“So that’s it then. You’re not interested in helping me.”
“Shit no. I already told you that back at the embassy.”
“I didn’t realize then that you knew about the money.”
“Well now you do, and the answer’s still the same. I wouldn’t touch it, or you, with the old barge pole. You’re on your own, Dare. You want my advice, you better go home, tuck yourself into bed, and hope for the best. Leave the big game to the big dogs.”
“Work on controlling your excitement while I take a leak, McBride. There are a couple of things you don’t know that might make you change your mind.”
Eddie stood up and disappeared through the door at the back of the cafe while McBride played with his empty coffee cup and wondered what the hell there could be that he didn’t already know. When Eddie hadn’t come back after ten minutes, McBride realized he’d been had.
The back door, McBride quickly discovered, didn’t lead to a toilet at all. It went straight out to a concrete ledge that ran along the edge of the Saensaeb canal. A few yards to the right, a set of steps led down to a wooden pier where boats moved in and out in a steady stream picking up and dropping off passengers. Another twenty yards away, up on the road, taxis were passing continuously over the bridge. Dare could have been in either within a few seconds of going out the door.
Okay, McBride thought, he would have to give Dare that one. Maybe he had underestimated him, at least a little bit; but if Dare was thinking he could handle Lek on his own, he was still one dumb son of a bitch.
McBride glanced again at the boats passing on the canal and then sadly tilted his head up toward the taxis flowing over the bridge.
Damn, he thought. That boy could be halfway across Bangkok by now and I have no fucking clue where he went.
Thirty
TRYING to get back to the Sixty-Nine, Eddie made a wrong turn and wandered the side streets around Soi Nana for an hour before he finally spotted a familiar building and straightened himself out.
Wonderful, he thought to himself. I’m hiding out from the Secret Service, a Vietnamese assassin, the CIA, and Christ only knows who else, and I can’t find a whorehouse in broad daylight. This ought to be good.
Bar and Winnebago were waiting for him when he finally got there, sitting on a pair of molded plastic stools in front of his room. Winnebago smoked two Camels while Eddie told them about his conversation with Chuck McBride and Bar just sat and listened without doing anything at all.
Bar glanced at his watch when Eddie was finished.
“The boys have probably let Lek go by now,” he said. “What are you going to do about her?”
“Let’s see what she does first.”
Bar wasn’t sure exactly what that was supposed to mean, but he nodded anyway.
Winnebago flicked his cigarette butt away. “I always had a bad feeling about that woman,” he said.
“You never mentioned that before,” Eddie said.
“Every time I started to, I’d see you looking at her with those big old cow eyes and I figured maybe I’d better keep my mouth shut.”
“Bullshit. Never happened. You were seeing things.”
Bar and Winnebago just looked at each other.
“Don’t start,” Eddie warned, raising his right forefinger and pointing it first at Winnebago and then at Bar. “Neither of you.”
Bar fidgeted in his chair, glanced at Eddie, and then looked quickly away. “You think maybe you should let this slide, partner?” he asked. “You haven’t really gotten anywhere. You don’t know any more about Harry Austin now than you did before you started. All you’re sure of is that he’s dead.”
“Why do you think the Vietnamese and the Secret Service want to give me millions of dollars to tell them where Austin stashed the money, Bar?”
“Because they’re desperate and stupid?”
“Because we’re closer to it right now than we think.”
Eddie’s voice sounded confident, whether he was or not, so Bar contented himself with a skeptical grunt and let it go at that.
“We have to find out who the foreigner was who grabbed Austin’s body.” Eddie tapped the side of his leg impatiently with his open palm. “We’ll hit that massage parlor as soon as it opens tonight.”
Winnebago’s eyes lit up. “I’m good with that.”
Bar shook his head a couple of times and then consulted the backs of his hands. “You don’t have to wait until tonight,” he said. “There’ll be somebody at the Princess by noon, maybe sooner.”
“Okay, that’s good,” Eddie nodded. “There’s one more thing. Can you get us some hardware? That’s not too difficult around here, is it?”
“Hardware?” Bar looked genuinely puzzled.
“Nothing heavy duty. Just some handguns, .9 millimeters or .45s would probably do it, and a hundred rounds or so. Also a few grenades if you can find them.”
“Actually, I’d recommend at least one bazooka,” Bar said. “That’s generally what well-dressed folks in Bangkok are carrying this year.”
“Just the small stuff will be okay. Can you do it?”
“You are kidding, yes?”
“I am kidding, no.”
Bar started to get a queasy feeling and glanced sideways at Winnebago. “Is he serious?”
“Don’t ask me. I can’t tell anymore.”
“It’s no big deal,” Eddie said, keeping his tone casual. “I just want to be prepared.”
“The way I see it,” Winnebago mused, “keeping a box of rubbers around is being prepared. Getting some .45 automatics and a pile of grenades is more like jumping into deep shit.”
“You’re way out of my league here, Eddie.” Bar looked down at his feet and folded his arms across his body. “I can’t believe this.”
“Sure you can. You know what we’re up against. Besides, you handle a gun pretty well yourself. I’ve heard the stories.”
Winnebago looked interested. “What stories?”
“He sent two guys to the hospital a few years ago with some pretty fancy shooting. Some disagreement about freedom of the press.”
“It was self-defense.”
“They cornered you in an alley in Patpong one night, didn’t they? You only fired two shots, the way I heard it. Put one in each guy’s kneecap. That’s pretty good self-defense.”
Bar looked over Eddie’s left shoulder and his eyes flickered briefly. “That was a while ago. I’m a lot older now. Smarter, too.” He rubbed at his face. “Or maybe not. There’s a guy I know who lives a couple of blocks from here. I’ll see what I can do.”
Eddie glanced at Winnebago. “You okay with this?”
“Oh sure,” Winnebago said. “I can hardly wait to have my ass shot off by a bunch of Vietnamese assassins. I’m fine. Great.”
Eddie decided to quit when he was ahead, and abruptly changed the subject. “Do you know how to get to the Little Princess from here?” he asked Bar.
Winnebago grunted. “Does the Pope shit in the woods?”
“It’s not far,” Bar said. He reached into his shirt pocket and came up with paper and a pencil stub. “I’ll draw you a map.”
“Will you see what you can do about that stuff while we’re there?”
Bar nodded slightly and drew in silence. Then he passed the map to Eddie.
“By the way,” he said while Eddie studied it, “you didn’t mention the Little Princess to Lek, did you?”
“I don’t…yeah, I think I may have.” Eddie looked up. “But she’d know about it anyway since that’s where Austin was killed.”
“You might think so. On the other hand, she didn’t know anything about what happened to the body. Maybe she didn’t have anything to do with Austin getting killed.”
Eddie looked doubtful and Bar shrugged.
“Anyway,” he finished, “she’s sure as hell going to shake the place down now that she knows you’re interested in it.”
“Okay, I see your point,” Eddie nodded. “How long will it take
you to get those weapons together?”
“Not long. It’s not like I have to search Bangkok for an honest man or anything.”
“Just put together whatever you can quickly and don’t worry about the rest. Meet us with whatever you’ve got at the Little Princess in an hour or so. Can you do that?”
Bar tipped his chair back against the wall and stretched out his legs.
“Yeah, I can do that,” he said.
***
A thick, nearly opaque blanket of heat and humidity hung over the city like a shroud. By the time Eddie and Winnebago made it to the Little Princess it was well after noon and they were both sweating so heavily their shirts were soaked through.
A chrome stool sat in the tiny sliver of shade thrown by the door canopy and on it a bony-kneed woman in a dirty green miniskirt was swinging her legs like a little girl. Next to her three tuk-tuk boys, their vehicles abandoned in the otherwise empty parking lot, were eating something at a wooden table so low it looked like it had been made for children. A few stray dogs circled the boys, darting in and out and lunging at the crumbs on the ground. The dogs scrutinized Eddie and Winnebago warily, but the tuk-tuk boys ignored them. The girl in the green skirt pasted on a smile and pushed back the heavy red curtain hanging over the doorway.
Inside, Eddie and Winnebago stopped and looked around. The room was large and surprisingly pleasant, but it smelled like stale cigarette smoke, fish sauce, and spilled beer. In the center was a rectangular bar with stools around all four sides. There were a few shabby chairs and two old couches scattered along the walls, all angled to provide a clear view of a glassed-in area to their left that looked something like a huge aquarium. Eddie knew it was where the girls waited: sitting on carpeted risers, watching television, and listening for the numbers pinned to their dresses to be called by customers. But it was still early and the aquarium was empty.
Eddie and Winnebago slid onto stools at the bar and a tired-looking woman in a shapeless smock of indeterminate color pushed bottles of Singha in front of them without being asked. Winnebago pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed the sweat off his face, then he downed half the bottle in one pull.
“Where’s the pussy?” he asked.
Eddie inclined his head toward the stool on the other side of the bar where the girl who had brought their beer was now perched. Her legs were doubled-up under her and her head rested against thin arms folded on the damp, wooden counter. Then he inclined his head the other way, indicating the back of the room where there were a few scattered Formica-topped tables. A woman of thirty or so was sitting alone at one of them, shoveling noodles into her mouth with a big spoon. She wore wrinkled black shorts, fluorescent purple flip-flops, and a dingy, white T-shirt with bright, red lettering across the front that said TOO DRUNK TO FUCK.
Winnebago looked dubiously at both women. “You’re shittin’ me. Right?”
“Nope, but come back tonight. There’ll be a hundred of them and they’ll all be that 17-year-old at your senior prom who wouldn’t give you the time of day.”
Winnebago gave Eddie a sour look. “Indians didn’t have no fucking senior proms,” he muttered.
Eddie made a sympathetic noise and sipped at his beer. Neither girl paid any attention to them and nearly a half hour passed in relative silence. When Eddie got tired of waiting for something to happen, he reached for the plastic cup on the bar where the girl had tucked their check. He folded a purple note end to end, pushed it into the cup, and left it protruding just far enough above the rim to be seen. Then he sat back and waited. Almost as if an alarm clock had just gone off, the girl slumped on her arms at the bar jerked upright, slid off her stool, and shuffled over.
As she reached out for the cup, Eddie covered it gently with his hand. “Speak English?” he asked her.
“Nit noi.”
“You the mamasan?”
The girl snorted and shook her head.
“I need to talk to mamasan,” Eddie said. “Get mamasan and I give you the money.”
“No problem.” She pointed at TOO DRUNK TO FUCK. “She there.”
“What’s her name?” Eddie asked.
“She called Short Time.”
“What kind of a name is Short Time?” Winnebago asked in a voice that suggested he could guess.
Eddie lifted his hand away from the cup and the girl scooped it up. She gave him a graceful little inclination of her head, pocketed the note, and returned to her stool.
When Eddie crossed the room and sat down at her table, Short Time ignored him at first. Then he pulled out his money clip and laid two purple notes on the table. She glanced up, continuing to chew her noodles, and looked him over.
“You come back tonight,” she mumbled through a mouthful. “Better then. More lady.”
“The money isn’t for a girl. It’s for information.”
Short Time put down her spoon and smiled slightly. “Information cost more than that, baby.”
Eddie pulled his clip out again and peeled off three more purple bills, dropping them on top of the other two. He put the clip back, covered the stack with his left hand and held Short Time’s eyes. “There was an accident out in the soi a couple of months back, right in front of this place. A farang was hit by a car and killed. Do you remember?”
Short Time blinked at that and slipped away like a submarine settling beneath the waves.
“Look, you’re not going to get into any trouble,” Eddie soothed, keeping his voice low. “The body was brought in here by another farang. I have to know who that was. I need to find him.”
The girl went back to eating with a slight smile on her face and Eddie knew exactly what that meant. He recognized the particular smile that Thais used when they received confirmation, if any was really needed, that farangs really were as crazy as they thought.
“You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?” Eddie said.
“Tell you anything you want.” Short Time looked up from her noodles, but didn’t quite catch Eddie’s eye. “But know nothing about farang killed in soi. Want me make up story? Then you be happy and let me eat without your bullshit maybe?”
“You ever heard of Harry Austin?”
Short Time’s manner changed abruptly. Eddie wasn’t sure exactly what it was he saw in her eyes, but he knew immediately that it was something.
“He was an American. Did you know him?”
When Eddie asked the question, he expected guardedness, some continued reticence in the woman’s response regardless of the money on the table and the look in her eyes when he mentioned Harry Austin. He expected what always happened when farangs in Thailand tried to deal with locals. He expected that almost ritualistic closing of ranks against the intrusions of foreigners that had been the hallmark of Thai culture for hundreds of years.
That was what he expected. What he got was a girl who wouldn’t shut up.
“Khun Harry? You want give me 5,000 baht tell you I know Khun Harry?” Short Time seemed to balance herself somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Why you give me all that money just talk about old man? What I know about Khun Harry worth 5,000 baht? I think I know nothing worth all that money about anybody. What can I know worth 5,000 baht to you, mister? Anybody tell you about Khun Harry. Maybe 100 baht. Maybe nothing. But you want give me 5,000 baht tell you.”
Eddie checked the bills under his hand. There were five, just as he thought. That was 2,500 baht, not 5,000. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Short Time.
“Whatever,” she shrugged and pulled in another mouthful of noodles with a sucking sound so resonant that Eddie’s crotch gave an involuntary twitch.
“Who you, baby?” she asked.
“A friend of his.”
“Friend?”
“Yeah. An old friend.”
“How I know that true?”
This wasn’t going the way Eddie expected. He was the man; he was talking to a bargirl; and he had the money on the table. But Short Time was ignoring the money and asking him th
e questions. How had that happened?
He had brought the two photographs that had been sent to him in San Francisco. Hesitating only briefly, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled one out, laying it on the table in front of Short Time.
“We were in the marines together. That’s Harry Austin in the back.”
Short Time bent forward and studied the picture. “Why you draw circle round head?” she asked.
“Look, are you going to tell me what you know about Captain Austin or not?” Eddie’s patience had run out. “Or maybe you’re just jerking me around and you didn’t know him at all.”
Short Time grunted, spraying little pieces of noodle all over the table.
“I know.”
“How well?”
She moved her head in a gesture that could have meant almost anything, but Eddie knew that whether Thais just moved their heads around or actually spoke words, anything could mean almost anything.
“How long since you saw him?” Eddie pressed.
Short Time chewed thoughtfully. “Two, maybe three week.”
Eddie’s hopes popped like a soap bubble. He stood up and wearily collected the photograph and the money from the table.
“Hey!” Short Time’s eyes flashed. “What you do? You say you give me money if I tell you about Khun Harry!”
“Look,” Eddie snapped. “I don’t need your bargirl bullshit. You don’t know Harry Austin. You don’t even have any idea who the hell I’m talking about.”
Short Time seemed genuinely confused. “Why you say that?”
“Harry Austin has been dead a couple of months. He was the man who was killed in that accident in the soi you don’t know anything about.”
“He look okay when he come see me few week ago.”
“You’re saying Harry isn’t dead?” Eddie shook his head. “Even if he were alive, why would he come here to see you?”
“Why not?”
Short Time peered at her plate. It was empty.
“Man come see wife,” she went on without looking up. “What wrong with that?”
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