A Killing Smile

by Christopher G. Moore

  They had wanted, just like the girls, for someone to love them. Take care of them. Someone who has a horizon longer than one night or one lecture. And together formed an alliance, keeping a common vigil at HQ, waiting for that one person, who will walk into their lives and rescue them from themselves. He had been just as guilty as Snow and Crosby, thought Tuttle. Hadn’t he looked at Lawrence in exactly the same light? Lawrence Baring, the golden opportunity offered on a plate; the last person a couple of months earlier who would have sprung to mind as someone to save the school.

  You heard the same arguments from Snow, Crosby, and the girls. They lacked choice; they lost the ability to hold a regular job. And even if they could, well, there were expenses. Horse races and women for Crosby. Drugs and women for Snow. The girls had a menu of expenses longer than a Chinese restaurant’s. The father who was dead or sick. The brother who was in school and had no money for fees due the following morning. The son or daughter who needed an operation tomorrow or would die. The rent that was two months behind. The friend who had borrowed five thousand baht and disappeared. The boyfriend who had stolen her jewelry to pay a gambling debt. The husband who had beaten her. The husband who had been killed in an accident.

  And what was on Tuttle’s personal menu? He reflected for a moment, looking across the room. A daughter who had a chance to become respectable, he thought. A daughter to whom he had made himself accountable. A daughter who had given him a gift he could never repay. A school that tried to be that father to other girls like Asanee, girls whose own father would never find them, girls who needed to know they were not alone, that they had a chance.

  The girls told Tuttle about smiling on the outside and crying, breaking up on the inside. He looked across the room and watched a pretty girl sitting next to an overweight farang, whose thick brown moustache was wet with beer foam, wore a shirt stretched like a sheet of canvas over his bloated gut, and dirty, wrinkled shorts and shabby sandals. His right hand worked down the girl’s blouse, squeezing her nipples; he laughed and talked to his friends. He was not looking at her. Tuttle watched her face. The expression was neither pleasure nor even boredom, but sorrow cracking like a whip across the span of her mind. Inside something was breaking apart. Her eyes turned liquid but she’s trained herself not to spill the tears: never to permit the farang to see them run down her cheek. She sat biting her lip, and trying to smile. Because he might have the magical purple for her later. She couldn’t take a chance someone else would come along later that same night and offer to take her. Tuttle had seen her go home alone many nights; too many nights of going home alone had a way of stealing away the last fragment of self-esteem. A chance, any chance was better than walking out of HQ in front of all her friends alone. She buried her face in her hands. He didn’t have to say he loved her. He didn’t have to say anything.

  The school had seemed dead. Snow and Crosby had made a deal with the photographer; the entire skull bar incident had the fingerprints of their planning; they had set up Lawrence in Patpong because they were afraid. Just like the girls, afraid of walking out alone, without a prospect. As Tuttle looked back at Lawrence, who was sipping his beer, looking cheerful, happy, settled, even relaxed, he said to himself—Lawrence had walked into HQ like any other mark. He came on his own, looking for something, and hadn’t Tuttle and Asanee supplied whatever that thing was?

  He thought suddenly of Sarah, and that morning he had waited at the bus station, looking at his watch, not knowing whether to pull his bags off and go after her, or climb on the bus. She had done what he had believed in his heart of hearts she had been incapable of doing—betraying him; she had set him up, never intending to meet him at the bus station. She had been seeing Lawrence behind his back two, three months before. He had found out; but he didn’t confront her. He asked her to go away with him. Her decision would be the only answer that mattered—and the answer came in that quiet last moment at the bus depot, when he stood on the first step of the bus, and looked out one last time at a sea of strange faces.

  One betrayal followed another, thought Tuttle. It spread a disease. Snow and Crosby had struck fast. The question Tuttle had was what he could do about Lawrence—what he was able to do, prepared to do, and, above all, with Asanee’s eyes on her father as the one man who had committed himself to her, what was the right thing.

  * * *

  SNOW had returned to the booth after smoking an entire joint. He came in waving the Vogue magazine he bought in Patpong, and a small group of girls fell in step, following him through the crowd.

  “It’s time for extreme measures. Entire peu-un pods are dozing in the corner booth,” said Snow. He pointed around the room with a crooked finger. “And over there! At that table! A sleeping Tommy. It’s not fucking professional. Some wando can slip up and rob them blind. Sleeping on the job. It’s bad for business. So I’ve come equipped tonight.”

  He opened the Vogue on the table. He glanced up at Crosby and giggled. “This is better than drugs, man. The one item that gives them a real buzz. Has them jumping up and down, laughing, sitting on my knee, eyes bright. Never fails as a wake-up call.” Girls swarmed around the booth, sliding onto everyone’s lap. Snow had a girl bouncing on each knee. Crosby had another two ignoring them, as they stretched forward to look at the magazine. Three more climbed over Tuttle and Lawrence; and half a dozen others stood at the front of the table inside the booth.

  Snow casually flipped the pages, their eyes grew large and bright and intense; a dozen small fingers touched the photographs, sliding down the images of high-fashion dresses, furs, shoes, bags, and jewelry. Snow had transported them to another world.

  “No, you can’t take the magazine, sweetheart,” said Snow. “You sit here on Uncle Snow’s lap like a good girl. And your friends over there on Uncle Tuttle, and Uncle Crosby and . . . Uncle Lawrence is going to give you a quiz, so study hard.”

  Lawrence registered an expression somewhere between disgust and amusement. “This is as deep as the girls ever get,” said Crosby. “Selling their sweet ass for a lovely mink stole. Just the garment you need in Bangkok.”

  “Soo-ay, yes, beautiful,” said Snow, shifting the weight of one of the girls. “Everything in Vogue is soo-ay.”

  The girls had reverted to a two-word Thai vocabulary. “Soo-ay-beautiful. And chawp!-like.”

  Snow had opened the book of dreams; of happiness; of what they should desire so much that they would be willing to sell themselves to acquire those objects. They worked to buy, and Snow arrived, like a Lahu Godman, with his bag filled with illusions.

  “Open that beautiful Rolex foldout this way,” said Snow helping the girls to peel back the flaps. “Now we’re awake, aren’t we, sweetheart? Uncle Snow’s got you day-dreaming in color. Or is it night dreaming? Or does it matter, the dream is the same day and night. Now you’re into it, turn the page. What do we have here? A cocktail dress for that special gathering at Trump Tower. Soo-ay. Chawp! Forget about these guys. Uncle Snow is your dream maker. I understand what you ache for, daydream about, gossip about, worry over. What’s in your head when Gunter slips it between your legs? A world of beautiful things to cover your sweet little ass. The farang model? Soo-ay. You love that white skin. Those blue eyes and blonde hair. You’d give the Klu Klux Klan a run for their money. Soo-ay. You would change lives with the model in the picture if you could. Now there is a dream to ride out the night. You want to live inside the parlor of her country house, ride her horses, sit in her chair. Uncle Tuttle talks about rebirth, man. But this is what you want to come back as. Soo-ay. As a rich bitch in a Greenwich house. We’re not talking real deep, Larry. But then, look at their role models in these pictures. They haven’t been given the tap for what’s in their minds.

  “So what flashes through their sleepy brains when they see us at HQ? A ticket to ride, man. And you saw it with your own eyes. I pulled out the dream book, and their brains kicked into overdrive, thinking, here, at last, is a farang who understands what is important in l
ife. What’s fucking soo-ay. If you can’t point to the soo-ay in life, then what fucking good are you? You offer your sweet little body—or if you’re feeling real good a body from your peu-un pod—so you can get your share of what’s on these pages. You sweet baby, you really don’t want Uncle Snow to fuck you. But he has that five-hundred baht note somewhere on his person. And that purple’s gonna get you closer to what’s on that page. You can get your little piece of that soo-ay.

  “You’re not saving your purples for season tickets to the Met or a leather-bound edition of William Shakespeare. Man, that’s not soo-ay is it, darling? If you can’t wear it, smell it, taste it or feel it or eat it, you’ve wasted your purple. Right, sweetheart? That one on the page. Pearls. Soo-ay. That strand will set you on your backside for about 250,000 baht. Yes, Uncle Snow knows that is a very big number.

  “Let’s break it down in terms of the HQ formula. The pearl necklace is five-hundred purples. Five hundred nights getting your ticket punched at HQ. Hordes of horny Gunters crammed in a couple of 747s. Loads of Huns singing beer hall songs. As Uncle Tuttle says, when you’ve got that long horizon filled with thousands of lifetimes ahead, what’s five hundred screws? And that car is called a Rolls Royce. Soo-ay. You will have to fuck yourself into the next lifetime, darling, to get enough purples. You better scale down. Here’s two baht for the jukebox. Play something nice like ‘Women in Love.’ I like sincere music this time of morning. A soo-ay little tune. Crosby raised his glass; Snow followed his lead, reaching through the tangle of arms and hands around him. They clinked glasses, saluting each other, before turning to Lawrence.

  “To the school,” said Crosby.

  “And pay-day,” murmured Snow.

  “And a back pay-day.”

  Snow laughed. “The cheque is in the mail. Maybe.”

  Tuttle, at last, felt he had found the answer to Lawrence Baring, Esquire. He touched Snow’s glass, then Crosby’s with his green bottle of Kloster beer. “To the school,” he said.

  15

  Three days later, Khun Kob invited Tuttle to join him as his guest for dinner. He expressed his desire for a private meeting between two colleagues and friends, who had the best interests of the school at heart. And Khun Kob reminded him that in one month any person running as a Member of Parliament had to place a deposit, showing their goodwill and bona fide intentions.

  Khun Kob selected a small, back soi Thai restaurant, where he knew the owner and had slept with one of the waitresses. The location provided him with a home base feeling, and the owner, owl-eyed behind gold-rimmed glasses, and waitresses with broad cheekbones and round faces from Si Sa Ket—a town in Isan—calling him ajahn—teacher in the hushed tones filled with respect. Tuttle relaxed; he anticipated that once dinner had finished, Khun Kob would announce his resignation as headmaster and his decision to run for public office. Three years earlier Khun Kob had used the same restaurant to announce his candidacy for public office; he had twenty supporters present, made a speech, and shook everyone’s hand twice.

  As the last plate was taken away, Khun Kob removed his sunglasses, wiped the lens with the edge of the tablecloth. He squinted at Tuttle and smiled, masking a nervous half laugh. Tuttle sensed Khun Kob was about to take the final lap of the evening.

  “I have made a decision about becoming a politician,” Khun Kob said, laying his sunglasses on the table. He folded his hands, rotated his head from one shoulder to the other. Putting his thin neck in the noose again, thought Tuttle, returning Khun Kob’s smile. “I have decided to form my own party.”

  “Good idea,” said Tuttle. “We will miss you at the school. “

  Khun Kob’ s nervous laugh whipped around the room. He shook his head in a solemn manner, and slowly put his sunglasses on. “I couldn’t leave the school without a headmaster. That would be bad for my image as a politician.”

  “Then you will stay on? ” asked Tuttle, deciding he needed another drink. He gestured at a waitress hovering nearby and ordered a double whisky on ice.

  “With, of course, a salary adjustment. A headmaster in Thailand is paid two hundred percent more than a regular teacher. This is true,” said Khun Kob, as Tuttle’s drink arrived.

  Tuttle took a long sip, not taking his eyes off Khun Kob, who lapsed into silence. Lawrence’s money was becoming a tropical sickness. First Fawn, then Snow and Crosby, and now Khun Kob were planning a new future fuelled by feverish speculations. Playing “what if” scenarios in bed, the classroom, the shower, on the toilet. In Khun Kob’s mind, thought Tuttle, he would have sufficient funds to buy a seat in the next election.

  “Khun Lawrence made a mistake. Fawn’s cheque was a joke. Think of it as a farang joking with a bar-girl.”

  “Lawyer’s don’t make mistakes or jokes,” said Khun Kob, tapping the tips of his fingers together and smiling behind his sunglasses. He glanced at his watch and then over at the door.

  Tuttle wasn’t going to deprive Khun Kob of his share; of his dream, and let the farang laugh at him behind his back. The owner brought over the bill, and Khun Kob held it out to the light, reading the column of figures with his sunglasses on. He removed a five-hundred-baht note from his wallet and laid it on the silver tray. Once again, his head moved toward the entrance, as if he were waiting for someone. Slowly, clearing his throat, he removed his sunglasses again and stared straight at Tuttle.

  “You stay in Thailand a long time,” he said. “The bad thing happen to the farang who cheat a Thai. But I don’t think we talk about that. Your friend has a very good heart. He will help the school very much. We will have better conditions. Better teachers and books. Our students have better performance in English. That is good. A headmaster is like a commander. He must guide well. The one who guides must have the good reward. I think you understand me.”

  Not more than a moment after Khun Kob had finished, he rose in his chair and gestured to a Thai-Chinese, dressed in a business suit, who stood inside the entrance, looking across the restaurant. “This is my close friend, Colonel Chao,” said Khun Kob. “And I have very good news. He has consented to become our partner.”

  The Colonel nodded. He was in his mid-fifties, nearly bald with bushy, black eyebrows and a round, hard mouth. An orchid was pinned to the lapel of his jacket; the fastened middle button gave him a formal board of director’s meeting called to order appearance. The orchid adding the look of a shareholder’s campaign in progress. He had stepped away from a wedding celebration at the Dusit Thani on Rama IV. A tribute to his status as an influential person who headed an important police district. The Colonel had been the guest of honor; he had a reputation for his social connections and political aspirations. His beat included some prize concessions: brothels, massage parlors, and a string of bars.

  On his smooth, hairless left wrist, the crescent of a gold Rolex watch emerged like the face of a half-moon from a double-stitched silk cuff. Tuttle threw back the last of his double whiskey, stood and shook the officer’s hand. He noticed, as Colonel Chao held out his name card, that his hands, square-knuckled fingers, manicured nails, and smooth, long palm appeared tailor-made for gripping a high-power sniper’s rifle.

  Tuttle took the card with engraved letters in both English and Thai, glanced at it with the minimum amount of decorum he judged was sufficient to leave the Colonel with his face undamaged, his own expression not changing, and put it down on the table. “And to what do I owe this honor, Colonel Chao? ”

  Khun Kob sucked in his chest, as he rocked back on his heels, beaming with pride. The calm, neutral expression on Tuttle’s face amused Colonel Chao, who could see that the farang had taught himself how not to give away his emotions. “Perhaps the ajahn has neglected to explain our project? ”

  Tuttle looked at Khun Kob, who refused to meet his glance. “Our project? No, I can’t say I’ve heard,” said Tuttle. The Colonel shot Khun Kob a chilling glance; the kind a cat uses to freeze a mouse in its tracks. Khun Kob smiled as if the larger, more visible grin on his lips, the greater
his capacity to rise above the immediate problem.

  The Colonel shook his head, shrugged his shoulders at Tuttle, as if to say, the trouble with schoolmasters is they smile when they suffer, and whipped a gold-plated ball-point pen and papers from his dinner jacket. He put on a pair of gold wire-framed glasses with half-moon lenses. “This is our project, Khun Robert,” said Colonel Chao. “Come, now, sit. Relax. Order another drink. We will look at the documents together. Partners must understand the technical aspects of their business. Don’t you agree? ”

  In the sticky air of the restaurant, the owner saw that Khun Kob’s table had moved up the social ladder quickly. He brought a bottle of champagne and glasses. “Compliments of the house,” he said, bowing to the Colonel. This one of the perks of having the “power.”