and muscular. His charcoal-black hair was clipped in a severe crew cut, and his sport coat seemed almost too tight. An outdoor man, Stenhauser figured. A hu
nter rather than a fisherman. He had the burly look of a hunter; fishermen were more aesthetic. Probably did weight- lifting every day. A big sport fan and a beer drinker. Not too bright, thought Stenhauser.

  ‘And what’s your business, Mr. uh . . .‘ Stenhauser began.

  ‘Sloan. Harry Sloan. I’m a snoop.’

  ‘A detective?’

  ‘No, just a snoop,’ Sloan said, drawing him in, slowly weaving a shimmery web for his fly.

  Stenhauser chuckled. ‘That’s good. That’s very funny,’ he said. ‘That’s what gossip magazines are all about, right? I suppose we’re all a bit nosy.’

  Sloan leaned over toward Stenhauser and said, very confidentially, ‘Yeah, but nothing like I am. I stop’ — he held two fingers a quarter of an inch apart — ‘about that far short of voyeurism.’

  Stenhauser looked surprised. ‘Well most people wouldn’t admit it,’ he said, taking another sip of his martini.

  ‘I like to study people,’ said Sloan. ‘I feel I’m a very good judge of character.’

  ‘Is that right.’

  ‘Take you, for instance. I’ll bet you’re a very precise man.’

  ‘Precise, huh.’ Stenhauser thought about that for a few moments. ‘I suppose that’s true. It pays to be precise in my business.’

  ‘I’m sure it does. Can’t afford a slipup.’ Sloan leaned closer to him. ‘Do you deal with the criminal element?’ he asked, adding more sheen to the well,.

  ‘That’s what I do,’ the little man said proudly. ‘I realise I don’t look very imposing, but I speak their language. I can be very tough when need be.’

  ‘I can tell,’ Sloan said.

  ‘You can, huh?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll bet you’re one helluva negotiator.’ It was Sloan’s oldest trick, working the mark’s vanity. It never failed.

  Stenhauser somewhat arrogantly wiggled his head back and forth a couple of times but did not comment. He’s hooked, Sloan thought.

  ‘I do a little writing,’ Sloan said. ‘I’d like to talk about some of your cases, the tough ones. 1kight be something in it for me.’