The Tunnel Rats

by Stephen Leather

  The group finished the song to scattered applause, as if the audience realised that they'd been short-changed artistically. Wright wondered why there were so many people in the club, because what he'd heard so far couldn't in any way be described as a crowd-puller. The lead guitarist said something in Thai and the musicians began packing away their instruments. Wright looked at his watch. It was only eleven o'clock so presumably there'd be more acts to follow. He drained his bottle and ordered another. The man on the bar stool to his left accidentally knocked Wright's arm and he apologised, his accent vaguely French.

  'No sweat,' said Wright. He introduced himself and the two men shook hands.

  'Alain Civel,' said the man. 'From Montreal. Are you on holiday?’

  'Sort of,' said Wright.

  'You like jazz?’

  'Love it.’

  Civel was drinking a bottle of the local beer, Singha, and he waved it at the stage. 'That was merde. Crap.’

  'It wasn't great,' admitted Wright.

  'Now the next group, they really are something. Not kids like that lot. You can't play jazz unless you've lived.’

  'Unless you've suffered?’

  'Life. Suffering. One and the same, Nick.' He pronounced it Neek.

  'Can't argue with that,' said Wright, and the two men clinked bottles.

  Wright's sandwich arrived. It was a massive triple-decker, filled with chicken, cheese and a fried egg, cut into four triangles, each of which was impaled on a miniature plastic sword, and served with a pile of French fries. Wright's stomach growled. He saw Civel looking covetously at the sandwich and Wright offered him a piece.

  The two men chewed as a middle-aged Westerner and two Thais carried instrument cases on to the stage and opened them. The Westerner was in his late forties, the two Thais maybe a decade older. The bigger of the two Thais, a beefy man with a weightlifter's shoulders, was carrying a double bass, which he unpacked and began to tune. Two waiters put a dust cover over the drums that the previous band had used and pulled a cover off a second kit in the middle of the stage. It was considerably bigger than the first, a professional set-up that must have cost several thousand dollars. On the bass drum was the name of the band: The Jazz Club.

  The Westerner had combed-back greying hair, a drinker's eyes, watery blue and flecked with red veins, and pale white skin as if he avoided going out in the sun. He opened his case and took out a saxophone.

  'That's Doc Marshall,' said Civel. 'You've never heard anyone play a horn like Doc’

  A young waiter handed Doc a bottle of Singha beer, and Doc drank it as he surveyed the crowd, nodding at familiar faces. The younger of the two Thai musicians, square jawed with an Elvis quiff and sideburns, opened a guitar case and took out a red and black guitar which he leaned against a stand at the side of the stage, then he went over to a pair of chest-high congas and stood behind them.

  A Westerner in a wheelchair rolled across the dancefloor towards the stage. A big man with a round face, he had grown what hair he had left and tied it back in a ponytail. Behind him stood a hefty black man with a wide chest and powerful legs, and a stick-thin Latino who had also tied his glossy black locks into a ponytail. The two men lifted the crippled man and his wheelchair on to the stage and the Latino handed him the guitar.

  'Dennis O'Leary,' said Civel, nodding at the man in the wheelchair. 'They say he played with Clapton once.’

  'He's a regular here?’

  'The whole band is. Been playing together longer than I can remember, and I've been coming to Bangkok for ten years, on and off Wright leaned towards Civel, and lowered his voice. 'I don't suppose you ever saw a guy called Eric Horvitz play with them, did you?’

  'The guy that was murdered? Damn right.' He drained his bottle and Wright bought him another. 'Great singer, voice that could rip your heart out.' He jabbed Wright's shoulder with a forefinger. 'Now Horvitz was a guy who'd suffered. You could hear it in his voice when he sang. Like a knife through your soul, man.’

  On the stage, O'Leary began strumming on his guitar, his head tilted to the side as he listened to the chords. The big black man went to stand behind a keyboard and began to do what looked like martial art moves, presumably his own style of warm-up exercises. His hands moved through the air in a slow-motion dance, curving and flexing, first relaxed then tense, and even from across the bar the strength in his upper body was obvious.

  'Bernie Hammack,' said Civel.

  'And the drummer?' said Wright. The Latino had sat behind the drum kit and was adjusting a wing nut on top of one of the high hats.

  'Sergio Ramirez.' Two fresh bottles of beer arrived and the two men clinked them together. 'The girls love him.' He nodded over at the group of Coke-sipping teenagers. 'His fan club.’

  Ramirez was a good-looking guy with skin the colour of burnished oak, eyes of a brown so dark that they appeared black, and high cheekbones that a catwalk model would kill for. A silver crucifix glittered at his throat and he wore a tight polo shirt that showed off his chest.

  The customers in the bar gradually fell silent and all faces turned towards the stage. The lights dimmed and the six members of the band were picked out in individual beams of soft yellow light. Ramirez started first, tapping a simple four-four beat on the high hat, his eyes half closed, nodding as he played. He brought in the bass drum with an off beat, and at the same time he was joined by the Thai on the double bass, laying down a solid rhythm with a simple bass riff.

  O'Leary began to play along with them, picking out the notes with the ease that came from thousands of hours of practice, then Hammack joined in on his keyboard. Doc stood with his back to the audience, watching the band play. He nodded at the Thai percussionist, who started to drum the palms of his hands on the congas, a lilting counterpoint to Ramirez's hypnotic beat. Doc listened to them play for several minutes, then he put the mouthpiece of his saxophone to his lips and turned and began to play.

  Wright sat transfixed as he listened. The jazz the men played was on a whole different level to the Thai group. A whole different planet. It was like listening to a single entity, a single creature that could sing with different voices, each individual but connected, voices that took it in turns to lead and follow, to increase the pace and to slow it down. At first it seemed to Wright that the band members were deciding among themselves who should improvise, but he gradually realised that it was Doc who was running the show, communicating with the rest of the band with looks and signals so subtle that it was no wonder Wright had missed them. A sideways look at Hammack, and the black man would go off on his own, his huge hands moving confidentlyacross the keyboard, his finger span so big that he barely had to stretch. Wright watched Hammack's face as he played: the man's eyes were open but he seemed to be staring off into space. He was chewing gum, and the faster he played, the harder he chewed.

  Doc took the lead back from Hammack with no more than a nod of the head and a deep breath, then he took the tune into a short solo accompanied only by the Thai percussionist and the bass player before slowing the pace and moving into a Roland Kirke number that Wright hadn't heard for years. The transition was so smooth that Wright sat back in amazement.

  'C'est superbe, huh? said Civel, and Wright instantly resented the man's intrusion into his enjoyment of the music. Wright didn't take his eyes off the stage, just nodded to show that he'd heard.

  Doc cued O'Leary with a quick glance. The guitarist had been watching for the gesture out of the corner of his eye and again the transition was seamless. The lights slowly dimmed until O'Leary was the only one picked out on the stage. He played for a full ten minutes, the rest of the band accompanying him so unobtrusively it was as if he was playing alone. It was the best live guitar playing that Wright had ever heard, and he'd seen all the greats.

  When he finished playing the silence lasted several seconds as if the audience didn't want to believe it was over, then there was a sporadic clapping followed almost immediately by tumultuous applause. Wright clapped enthusiastical
ly.

  Civel nudged his arm. 'What did I tell you?' he said.

  'Brilliant,' said Wright. 'Bloody brilliant.’

  The spotlights came back on. Doc leaned forward to his microphone and thanked the audience, then introduced the band members one by one. They acknowledged the applause with a nod or a half wave, then at a nod from Doc they moved effortlessly into a Van Morrison number, 'Days Like This', with the saxophone taking the part of Morrison's voice. They played for almost an hour, everything from traditional jazz and blues to Lennon-McCartney, but with their own distinctive feel, nothing was predictable. Occasionally Hammack would sing, but usually they stuck to instrumentals, and Wright wondered how the band had sounded when Horvitz had sung along with them. He sang like a man who'd suffered, the Canadian had said. One thing was for sure, he'd suffered before he died.

  Wright was jerked out of his reverie by ecstatic applause and he realised that the band had finished their set. He joined in, and when several of the Westerners in the audience began cheering, Wright cheered along with them.

  'Thanks,' said Doc, unscrewing the reed from his saxophone and leaning towards his mike. 'And don't forget, tomorrow night's jam night, so come prepared to show us what you can do.’

  The lights went down and conversation started up. The group of Coke-sipping girls clustered around the drummer, laughing and vying among themselves for his attention.

  'They never do an encore,' said Civel. 'They play what they play, then they stop.’

  'Best way,' said Wright. 'Leave the audience wanting.' He drained his lager and Civel ordered two more bottles.

  Hammack and Ramirez helped lift O'Leary and his chair off the stage and went over to two green leather sofas placed at right angles to each other close to the bottom of the spiral staircase that led up to the balcony. Hammack and Ramirez sat down and O'Leary parked his wheelchair in the gap. A few seconds later they were joined by Doc. The two Thai members of the band headed for the doors, the big musician carrying his double bass as if it were no heavier than a briefcase.

  When Wright's lager arrived he said goodbye to the Canadian, and went over to the table where the band were sitting and drinking beers. The four men looked up at him as he approached. 'Mind if I join you?' he asked.

  Ramirez, Hammack and O'Leary looked across at Doc. Doc in turn squinted up at Wright. 'We know you?' he asked.

  'My name's Nick Wright. I'm a policeman. From England.’

  'Jolly old England, what?' said Doc in a passable imitation of an upper-class English accent. 'Hello, hello, hello, what's all this, then?' He laughed and his three companions laughed along with him. 'Do you have any identification, Mr Wright?' Doc asked, his face suddenly serious and the English accent forgotten.

  Wright showed him his warrant card.

  'British Transport Police?' said Doc. 'Someone stolen a train, Sergeant?’

  'It's more serious than that,' said Wright. He indicated an empty space on the sofa next to Doc. 'Okay if I sit down?’

  Doc stood up. He was an inch or so taller than Wright, but thinner. 'If it's serious, maybe we should have a little privacy,' he said. He spoke in Thai to a waitress and she nodded at a door close to the bottom of the spiral staircase. Doc thanked her. 'There's a private room we can use over there,' he said, handing the warrant card back to Wright. Wright followed Doc as he weaved through the armchairs and sofas.

  The far wall of the nightclub was filled with framed photographs of the bands that played there, and Wright saw several featuring The Jazz Club as he walked by. Doc was always centre stage, the focus of the group.

  The thickly carpeted room that Doc led Wright into was gloomy and lined with books that appeared to have been bought by the yard. There were several leather armchairs and, incongruously, a pinball machine up against one wall.

  Doc sat down in the armchair furthest from the door and lit a Marlboro with a Zippo lighter as Ramirez, Hammack and O'Leary made their way into the room. Hammack waited until O'Leary's wheelchair had crossed the threshold, then he closed the door and stood with his back to it. Again, the three musicians waited for Doc to speak.

  Doc blew smoke through tightly pursed lips and studied the detective for several seconds. 'So what brings you to Bangkok, Sergeant Wright?' He put his Zippo on the table next to him.

  'I'm investigating a murder,' said Wright.

  'Eric's?' said Doc.

  'Maybe.' He squinted at the lighter. It was an old steel model, worn and scratched from years of use. Engraved on it was a cartoon rat, not a friendly rodent like Mickey Mouse but a shifty-looking creature with narrow eyes and a malicious grin. In one hand it held a flashlight, in the other a gun.

  Doc said nothing, his watery eyes boring into Wright's.

  'What do you mean, maybe?' asked O'Leary, but he was deterred from saying anything else by a quick sidelong glance from Doc, a look that could have frozen antifreeze.

  'I'm investigating a similar murder that took place in London several weeks ago.’

  'Similar in what way?' asked Doc.

  'An American. Tortured and killed.' He paused. 'With an ace of spades impaled in his chest on a knife.’

  Wright heard a slight gasp from behind him, but he had no way of knowing if it was O'Leary or Hammack. Wright kept his eyes on Doc. The man showed no reaction at all: his hands were rock steady, he didn't even swallow.

  'According to the newspaper reports I've read, that's how Eric Horvitz died. I'm working on the theory that the murders are connected.’

  Doc nodded slowly. 'And this American, the one who was murdered in London. What was his name?’

  'Max Eckhardt.’

  Doc's face was as unyielding as a granite cliff. He stared at Wright and took another long draw on his cigarette. 'Doesn't ring a bell,' he said. He flicked ash into a large crystal ashtray.

  'Max Eckhardt,' repeated Wright. He spelled out the surname. Doc shrugged. 'It's an unusual name, I'm sure I'd remember it’

  Wright turned around to look at O'Leary, who was staring at Doc with wide eyes. 'What about you, Mr O'Leary? Does the name Eckhardt ring any bells with you?’

  O'Leary shook his head, but he kept looking at Doc, like a loyal Labrador waiting for instructions from its master.

  'Are you sure?' pressed Wright.

  O'Leary looked up at him. 'I'm sure,' he said, but Wright could sense the tension in his voice.

  'And you, Mr Hammack?’

  Hammack stood impassively, his massive arms folded across his chest. 'Not a name I'm familiar with,' he said. He grinned, but there was no humour in the expression. A gold tooth glinted in the left-hand side of his mouth.

  Wright looked sharply across at Ramirez. 'Want to make it unanimous, Mr Ramirez?' he said.

  Ramirez flashed Wright a movie-star smile but said nothing.

  'Three wise monkeys,' said Wright. 'Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.’

  'There are four of us,' said Doc. 'Actually.’

  'And you never met Max Eckhardt?’

  'You won't get a different answer by asking the same question over and over again,' said Doc, stabbing out the butt of his cigarette.

  'What makes you think it's the same killer?' asked O'Leary, a nervous tremor in his voice.

  Wright turned to face him. O'Leary was clearly the weak link in the group. 'There are too many similarities for it to be a coincidence,' he said. 'The way the body was tortured, the playing card, the fact that the victim's penis was placed in his mouth, the fact that the body was found underground .. .’

  'Underground?' repeated O'Leary. 'What do you mean, underground?’

  'Horvitz was found in the basement of his orphanage. Eckhardt was tortured and murdered in a disused railway tunnel in South London.’

  'A tunnel?' repeated O'Leary. His head swivelled around to look at Doc, who silenced him with a small wave of his hand.

  'But you've no motive, no explanation of why someone would want to kill two men that way?’

  'No,' admitted Wright. 'We'
ve no motive.’

  'And no suspect?’

  'I was hoping that by finding a link between the two victims, I'd be able to come up with a motive and a suspect. It seems I was wrong.’

  'It was worth a try, though,' said Doc, lighting up another Marlboro. 'I'm sorry we couldn't be of more help, but Eric's murder is a mystery to us, and we've never heard of Eckhardt.' He blew a thin plume of smoke up at the ceiling. 'Is there anything else we can help you with?’

  'Yeah, just one thing,' said Wright. 'How come this place is called Cowboy Nights?’

  Doc grinned. 'Used to be a country and western place, line dancing, banjos, the works. The Thai guy who owned it lost a bundle and sold out to the present owners. They liked the name, thought it had class, so they did up the interior and left the outside as it is. Typical Thailand.' He took another long pull on his cigarette, his watery blue eyes fixed on Wright's face. 'Okay?' he said.

  Wright nodded and headed for the door. Of all the questions he'd asked of the four men, it was probably the only one that he felt had been answered truthfully. 'Thanks for your time,' he said, wiping his sweating hands on his slacks. 'And for the music’

  Hammack stepped to the side and opened the door for him, then closed it behind him.

  Wright stood for a while, looking at the framed photographs that lined the wall at the bottom of the spiral staircase. He wondered what the men would say when they were alone. And he wondered why they'd lied to him. The proof that the four Americans knew Max Eckhardt was hanging on the wall among the scores of other photographs. One of the pictures was an old one of The Jazz Club, by the look of it taken more than a decade earlier. Eric Horvitz wasn't in the photograph, but Max Eckhardt was, standing next to Doc and cradling a bass guitar.

  'A yf"ax is dead,' said Ramirez quietly. 'How could it have IVJ-happened and we not know about it?’

  'We're not his next of kin, Sergio,' said Doc. 'Why would anyone tell us?’