Big Ron’s argument goes like this. Computers make mistakes. Not the people who use them. They make mistakes, of course. Everyone knows that. Human error. But computers make mistakes all on their lonesome. Not very often. Maybe once in a trillion trillion calculations. An electron doesn’t do exactly what it should. There’s a slight fluctuation, a flicker in the atomic structure, and a decimal point is misplaced or a three becomes an eight. Ninety nine point nine nine nine nine per cent of the time the mistake doesn’t matter. It’s a computer in a coffee maker or a washing machine or a cash register in a short-time hotel, and the error goes unnoticed. But sometimes the mistake does matter and when it does an aeroplane crashes into a hillside or New York loses all its electricity or a pacemaker goes into overdrive and a middle-aged man with three kids and a mistress keels over and dies. Computers make mistakes so Big Ron won’t use them.
I think he’s making it up. I think the real reason he hates computers and calculators is because his massive fingers keep on hitting the wrong keys. But whatever the reason, he’s fast on the abacus. Seriously fast. And accurate.
I was in Fatso’s once when Relentless challenged him to a duel. Relentless is a real estate broker for one of the big Thai-Chinese property developers. He had his BlackBerry with him and bet Big Ron a month’s bar bill that he could add up a list of figures faster using new technology than Big Ron could do with the abacus. Big Ron had been drinking for most of the day and the Fatso’s girls tried to talk him out of it, but the bet was on. Relentless had brought two sheets of numbers with him, but Big Ron wasn’t having any of that. He got the business section of the Bangkok Post and turned to the stock market listings. The challenge, he told Relentless, was to add up all the individual prices of the shares that were listed on the Bangkok exchange. There were hundreds. Thousands, maybe. Relentless looked a lot less confident then, but a bet was a bet and the Fatso’s Fools were baying for blood. They sat at the bar with the stock market page in between them.
Bruce had one of those fancy digital watches with a stopwatch so he was appointed timekeeper. He gave them a quick ready, steady, go, and then Big Ron and Relentless were off. Relentless bashed away on his BlackBerry, his head down close to the paper, eyes flicking from the prices to the keypad. Click, click, click. Then stabbing at the ‘+’ key.
Big Ron sat back in his specially-reinforced chair, totally relaxed, his eyes scanning down the columns of figures, barely looking at the abacus as his fingers played across the balls. Tap, tap, tap, tap. The sound of a pool game played at breakneck speed.
Half an hour into it and Relentless was soaked in sweat and he had a manic look in his eyes. He was having trouble focussing and his index finger was hurting so he tried using his middle finger. Every now and again he’d hit the wrong key and curse vehemently. Big Ron just smiled contentedly and carrying on manipulating the ebony balls. Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap tap tap.
Sweat poured off Relentless. It dripped around his chair. It splattered onto the newspaper. It ran into his eyes and Bee passed him a cold towel with a sympathetic smile. She’d bet fifty baht with one of the new waitresses that Big Ron would win. He did, too. By a full five minutes. He sat back with a smile of contentment and waited for Relentless to finish. Eventually Relentless sagged on his stool and ordered a Tiger beer.
Big Ron had written a number on a Fatso’s chit. He compared it to the number on the BlackBerry. It was the same. Big Ron held up the chit and the BlackBerry for all to see. ‘Who’s the daddy?’ he shouted.
‘You are, Big Ron!’ we chorused.
He leaned over and rang the bell, twice. It was the last time that anyone challenged Big Ron over the use of the abacus.
He looked up as I got to the top of the stairs.
‘How’s it going, Bob?’ he said.
‘I’ll know better tomorrow,’ I said. ‘They’re shoving a camera up my bum.’
‘Hope it’s not one of those digital video jobbies with the big screens,’ he said. Then he looked suddenly serious. ‘Hey, everything okay?’
I shrugged as if the possibility of a slow and painful death by colon cancer was nothing to write home about. ‘Had a medical at the Bumrungrad. One of the cancer markers was a bit high so they want to go in for a look-see.’
‘You can live without ninety per cent of your colon,’ said Big Ron.
‘That’s reassuring.’
‘You can lose a kidney, two-thirds of your liver, half your brain and most of your stomach, and still live.’
‘Yeah, but would you want to?’ I said, sitting down at his table.
‘Anything I can do?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘It’ll be fine.’
‘Make sure you get a copy of the video.’
‘What?’
‘They’ll video it for you. We’ll have a movie night at Fatso’s. Popcorn, hot dogs. Journey to the Centre of Bob’s Arse. The Voyage of No Return. I mean, how many times do you get to look up a friend’s back passage?’
‘I’ll pass.’
‘You’re no fun.’
I handed him the print-outs from the tax office. ‘Can you cast your expert eyes over these.’
Big Ron flicked through the sheets of paper.
‘It’s an English school over in Soi 22. Russian guy runs it. There’s something not right about his set-up but I can’t work out what it is.’
‘Mafia?’
‘Ethnic cliche,’ I said. ‘Not all Russians are Mafia, not all Italians are the Mob, not all public schoolboys are gay.’
‘It wasn’t a public school,’ said Big Ron. ‘It was a grammar school. And just because we had to swim naked in the pool once a week doesn’t mean we were gay. It was a bonding thing.’ He waved the print-out at me. ‘What’s your interest?’
‘That missing Mormon. He used to work there but Petrov, the Russian, comes over all forgetful when I mention his name.’
Big Ron went back to the first sheet and read it carefully. He frowned and scratched his chins. Then he raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m in the wrong bloody business,’ he said.
‘How come?’
‘He turned over two hundred and fifty six million baht two years ago. That’s what these figures are for, the year before last. That’s close to five million quid. Staff costs of twelve million, three hundred and sixty thousand, most of that the teachers. Rent and utilities amount to a shade over fifteen million. Total profits of two hundred and forty million, six hundred and forty thousand baht profit. That’s one hell of a return.’
‘And he pays his taxes?’
Big Ron’s sausage-like fingers played across the abacus. Tap, tap, tap. Tap tap tap tap. He studied the ebony balls. ‘To the baht,’ he said. He frowned. ‘There’s something not right about this,’ he said.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘No one pays this much tax unless they have to,’ he said. ‘Every businessman in Thailand has two sets of books, one for the taxman and one showing how much money he’s really making. This guy’s taking the piss. If he paid ten per cent of what he’s paying the taxman would still be grateful.’ He scratched his chins and studied the print-out. ‘Okay, let’s look at this another way,’ he said. His fingers rattled the shiny black balls. ‘Total income two hundred and fifty six million baht.’
Tap, tap, tap.
‘How much do the students pay? Per hour?’
‘A hundred baht.’
Tap, tap, tap. Tap tap.
‘Three hundred and sixty five days a year,’ he said. ‘Forget all the public holidays, royal birthdays and the like.’
Tap, tap, tap. Tap.
How many hours a day is he open for business?’
‘From seven in the morning until nine at night.’
‘Fourteen hours a day.’
I nodded but he wasn’t looking at me.
Tap, tap, tap, tap. His forehead creased into a deep frown. ‘How many classrooms?’
‘Eight,’ I said.
Tap, tap, tap. Tap tap.
Big R
on sat back and grinned. ‘Sixty-two,’ he said.
‘What’s that, the answer to life, the universe and everything?’
‘It’s the number of people in each classroom. Sixty-two. Sixty-two pupils, every hour for fourteen hours a day, for three hundred and sixty five days a year. That’s the only way you get a turnover of two hundred and fifty six million baht.’
‘But there’s only a dozen chairs in each room.’
‘Five to a chair, then? Be like the black hole of Calcutta. Standing room only.’
I shook my head. ‘None of the rooms I saw were close to capacity. I saw fifty pupils at most when I was there.’
‘There you go then.’ Big Ron’s grin widened.
‘What?’ I didn’t get it.
‘It’s not about teaching English. It’s about laundry.’
I still didn’t get it.
CHAPTER 24
The school that Kai attended was in Soi 15, not far from one of the city’s busiest red light areas, Soi Cowboy. Over the years the city’s hookers and transsexuals had spread out from Nana Plaza in Soi 4 and Soi Cowboy in Soi 23 and now most of the lower reaches of Sukhumvit Road were fair game for the city’s purveyors of vice. Every now and again the police would go on the offensive and for a few weeks the streets would be clear but like cockroaches the hookers always returned.
The school was far enough from the main road to be untouched by the drug-dealing and hooking fraternity but even so I didn’t think it would be a good idea to loiter outside a school where more than half the pupils were girls. There were a couple of noodle stalls on the pavement about a hundred feet from the main entrance so I took a seat with a good view of the gate and ordered a bowl of red pork and noodle soup, which as it turned out wasn’t half bad. I was half way through it when I saw Kai. She was wearing a short black skirt, a white shirt that was so tight the buttons were straining at the material, and black Gucci heels. To go with the Gucci bag on her shoulder.
How did I know the shoes were Gucci?
Because my wife has a pair of the very same shoes. And they were very expensive. I know because I bought them.
Kai was nodding her head strangely but as she got closer I saw that she was listening to an iPod. I stood up and smiled but she didn’t see me until she was almost in front of me, then her mouth opened in surprise showing perfect white teeth with pink braces. I saw the panic in her eyes so I smiled again and held up my hand in greeting.
‘Miss Kai,’ I said, ‘how are you today?’
She didn’t hear me and she frowned as she took out her earphones.
I repeated what I’d said, and smiled again.
She frowned, not recognising me at first, then realisation dawned. ‘Khun Bob,’ she said. ‘You’re not a teacher here as well are you?’
‘No, I’m happy enough where I am,’ I said, which wasn’t exactly a lie but it was close. ‘Would you like a Coke?’
She looked at her watch. It was slim, gold and obviously expensive. ‘I have an appointment,’ she said. She looked up and down the road, and then back to me. She smiled again, showing me a flash of her braces.
‘I wanted to ask you about Tukkata,’ I said. ‘She goes to your school, doesn’t she?’
Kai nodded.
‘Was she at school today?’ I asked.
‘I didn’t see her,’ she said. ‘But we’re not in the same class.’ She giggled. ‘We’re not in the same year.’
‘Do you know when she was last at school?’
Kai ran a hand through her shampoo-commercial hair. ‘Is she in trouble?’
‘No, I wanted to talk to her about Khun Jon. I thought she might know where he is.’
‘Why?’ she asked, which was a good question.
I didn’t like lying to a kid who thought I was a teacher, but telling her why I was trying to find Jon Junior would be way too complicated. And would involve me explaining why an antiques dealer had been trying to teach English.
‘I found some personal stuff in his locker,’ I said. ‘I wanted to send it to him.’
She pouted and looked at her watch again.
‘When was she last at school?’ I asked.
Kai shrugged. ‘A week ago, maybe. Like I said, we’re not in the same class so I don’t always see her. I’m year nine, she’s year twelve.’
‘You’re only fifteen?’ In her designer shoes and carrying her Gucci bag she looked older, but now I was looking carefully at her unblemished skin and slim figure I realised that she was just a kid. And that Tukkata wasn’t much older.
‘Do you think Tukkata might know where Jon is?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps,’ she said. She frowned and ran a hand through her hair. Her nails were a deep red, the colour of blood. ‘I think he might be a janitor now.’
‘A janitor? Why would you think that?’
‘The last time I saw him, he was talking on the phone. He said something about working in a boiler room.’
A top-of-the-range black BMW came down the road towards the school. Kai stiffened when she saw it and clutched her bag to her chest. ‘I have to go,’ she said.
I figured it was probably her father, come to collect his darling daughter. I wanted to ask her more about the boiler room but she was already walking towards the car. ‘Hey, Kai, wait,’ I said. I took a pen from my pocket and scribbled down my cellphone number on an old Emporium receipt. I gave her the piece of paper. ‘If you see Tukkata, get her to give me a call.’
She took the number and as she drew level with the car, the back door opened. I caught a glimpse of a large Thai man in a suit and then she got in and the door closed.
As the car drove by all I could see was my own reflection in the tinted windows. Then it was gone.
A janitor?
That didn’t make any sense.
But a boiler room. That definitely did.
CHAPTER 25
People come to live in Thailand for a host of reasons. Retired people come for the climate and the relatively low cost of living, men come because it’s easier for them to get a girlfriend even if more often than not have to pay by the hour, others come because they’re fed up with what has happened to their own countries and hope that they’ll have better lives in the Land of Smiles. There are Vietnam vets living around Washington Square who never wanted to go back to the States after their tours were over, and criminals in Pattaya who would be arrested if they ever set foot in their own countries. But almost everyone is in Thailand by choice. They want to be there.
Not Brent Whittington.
He was practically forced onto the plane at gunpoint, kicking and screaming all the way to Bangkok.
Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration. But Brent never wanted to come to Thailand, and neither did his wife and two sons. They were perfectly happy in London, where Brent headed up a hugely profitable stockbroking operation for one of the big banks, one of the ones that didn’t nearly go belly-up in the financial crisis that hit Europe and the States. There are those who say that Brent had a lot to do with the fact that his bank did well while so many others almost went to the wall. Brent is far too modest to ever say as much, but he is pretty contemptuous of most of the UK’s banks and says that they deserved what happened to them.
Back in 2005, Brent’s bank went into partnership with a stockbroking firm in Thailand, owned by a wealthy family with Royal connections. Try as they might the joint venture just couldn’t make money, and Brent’s bosses decided that the only way to salvage the situation was if he went out to run it.
At first Brent point-blank refused, but eventually his bosses made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, which is why he now has a seven-figure salary, a luxury villa in a gated community, a Bentley and driver on call twenty-four hours a day, unlimited first class travel between London and Bangkok, and places in one of Thailand’s top schools for his boys. It was one hell of a good deal and one that made him the envy of the rest of the stockbroking community. Brent still wasn’t happy to be in Thailand, though, and had a cast
-iron guarantee that after five years he and his family would be back in England.
I met Brent through his wife, Samantha, who wandered into my shop one day and walked out with a nineteenth-century fifty-thousand baht reclining Buddha. She came back with Brent a couple of weeks later and we hit it off and he’s been a friend ever since. He’s still counting the days before he gets back to London but he seems happier than when he first arrived. Brent and I don’t agree about much, as it happens. He thinks cricket is the best game in the world and I know for a fact that it’s baseball. He thinks Thailand is a Third World hellhole and I can’t think of anywhere that I’d rather live. And he’s sure that the best steaks in Bangkok are served in the Rib Room on the thirty-first floor of the Landmark Hotel while I’m sure they’re only available in the New York Steakhouse of the JW Marriott Hotel on Sukhumvit Soi 2. I was the one who wanted something so I arranged to meet him at the Rib Room and told him that the evening was on me.
‘Are you playing poker on Friday?’ he asked as he sat down and took the menu from one of the Rib Room’s many pretty waitresses.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You?’
‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go to Singapore and probably won’t get back until late. At least I’ll save money, I’ve lost pretty badly the last few weeks.’
‘Yeah, Somsak’s been on a bit of a winning streak. And Tim.’
‘You don’t think they’re cheating, do you?’
I laughed. ‘A Thai policeman less than honest? Perish the thought.’ I shook my head. ‘Somsak plays for fun, he doesn’t care if he wins or loses. And Tim’s just a good player. ‘
‘And we’re on losing streaks.’
I waved over a waitress and ordered a bottle of red wine that I know he likes, and we spent the next hour eating perfect steaks and chatting. I waited until we’d finished our meal before getting around to the reason that I’d invited him. It seemed only fair.
Bangkok Bob and the missing Mormon Page 12
