Thai Horse

by William Diehl

  ‘I’m treasurer and chief logistician of this little club,’ the Honorable said to Hatcher. ‘I’ll take one purple for the plane ticket and put your change in the ledger.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Hatcher said, handing him the purple note.

  Riker rubbed his hands together eagerly and said, ‘Not a bad little pot. Five thousand bahts.’

  ‘Give Sweets two more for the bet and you’re officially in,’ Earp said. ‘And be at the airport by four-forty- five or you may not get a seat. This is one game you don’t want to miss.’

  And a strange game it was, thought Earp. We’re watching him while he watches us. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that the Honorable was right — they had to isolate Hatcher and find out what his game really was. And now Max had provided the perfect solution to the problem. For if Hatcher was as dangerous as Earp suspected, what better way for him to die than chasing a killer tiger.

  A TOUGH GAME

  Hatcher arrived at the small boxing arena a little after seven. It was mid-city at the rear of one of the stunning Wat Suthat. Although the main event did not start until ten, Sy was a preliminary fighter and was scheduled to fight at about eight o’clock.

  This was not a big-time Muay Thai match but was like a tank-town fight in the United States, a testing place for young Thai fighters looking for a place on the big-time cards held four times a week at the Lumpini or Rajadamnern stadiums.

  Noise, heat and confusion greeted Hatcher as he entered the small arena, which was surrounded by betting windows and Thai bookmakers. The betting was frantic. It was still daylight and it was hot, and the Thais, who gambled with great passion, were a noisy and frenetic mob, sweating and screaming and waving their bahts overhead looking for a bet.

  Added to the general confusion was the music that accompanied the fights, a traditional but cacophonous blend of woodwinds, banjo like stringed instruments, a semicircle of tuned gongs, and several different kinds of drums. The overall effect made a cat fight sound melodious by comparison.

  Since two Thais had won the flyweight championship of the world a few years earlier, both traditional Muay Thai and Western boxing were featured on the card. The fans stood around a large garden at the rear of the arena, like the paddock at a racetrack, watching the boxers warm up and making their choices. The Muay Thais worked almost in slow motion, like ballet dancers, while the American-style fighters jogged about the grass paddock like American fighters warming up. But if the Muays practicing their ballet-like moves seemed somewhat dainty, nothing could have been further from the truth; they were by far the more ferocious battlers. There had been a time in the past when these Thai fighters had bound their hands with hemp on which ground glass had been sprinkled and fought until one of them collapsed. Now they wore lightweight gloves — no glass permitted — and there were five three-minute rounds. The referee could also stop the fight in the event of an injury.

  It was well known in martial-arts circles that a good Thai fighter was a vicious opponent and almost unstoppable.

  Sy was wearing a dark blue jacket with a green and red cobra coiled on its back, its white mouth open and threatening. He took it off and handed it to his trainer, a hard-looking box of a man with a crushed nose and thick eyelids. Beneath the jacket, Sy wore red silk boxing shorts with his name printed across the leg in blue Sanskrit. He was also wearing a cord around his head and his left bicep, traditional trappings for Thai boxers. The band around his head was tan and white with a stiff ponytail that stuck straight out in back with a strip of blue silk dangling from it. The thong tied tightly around his left bicep hid his good luck amulet strung to it. His feet were bare.

  Sy moved with incredible grace, his eyes almost hypnotically fixed, standing on one foot, then on the other, spinning slowly as the music played at twice the normal tempo in the background. Then suddenly as he spun around he lashed out with several ferocious kicks, slashing his arms in a series of one- two punches, then spinning around again and ending in a slow-motion pirouette.

  Hatcher was impressed. He went back to the betting area, weaving his way through the yelling, gesturing crowd, keeping an eye out for Wol Pot, although he realized the odds of spotting him in such a crowd were far greater than the odds against Sy winning his match. Hatcher bet a purple on his driver, the underdog in his fight, taking the long end of a five—to-two bet. If the little Thai won, Hatcher stood to gain 750 bahts, about thirty-seven dollars, which he planned to give to Sy as a bonus.

  For the first few bouts, Hatcher cruised the crowd around the betting windows and bookies and checked out the screaming gallery during the fights, paying little attention to the action in the ring.

  No Wol Pot.

  At six-thirty, Sy was ushered into the outdoor ring. On the edge of the city, lightning streaked across the sunset sky accompanied by the distant rumble of thunder, but nobody paid any attention to the threatening storm.

  The referee, as in Western boxing, introduced Sy and his opponent, a larger and huskier fighter named Ta Tan.

  No biting, wrestling, judo, spitting, butting or kicking the opponent when he is down, the referee warned in Thai, explaining that there would be five three minute rounds and the match would be stopped in the event one of the fighters was injured. There was a loud chorus of boos and catcalls at the latter announcement.

  The ritual of the fight began. The music stopped and the crowd became silent. Sy lowered his head and folded his hands in the traditional wai, thanking his trainer and praying to Buddha, telling his God that he believed he had the ‘right’ spirit to win his battle. Gautama Buddha spoke of four noble truths: first, existence is suffering; second, suffering is caused by desire; third, eliminate desire and you eliminate suffering; and finally, the eight ‘right’ rules by which one eliminates suffering — right understanding, right thought, right speech, right bodily conduct, right livelihood, right effort, right attentiveness and right concentration. Sy repeated these to Buddha, promising to abide by the rules and live the right’ life.

  After the prayers the music began slowly, providing background for the two fighters, who circled each other in the ring, showing their moves. Sy seemed a more classic fighter than Tan, whose style was less poetic. He seemed more of a brawler, less quick than his smaller opponent.

  The first round passed without incident, a dizzying exchange of kicks and punches, most of which missed their mark as the two fighters parried and studied each other’s style.

  In the second round, Tan moved from his corner fast and struck first, jogging forward on one leg while with the other thrusting at Sy with short, stabbing kicks. Sy easily avoided the first moves, dancing away from him, spinning around and parrying Tan’s kicks with his own feet. Then Tan did a change-up, switching legs quickly, parrying and leaning sideways and throwing a hard kick at Sy’s groin. It connected but it was high. The little Thai grunted, doubled up and backed away, but Tan pursued him, punching now with lefts and rights, which Sy dodged by moving his head away from the blows until Tan landed a hard punch on the temple.

  Sy spun around and lashed out with his right foot, slashing it into Tan’s side. The larger fighter took the blow with ease, charged Sy and threw a series of lefts and rights, his gloves smacking loudly as they caught Sy on the cheeks and jaws. The crowd, sensing a kill, was on its feet, screaming for a knockout

  Tan, the brawler, although slower and more clumsy than Sy, had the advantage of size and weight. He bulled in, kicking and punching while the little Thai dodged and danced, trying to avoid the blows. He could not avoid all of them. They rained down on his head, and the kicks found their mark on stomach and thigh. Sy twisted one way and then the other while Tan seemed to have complete control of the match. The bell saved Sy from further damage.

  He sat in his corner, casting an occasional glance at Hatcher and smiling. There was a trickle of blood at the corner of his nose. Sweat poured in rivers down his hard, lean body.

  Sy was tougher than the crowd thought. The third round began much
the same way as the second with Tan charging out, kicking and punching and then going for the change-up, switching feet and lashing out much as a Western fighter might change his lead from right to left. But Sy had psyched out his opponent’s style, and he, too, did a fast change-up. Now he suddenly started showing his stuff. He ducked inside Tan’s combinations and lashed out with a brutal uppercut that grazed Tan’s jaw, throwing him off-balance. Sy jumped back and landed two quick kicks to the stomach, switched feet and caught Tan with two more vicious kicks. Tan staggered back, stunned by the sudden ferocity of the little fighter. Sy took immediate advantage. He came in fast on one foot, then quickly changed feet and landed a sizzling kick on the bridge of Tan’s nose. Blood spurted like juice from a ripe orange. Tan backed away, shaking his head and fell into a protective pose.

  Now it was Sy who became the pursuer. He feinted with two kicks. Suddenly he switched feet again, turning the upper part of his body almost parallel to the ground, and lashed out with a brutal kick to the groin. The larger fighter roared with pain, spun around and dropped to one knee. He took a six count, then, bellowing like a bull, charged Sy from his knee.

  Sy was expecting the charge. He spun around, landed a brutal kick on the side of Tan’s neck, snapped three right-left combinations straight into Tan’s face. The bloody nose got bloodier. Then he kicked again, this time with deadly accuracy. The blow snapped Tan’s head back. He stumbled backward, obviously in trouble. One eye was beginning to swell shut. In desperation he charged the smaller fighter, wrapping his arms around him, pinning them to Sy’s sides and snapping his head against Sy’s forehead.

  The crowd reacted with boos their affections quickly switching to the underdog. The referee moved in quickly and separated the fighters, admonishing Tan, who jogged back away from Sy. The little man’s nose was bleeding from the head blow. He shook it off, waved off the referee, and began to stalk the big man. The bell ended the round.

  Sy’s trainer was babbling in Sy’s ear, and the small fighter was listening and nodding. Hatcher continued to scan the spectators between rounds, hoping he might get a break, although it was an adds-on bet that Wol Pot was not there. This was not, after all, a major bout.

  The fourth round, Tan changed his tactics. He moved more precisely, more like a Western fighter, feeling Sy out, looking for an opening. Sy moved gracefully, dancing around his heavy-footed opponent.

  Suddenly, ferociously, Tan slashed his foot out and landed a direct hit in Sy’s groin_ The little Thai doubled up in pain and fell against the ropes.

  The crowd wasn’t sure whom to scream for.

  Tan stepped in like a tiger and landed three grueling punches to the face. Sy was down on one knee, shaking his head, blood spattering down his chest and mixing with the sweat. He glared up at Tan, and Hatcher saw hate in his eyes. This was the look of a killer. Sy wiped the blood from his face with a glove and shook his head when the referee leaned over and said something to him.

  Now he was back on his feet, bolstered by the cheers of the crowd.

  Tan charged again, using his flat—footed jogging step to get inside Sy’s defense. But then the little Thai did something amazing. He cart-wheeled away, landed on his feet behind Tan, and as the bigger man whirled to face him, took three short jump steps, leaped in the air and snapped two kicks straight into Tan’s face and landed back on both feet.

  While Tan was still staggering under the blows, Sy jogged in again, feinted with a kick, and landed two right-left combinations straight to the point of Tan’s jaw.

  All four punches found their mark. Tan staggered backward and Sy did his change-up step again, jogging in, switching feet, leaping up and lashing out with a double kick before he landed back on both feet again.

  Hatcher was on his feet, screaming with the rest of the crowd.

  Bemused, hurt, dizzied by the ferocity of the attack, Tan threw a desperation roundhouse killer punch. It whistled a quarter-inch from Sy’s jaw.

  Sy smacked him with two fast lefts and slammed a right into the corner of Tan’s jaw just under the ear. Whap!

  Tan spun around, fell face forward into the ropes, bounced off and sat down hard, flat on his ass. He looked around the ring through glassy eyes.

  The referee started counting. On six Tan was on his side. On eight he had both feet under him. On nine he shoved himself to his feet.

  The referee stepped back.

  Sy moved like a shot. He zigzagged across the ring while Tan tried to get him in focus. lie never saw the last two blows.

  The first was a kick to the top of the stomach, which doubled Tan over.

  The second was a blistering right hand that had all of Sy’s 120-plus pounds behind it. Tan’s head snapped like a punching bag. He fell straight to the canvas, bounced on his knees and fell face forward to the never-never land of the deck.

  Angels couldn’t have awakened him.

  Sy was leaping around the ring, holding his hands over his head, a picture of pure joy. His trainer charged into the ring, lifted him up in a bear hug and danced around the square with him.

  The crowd was going crazy, throwing programs, hats, amulets and bottles into the ring,

  Hatcher started to laugh as he applauded. That, he said to himself, was one helluva fight.

  Hatcher waved his winning tickets over his head, yelling, as best he could, to Sy as his trainer hopped around the ring with him. ‘Seven hundred and fifty bahts, pal, seven hundred and fifty bahts!’ At that moment, Sy could not have cared less. Buddha had believed him. He had taken down the big man. And the crowd was cheering for him.

  In his excitement, Hatcher did not notice the old Chinese watching him. The main was tall, but stooped. He had gray wispy hair and a white beard, and was wearing a silk cheongsam. As Hatcher left the arena the old man followed him.

  Hatcher made his way back across the arena floor and went outside to one of the five pay-out windows. He felt the first cool splats of rain. Thunder and lightning were bare seconds apart. Hatcher stood in the line checking out the crowd.

  He noticed the ears first. They were big and stood away from his head. Then the nose. In profile, the man’s nose was long and slender, almost a hawk nose.

  The man, who was two rows away and slightly behind him, was the right size. Five six, 150 pounds. His head was shaven clean, but hell, anybody can shave his head, thought Hatcher. Besides, Hatcher was really only interested in the area from the man’s forehead to his upper lip. He called up his ch’uang tzu-chi, remembering all the details in the photograph of Wol Pot. The nose and ears matched the picture.

  Now for the eyes. That would tell Hatcher for sure, those eyes would do the trick. But the chunky man was wearing sunglasses and in profile Hatcher couldn’t see his eyes that well.

  It began to rain a little harder. More lightning with the thunder right on top of it. The man caught him staring. Hatcher turned away, monitoring him through his peripheral vision. The man stared hard at Hatcher but did not take off the glasses.

  The stooped old Chinese lingered under the rim of the arena, out of the rain, watching Hatcher.

  Hatcher reached the window, and the cashier counted out his winnings. He walked back through the crowds around the window and stood near the back of the arena, watching the man with the big ears as he collected his winnings.

  Hatcher stared straight at him until he was sure the man saw him, then slowly moved back into the shadows of the arena. It began to rain harder. The man was wearing black pants and a white shirt, and he huddled his shoulders against the rain and leaned forward, peering toward Hatcher.

  He took off the glasses and squinted toward the shadows.

  Hatcher got a clean view of the eyes. Cold, lifeless, ruthless eyes. Big ears. The aquiline nose.

  It was Wol Pot.

  A crack of lightning coursed through the sky and struck somewhere nearby, accompanied by a deluge.

  Hatcher stepped back out of the shadows and started through the crowd toward Wol Pot, who wheeled and headed fo
r the exit. Hatcher bolted, threading his way through the crowd that was lining up to bet on the next fight.

  He raced after the Vietnamese traitor, so surprised at actually finding the POW commandant that he failed to notice the stooped old man who was watching him.

  The rain was coming down in driving sheets that acted like a veil. In the rush of the crowd to escape the rain, the old Chinese lost sight of Hatcher; he ran into the rain, frantically searching the crowd. He rushed to the main entrance and stepped out into Thi Phatt Road. Crowds of people rushed by seeking shelter from the rain. Neon signs glowed in the early darkness. Desperately the old Chinese turned and hurried toward the alley that ran beside the arena.

  Hatcher had kept Wol Pot in view, muscling through the scattering crowd as he raced after him. The chunky Vietnamese turned abruptly and darted through the side entrance of the stone wall surrounding the practice grounds and into an alley off Thi Phatt Road. He huddled against the stone wall as the storm gained in intensity and lightning streaked the darkening sky.

  He heard the door open behind him and he started to run.

  Hatcher was two dozen feet behind him as Wol Pot ran toward Thi Phatt Road. He decided to try a bluff.

  ‘Hold it right there, Wol Poi,’ he yelled hoarsely so he could be heard above the din of the rain. ‘I don’t want to have to shoot you.’

  The ruse worked. Wol Pot s1owed down, then stopped, moving back against the wall again, seeking the shelter of the jasmine and orchid blossoms that spilled down the wall. He slowly raised his hands shoulder- high, afraid of what might be behind him. Who was this farang? he wondered, but did not turn around. Wol Pot was a devout coward. If he was to be killed, he did not want to see it coming.

  Hatcher walked up behind him and stuck his middle finger in Wol Pot’s back.

  ‘Bang,’ he whispered in Wol Pot’s ear.

  The stubby man whirled, realized he had been duped and started to bolt, but Hatcher grabbed him by the throat and slammed him back against the stone wall, back among the wet jasmine blossoms. Water poured down Hatcher’s face, and he could feel it seeping into his shoes. Then as suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped. Heat broiled up from the hot pavement and turned to steam around them.