by Simon Royle
“Oh yes, he’s sitting outside.” She turned, hand extended to show me the way.
“Is he alone?” I asked her as we entered the empty restaurant.
“Yes, he’s alone,” she said, and opened the door for me.
Terracotta tiles, low sofas, glass tables on black iron, and big comfy easy chairs decorated the outside area. Overhead latticework hung with fake, but very real looking vines, grapes hanging down. Low-hanging fruit.
Steve was sitting at the sofa facing the door, a bamboo wall separating him and the car park. Behind him a concrete pillar. Good choice for a seat, decent cover and a good field of fire.
“Chance.” He rose, extending his hand. I shook it. A glass of red wine stood on the table in front of him and a Mild Seven burning in the ashtray. Cosmopolitan was our Yakuza Steve.
“Hey Steve, if your guys are waiting for you in the van, can I suggest they join my guys in the bar and have a drink while we talk?”
“Sure. Good idea.”
He took out his cell phone. I did the same. Called Chai told him to join the Yaks in the bar with Tum and Pichit. Over the top of the bamboo, I saw the Sumo brothers get out of the van. It was warm outside. A big black box of a fan sprayed a fine water mist into the air, keeping the worst of the heat at bay. I still felt hot with the jacket on. Steve was also wearing a suit.
The waitress brought me a cool towel and a second glass for the bottle of red that Steve had opened. She poured me a glass with a twist of her wrist before putting the red back into the ice bucket. Room temperature here was at least thirty one degrees Celsius. She went back into the interior of the restaurant. I glanced backwards to check where she was and took off my jacket. I slipped of the shoulder holster off and put it under the jacket on the sofa and sat down next to it.
“Good idea,” he said and smiled, copying my actions. I raised my glass to him.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers,” he said, and we touched glasses, making eye contact. Trying to read what was there and failing.
It was his meeting. I’d let him do the talking. I took another sip of the wine. Tum followed by the Sumo, Beckham and Chai, filed past the opposite side of the seating area, heading for the bar in the lobby. I relaxed a little bit. It didn’t look like anything heavy was going down. Steve took a long drag on his cigarette, the smoke whisked away by the breeze from the fans. Elbows on his knees he brought his hands together clasped in front of him.
“I met with the board yesterday, updating them with the results of my investigation.” He broke off as the waitress came out with menus, handing one to each of us. She started to leave but Steve stopped her.
“It’s okay. I just want a pizza Margherita, thanks.”
“I’ll go with the spinach Ravioli, thank you.”
The waitress left us alone. Steve lit another cigarette. I took a sip of wine. He looked me in t he eye. Didn’t blink.
“I was convincing enough, even though I don’t believe your story.” He smiled. You kind of have to smile, when you call someone a liar, in our business. I didn’t react, poker face, looking him the eye.
“Anyway, no matter how convincing I was, the board has a proposal that they want me to discuss with you.”
“I’m listening.”
“They want you to expand your business. Japan, the States, Europe, maybe even Eastern Europe, Russia. We will be your partner, fifty-fifty, and we will also be a customer.”
So we were off the hook for the hundred million, but with conditions attached. I shook my head. “Not going to fly. We don’t do fifty-fifty partnerships. However, we have been thinking of going inter with the business and, in certain markets, we would of course partner with local partners to manage the local business. We could do fifty-fifty in Japan, and a minority share in other markets as funding requires. We would also offer you a discount on services if you give us the global franchise on your body disposal business.”
Ken nodded. “I think it’s possible to work out something, but perhaps you could make it a sweeter deal, like say in the States. Next year, we’re expanding our operations retail and wholesale. Disposal logistics have become somewhat problematic and unreliable lately.”
“You still outsource your disposal to the Italians, right?”
“Yes and their grip has been slipping. They got too big and greedy. The Ndrangheta, they’re coming up but they don’t have the facilities and we’re competing in too many channels. The mafia, you know they’re on the decline. Their leadership issues aren’t going to be resolved any time soon.”
“What are the Italians charging? Ten?”
“Ten.”
“That’s cheap, but are you getting the quality you need?”
“Honestly, no. That’s why we want to invest in a downstream operation likes yours.”
“Okay, well let’s work it out. It sounds like we have enough in common with our goals to talk in more detail. Are you the point-man on this?”
“Yeah. I’m reporting back to my boss, who’s a VP and sits on the board. He’s been given the task of getting this issue fixed. He would like to meet you.”
“Why don’t you invite him here? We’ll give him a tour of the farm, demonstrate the facilities and we can talk more then?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Steve reached across the table with his hand. I took it and we shook on it.
Lunch was pleasant enough. When we left the restaurant, we were greeted with a sight that would have terrified any casual walk-in customer off the street: Chai, Tum, and the Sumo brothers all lined up at the bar in the lobby. Beckham and one of the Sumos were about to arm wrestle. Money was on the bar. I smiled. You can take the boys out of the district but you can’t take the district out of the boys. Luckily the restaurant was empty. Wars are bad for business.
“Hai,” Sumo number two shouted, releasing his massive paws from the clenched hands of Beckham and Sumo One.
“What are their names?” I asked Steve pointing with my chin at the Sumo brothers.
Sumo Two, bounced around the bar. Yeah, I remembered, very light on his feet. Held his hand out to me. “Hi I’m Ailana,” he said with a huge grin and in perfect American-accented English. “That’s my brother, Ailani. He’s about to whip your guy’s ass.”
I had to grin. I counted five thousand baht out.
“I got five thousand, says Beckham cleans the bar with your brother’s shirt sleeve.”
“Hah, cool. You’re on.”
Ailani had weight and not all of it was fat. Beckham had technique.
The rope-like sinews in both men’s necks were the only sign of the intense battle. Beckham’s wrist was only centimeters from the bar, but he was holding. Ailani’s jowls were beginning to shake, beads of sweat popped on his forehead. He was straining now, full thrust down, grunting. Beckham’s face turned a bit redder but otherwise he was holding, letting Ailani wear himself out. Ailani breathed out with a rush and Beckham struck hard.
His brother turned to me. “Dude, that guy can arm wrestle. We got to get him over to the States. We’d clean up.”
I glanced at Steve. He gave me a little shake of the head. Sumo didn’t know what we’d discussed. Just a coincidence.
“I’ll ask him for you.” I said smiling.
He handed me five thousand baht. Like I said, I don’t gamble. I gave it to the lone waitress. It didn’t look like she’d be getting any tips for a while.
A Sting in the Tale
26 May 2010 Suvarnabhumi Airport 5:00 pm
Uncle Mike had cried when I told him I’d killed Cheep. It wasn’t something that I could let lie between us. He had to know. I told him why. I didn’t tell him how. He didn’t need to dwell on that. Revenge for the sake of revenge is a pointless exercise. The Japanese knew that. It’s why we reached a pragmatic Asian-style compromise. They knew I’d stolen their money, but going to war would cost even more. Going into business would recover the loss.
I had hugged Mike at the departure gate and told him I’d see hi
m next week. He’d planned to move out of the villa and into the resort. He told me he didn’t want to even visit the villa. Thinking of Lilly, I understood. Uncle Mike was part Thai. When you’ve lived here long enough it happens through osmosis.
I’d driven Uncle Mike myself. I didn’t want him to be embarrassed in front of others, knowing how he’d react. The airport was a ghost town. Not quite as bad as when the yellow shirts shut it down, but emptied of all tourists just the same. My car was parked on the same level as the walkway from the main building.
When I returned, I opened the door and froze. On the driver’s seat, an envelope. Written on the front, ‘Boom’ and a smiley face. I reached down and carefully turned it over. On the back, written in large black felt tip, ‘From the guy who gave you a Benz’. I squeezed the packet gently, rang my finger against it. Didn’t feel any wires - felt like a DVD.
I upended the envelope ignoring the taped end and gently tore open the bottom of the envelope. A plain, blank, white DVD was inside. I looked around the car park, not expecting to see him. I could feel him watching me, a tingle at the base of my neck. I saw nothing suspicious, just a cleaning lady pushing a bunch of trolleys, and a guard staring down at the empty road below. I sat in the car and turned the engine on.
After paying the parking fee, I headed out onto the main expressway back into town. Traffic still hadn’t returned to normal and it was pretty light. I kept my speed low and popped the DVD into the player.
Ronin’s voice loud and clear through the car’s speakers.
“Hey, Mr. Lucky Nine, I told you I never forget a favor. Consider this a gesture. Maybe I’ll need your help again one day. Stay safe. Oh, and don’t share this with anyone else. It would identify the source and compromise a friend of mine. Strictly for you only.” Silence.
The player showed Track Two in its display.
Man #1’s voice: “We need you deliver a birthday gift to our friends downtown. Urgent request, it must before four pm today.”
Man #2’s voice: “Understood. Consider it done.” I knew that voice. It was Um. I’d listened to some of the voice messages he’d left Ice. They were still on his computer. These were the tapes the DSI or secret military forces had of Um.
Man #1’s voice: “What’s the number you have?”
Um’s voice: “Zero eight one, eight six zero, eight seven zero nine.”
Man #1’s voice: “Zero eight one, eight six zero, eight seven zero nine?”
Um’s voice: “Correct.”
Man #1’s voice: “Don’t be late. Use the girl to send it.”
The player showed Track Three.
Man #1’s voice: “You’ve got to get out of Bangkok. Leave now. Today. Your faulty bomb killed a mafia boss and his son. Your life is in great danger.”
Um’s voice (sounding stressed, tearful): “Who’s following me? Who’s onto me? Can you tell me who you are? Can you protect me?”
Man #1’s voice: “You know I can’t, but I’m your friend. You have to run, now.”
The DVD player automatically flipped over to the iTunes mp3 play list. Bob Dylan’s ‘Like a Rolling Stone’. And that happens sometimes, when a piece of music matches the moment we’re in exactly, like the music’s in harmony with our life. Bob’s stuff always makes me think, and I had some thinking to do.
Bob was singing about diplomats and Siamese cats. I could have told Um who he was talking to. The guy talking to Um was Sankit, Pim's father.
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About The Author
Simon Royle was born in Manchester, England in 1963. He has been variously a yachtsman, advertising executive, and a senior management executive in software companies. A futurist and a technologist, he lives near Bangkok, with his wife and two children.
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Bangkok Burn
By Simon Royle
Published by I&I Press
249/17 Lat Phrao 122,
Lat Phrao Road,
Wang Thonglang,
Bangkok 10310
Kindle Edition
www.simon-royle.com
All rights reserved
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
Copyright © 2012 Simon Royle
Afterword copyright © 2012 Simon Royle
Cover copyright © 2012 Simon Royle
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from Simon Royle.
The moral right of the author has been asserted
First published in Thailand by I & I Press 2012
