Live Fire

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Yeah, he’s only just off the plane, seemed a shame not to take advantage.’

  ‘You’re a bastard, Dom.’ Mickey laughed.

  ‘He’s an estate agent,’ said Mark. ‘All estate agents are bastards.’

  ‘Leave it out, guys,’ said Windsor. ‘I’m just trying to make a living. He seems okay. He made some crack about court that made me think he might have done time.’

  ‘Oh, a guy’s been to prison and you think we’d know him?’ said Mark. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘I was just saying, he’ll be here for a while so your paths might cross, that’s all,’ said Windsor.

  ‘What’s he do for a living?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘He didn’t tell me,’ said Windsor. ‘But one thing’s for sure, the guy’s loaded.’

  The lights in the bar dimmed and two girls with long, dyed-blonde hair, in black leather domination gear, appeared on a gantry near the ceiling. Spotlights picked them out and they slid gracefully down the poles to the dance-floor.

  ‘You’ve got to see this, Dom. It’s the new show,’ said Mark. ‘Bloody brilliant.’ He leaned forward as one of the girls knelt on all fours and the other girl raised her whip. ‘Go for it, girls.’

  Shepherd woke to the sound of his bedside phone ringing. He groped for the receiver as he squinted at his wristwatch. It was ten o’clock in the morning. A girl at reception told him that a FedEx courier was downstairs with a package for him. Shepherd told her to send him up and grabbed his trousers. A few minutes later his doorbell rang and a middle-aged man in a FedEx polo shirt and baseball cap handed him a large envelope. Shepherd signed for it and tipped him a hundred baht. He closed the door, sat on his bed and opened it. Inside, a computerised bank statement showed that John Westlake had an account with the Bangkok Bank containing three million baht. There was also a letter of introduction to the manager of the Pattaya branch.

  Shepherd showered and changed into a clean shirt and shorts, then phoned Jimmy Sharpe.

  He answered with a groan. ‘This better be important, I’ve got one hell of a hangover.’

  ‘I’ve got to visit the bank, then I thought I’d pop around for a chat,’ said Shepherd. ‘Where’s your hotel?’

  ‘I’m three roads up from yours, heading towards Walking Street. Come down the beach road with the sea on your right, you can’t miss it. Just look for a street full of go-go bars, massage parlours and poofter prostitutes. I’m in room five two six.’

  Before Shepherd could say anything, the line was dead. He picked up the FedEx envelope and went downstairs. He asked the motorcycle taxi drivers at the end of his road if they knew where the Bangkok Bank was and they said they’d take him for fifty baht. He climbed on the back of a Honda and the driver roared off. They wove through the traffic on the beach road, and as they made a left turn a small girl threw a bucket of water at them, screeching with laughter. The driver almost lost control of the bike and braked unsteadily. The child jumped up and down and shouted something at them.

  Shepherd wiped the water from his eyes. ‘What did she say?’ he asked.

  ‘Happy new year,’ said the driver, and chuckled. ‘Sawasdee pee mai.’

  Shepherd was soaking. He held the FedEx envelope to the side and shook it. The driver accelerated and drove in the middle of the road, moving to the side only when oncoming traffic was heading straight for them. At almost every street corner Thai families were standing next to huge blue plastic barrels of water, which they used to replenish their buckets and water pistols. They were all wet and many had white powder streaked across their faces and chests. Most of the men doing the water-throwing seemed drunk, even though it wasn’t yet midday. Tourists were joining in the festivities, and several times they passed groups of Westerners in Tshirts and shorts firing huge water pistols at anything that moved.

  The motorcyclist dropped Shepherd in front of a large concrete building. As soon as he went inside, the air-conditioning chilled his wet clothes and he shivered as he waited to be served. A pretty girl in a grey suit, her hair tied back with a pink and white ribbon, read his letter, then disappeared into an inner office with it and his passport. She reappeared a few minutes later with a file and handed him an ATM card with ‘John Westlake’ on it, a Bangkok Bank Visa card, a cheque book, and a statement showing how much he had in his account. Three million baht. She asked him if there was anything else he needed and he smiled and said just dry clothes. She laughed and told him that the worst of the celebrations were yet to come: the holiday only started in earnest later in the week when the banks and most of the country’s businesses were shut.

  It was the first he’d heard of a bank holiday so Shepherd decided he’d go straight to Dominic Windsor’s office and pay for the villa. A group of motorcycle taxis was sitting outside the bank. He tried to explain where he wanted to go but none of the riders spoke English. They kept shrugging good-naturedly but it was clear they didn’t understand a word he was saying. Then he remembered he had Windsor’s business card in his wallet. He fished it out and turned it over. On the reverse side the name and address were printed in Thai. He handed it to one of the men, who squinted at it. ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘Great,’ said Shepherd. He climbed onto the back of the motorcycle. During the five-minute drive to Windsor’s office, he was drenched half a dozen times. When Shepherd pulled up in front of his shop Windsor was at the window and waved, then laughed when he saw how wet he was. He held open the door and asked one of his girls to fetch a towel. ‘Thai new year,’ said Windsor. ‘Didn’t anyone warn you?’

  ‘I have to say they didn’t tell me how bad it was.’ Windsor’s air-conditioning was as bracing as the bank’s had been and he was shivering again. He held up the wet FedEx envelope. ‘I’ve brought my cheque book. I thought I’d get everything sorted today before the banks close.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Windsor. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Coffee would be great,’ said Shepherd.

  Windsor told one of his girls to fetch it while he did the paperwork for the villa. Shepherd wrote a cheque. ‘I’d like your passport, too, if you don’t mind,’ said the estate agent, holding out his hand. ‘It’s one of the things they do out here, I’m afraid, photocopy your passport.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Shepherd. He took it from the back pocket of his shorts. Luckily it had escaped the worst of the drenching and was only slightly damp. Windsor photocopied it, gave it back to him, then asked him to sign the copy. ‘Don’t ask me why, but that’s a thing they do out here as well,’ he said apologetically. ‘Every bit of paper that’s photocopied has to be signed.’ Shepherd signed ‘John Westlake’ with a flourish.

  Windsor compared the signature with the one in the passport and the one on the cheque, then smiled, satisfied. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll get it to the bank this morning and we’ll have it rushed through. Assuming all’s well I can let you have the keys this afternoon.’

  ‘Tomorrow will be fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve still got to check out of the hotel, and there’s no rush.’

  Windsor sat down at his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a Ziploc plastic bag. He gave it to Shepherd. ‘For your phone and wallet,’ he said. ‘Old hand’s trick. It’s going to get wetter over the next few days. If I were you, I’d stay locked up in your villa until new year’s over.’

  Shepherd thanked him and put his phone, passport and wallet into the plastic bag. ‘What’s the story about building out here?’ he asked. ‘Suppose I wanted to buy a bit of land and design my own place?’

  ‘It can be done,’ said Windsor. ‘Strictly speaking, foreigners can’t own land but everything’s flexible. You’d have to do it through a Thai company but I’ve got Thai lawyer friends who can handle it. Once you’ve got the land, construction costs are quite low. Do you want me to look around for you?’

  ‘You know guys who’ve done it, yeah?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Windsor. ‘I helped put together quite a big development for some Englis
h guys a year or two back. They’ve got a great place, six villas in a compound, huge pool, communal games area, staff accommodation. Big bucks, though.’

  Shepherd waved his cheque book. ‘I’ve got big bucks, Dom,’ he said. ‘Any chance of a viewing some time?’

  Windsor looked pained. ‘I’m not sure about that, John,’ he said. ‘Like you, they value their privacy.’

  ‘No problem, but if you could swing a tour, that would be great. Give me something to go on, you know.’ He stood up. ‘Thanks again for all your help. I’ll pop around tomorrow for the keys.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ said Windsor. He grinned lecherously at the two girls sitting at their desks. ‘And don’t forget our special bonus offer.’ He winked suggestively.

  ‘Rain check,’ said Shepherd. He thanked Windsor again and went outside. He saw a group of bare-chested Thai men with buckets of water heading his way and jogged down the road towards the sea. He realised his mistake as soon as he got to the end of the street – the beach road was mayhem with hundreds of people throwing water. Pick-up trucks were parked along it with barrels in the back from which revellers were throwing water over everybody they could reach. Music blared from roadside speakers and everybody was soaked. Tourists with high-powered water pistols were squirting jets of water into the air and girls with bowls of talcum powder were rubbing it into the cheeks of anyone who would let them. Shepherd turned back the way he’d come but a bucket of water drenched him from head to foot. His Thai assailant grinned and said, ‘Sawasdee pee mai.’

  Shepherd forced a smile. ‘Happy new year.’ The man offered him the bottle of Thai whisky he’d been drinking. Shepherd shook his head. ‘I’m not that thirsty right now,’ he said. He turned back to the beach road – he was as wet now as he was ever going to get – slipped through the trucks, then threaded his way between the deck-chairs and umbrellas towards the sea. The sun was blinding and even though he knew he was risking sunstroke it was the quickest way to dry out.

  He walked along the water’s edge in the direction of Sharpe’s hotel. A motorboat sped by, pulling a banana-shaped inflatable through the waves. Four Asian tourists were hanging on as if their lives depended on it. Diving boats were returning from the morning’s outings and jet-skis roared by. There were few swimmers and those who had gone into the water stayed close to the shore. An old Thai lady held out armfuls of silk and grinned at him, showing blackened teeth. He wondered if anyone walking along the beach had ever bought anything from her. Ice cream he could understand, or cold drinks, but silk seemed a strange choice for a beach vendor. A hundred feet further on a slightly younger but still ancient woman offered him laminated maps of Thailand and posters of the country’s wildlife.

  Sweat was pouring from his face and his legs were burning. The sky was cloudless and the sun fierce. He looked to his left, trying to judge how close he was to Sharpe’s hotel, saw a Starbucks sign and headed for it. As he reached the lines of umbrellas a Thai man wearing a Singha beer vest offered him a deck-chair but Shepherd pointed at the road and walked on. A pedestrian pathway dotted with palm trees ran between the beach and the road and he followed it, ducking behind tree-trunks when anyone threatened to throw water over him. Eventually he spotted a gap in the traffic and darted across. Two small boys with water pistols as big as themselves appeared from nowhere and squirted ice-cold water into his face, giggling with glee. Their mother looked on proudly.

  Shepherd had just opened his mouth to wish them a happy new year when a torrent of freezing water slapped into his back. He spun round. A black pick-up truck was behind him, with an obese Westerner standing in the back next to four scantily clad girls. He was holding an empty bucket and smirking drunkenly. The vehicle moved ahead and the man almost fell over the tailgate. The girls screamed with laughter and held him upright.

  Shepherd watched the truck lurch along the road as water dribbled down his face. A group of motorcycle-taxi drivers were laughing at him. Shepherd noticed that they were dry. No one had so much as squirted them with a water pistol. They were a tough-looking bunch with hard faces and skin blackened from years in the sun, and most wore large Buddhist medallions on thick gold chains around their necks.

  He flicked his hair to the side and jogged down the street to Sharpe’s hotel. The go-go bars were shut, a dismal sight in daylight with flaking paint and slipshod electrical wiring hanging around the doorways. He walked past a street vendor selling fried insects from a wheeled stall bolted to a motorcycle. A pretty girl in her twenties was watching the vendor shovel into a paper bag what appeared to be a dozen or so fried cockroaches.

  The further he got from the beach road the fewer people were throwing water, and when he finally reached the Penthouse he was no longer dripping but still far from dry. As he went into Reception, a good-looking Westerner with slicked-back black hair walked out hand in hand with a teenage Thai boy. The Westerner smiled at Shepherd but the boy looked away, embarrassed.

  Shepherd went up to Sharpe’s room. He knocked on the door and Sharpe opened it. Sharpe was wearing a threadbare bathrobe and blinked sleepily at him. ‘The early worm …’ he grunted. ‘You’re sweating like a pig,’ he observed.

  ‘It’s not sweat,’ said Shepherd. ‘And you’re one to talk – you smell like a brewery.’

  ‘I’ve been working,’ said Sharpe, walking into the room, his robe flapping around his ankles.

  ‘Yeah, it looks like it.’ Shepherd scowled, shutting the door. He sat on a chair by the window. ‘And it’s the afternoon, Razor.’

  ‘Screw you,’ said Sharpe, flopping down on the bed. ‘I was out until five o’clock this morning, following the Brothers Grim around town. And you can’t stand in the bars drinking water and not attract attention so, yes, I had the odd beer or two.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you’ll have no problem bumping into them. They were in three discothèques and half a dozen go-go bars and they’re treated like royalty everywhere they go. Mark got into a fight and beat the shit out of three bodybuilders. Watch him, Spider. He’s a tough bastard.’

  ‘You gotta be careful, tailing these guys on your own,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Nah, it’s not a problem,’ said Sharpe. ‘The town’s full of middle-aged white men wandering around aimlessly. It’d be impossible to show out.’ He groaned and rubbed his temples. ‘Can you get me a hair of the dog out of the fridge?’

  Shepherd leaned over, opened it, and tossed him a can of beer. He popped the tab and drank greedily. ‘What do you think about the Moores?’ asked Shepherd.

  Sharpe sat up and rested his head against the wall. ‘They’re what my old dad used to call ODCs. Ordinary Decent Criminals. Old school. Don’t go out of their way to hurt civilians, don’t touch hard drugs, never hurt women or kids.’

  ‘Good to their mothers? Like the Krays?’

  ‘You can mock, but the world was a better place when ODCs were committing crimes. These days, it’s all drugs, drive-by shootings and bombs on Tube trains. Remember that case in Tottenham? The ten guys who raped that girl, then poured caustic soda over her to destroy the DNA evidence? That’s the sort of scumbags we’re dealing with now. ODCs wouldn’t go near hard drugs, like crack and heroin, and if they ever used violence it tended to be against other criminals.’

  ‘I guess they’re a dying breed, all right.’ Shepherd grinned. ‘A bit like your good self.’

  ‘I’m only ten years older than you,’ protested Sharpe. There were banging sounds from the room next door, followed by loud grunting. Sharpe gestured at the wall. ‘That goes on all night,’ he said.

  ‘Is that a girl?’ The grunting had turned into loud squealing.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Sharpe. ‘Your hotel’s more upmarket, right?’

  ‘I’m moving out tomorrow,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got a villa.’

  ‘Great,’ said Sharpe. ‘I’ll get packed.’

  ‘You can’t stay with me, Razor. I’m in Pattaya alone, remember? On the run from the cops.’
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  ‘It’s a big place, right?’

  ‘Huge. With a pool.’

  ‘So put me in a spare bedroom and I’ll stay out of the way.’

  ‘You know it’s not going to happen.’

  Sharpe sighed. The screaming next door reached a crescendo, and stopped suddenly. ‘I’m not staying here,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘Fine, check into somewhere else – the place is full of hotels.’

  ‘Do you think Charlie will run to a villa for me?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her?’ he said. ‘Let me know what she says.’

  ‘Why don’t I just make the Moores my new best friends and move in with them?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Screw you.’

  ‘Not an option,’ said Shepherd. ‘But if you’re on the turn, you’re in the right part of town.’

  ‘Seriously, Spider, this place is getting on my tits. I don’t see why I can’t be in a four-star place. It’s not as if hotel prices are steep. This place is only twenty quid a night.’

  Shepherd held up his hands. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. Like I said, you’ll have to talk to Charlie.’

  Sharpe finished his beer and tossed the can into a plastic bucket beside the toilet door.

  ‘How approachable were the Moores?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘They put themselves about a bit, but it was more other guys coming up to pay homage, shaking hands, a pat on the back, but they stayed pretty tight as a team. You worried about an in?’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s gonna work if I hang around and bump into them. If they’re criminal royalty, everyone’s going to want to bask in the reflected glory, right?’

  ‘Don’t see you’ve much choice. There’s no one here can give you an introduction. You tried the estate agent, right?’

  ‘He might mention me to them, but he’s not going to get me into the compound.’ Shepherd smiled encouragingly. ‘I thought we might try a bit of theatre. Get me noticed.’

  Sharpe groaned. ‘Last time we did that I ended up with a broken nose.’