Bangkok Burn

by Simon Royle

  I lit a cigarette thinking of what words to use with Pim. How to explain. Nothing seemed adequate, or maybe I was just getting gun shy. Last time I played this game I got punched in the eye. I smiled. Out of the darkness, an old man on a bicycle, wobbling. He started singing. Drunk. He passed under the light twenty meters from me. Joom’s gardener, Goong, back from an evening’s drinking. I was too slow, he saw me. He kept pedaling in slow motion. His mouth dropped open as he looked at me. I smiled and gave him a little wave. He screamed and took off like Lance Armstrong going for the finish line. He threw the bike on the ground in front of Joom’s wrought iron gate and bolted through the little side door just as Pim came out of it.

  “He saw you, right?” She said smiling, as she walked over and kissed me. She smelled great. I buried my nose in her neck and breathed in deep. I kissed her on the neck.

  “Whoa boy, slow down, don’t you think we ought to get out of here before you freak out the rest of the neighborhood?”

  I held the door open for her, her skirt shorter than a taxi driver’s change. I got us out of the back roads and onto the old Sukhumvit Road headed east.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Well I’m not sure any of the houses are safe and downtown is a war zone and about to be put under curfew. I thought we’d head up to Bang Pakong. There’s a little place on the river there. We can eat, get some sleep, and I’ll bring you back before lunch and then after a little business here I’m off to Phuket.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  “No.”

  “Will it be dangerous?”

  “Probably. Either way I need you to be at the funeral, playing the grieving girlfriend tomorrow.”

  “For Chance or for Sam?”

  “Oh. You heard.”

  “Yes, a friend mentioned it on line.”

  “Oh.” I focused on driving. ‘Oh’ seemed to be working. At least I hadn’t been punched in the jaw yet, and we were still talking.

  “Have you got anything more to say other than ‘Oh’?”

  “Oh oh”. That earned me a slap on the leg and a grin.

  “I haven’t had time to take it in. It’s my fault for suggesting we play dead and I hadn’t really thought it through.”

  “Thought it through, right. You’d been blown up a few hours before. Perfectly reasonable to make mistakes. You were suffering from concussion.”

  I glanced out of the corner of my eye, doing a quick ‘sarcasm check’ but, no, her profile was as straight as could be.

  “What’s your family going to think?”

  “I honestly don’t care. This isn’t about them. So their only daughter married a gangster, worse, a Farang. They’ll get over it. Anyway, my mother married a corrupt cop from the south, hardly the social triumph of the century. Much as I love him, he is what he is.”

  I looked across at her.

  “Keep your eyes on the road.”

  “So we’re getting married? When did you decide that?”

  “Yes. Today. At your funeral.” There was something ominous about that but I couldn’t put my finger on what.

  “You shared this good news with anyone else?”

  “No. Of course not. Why? You do want to marry me don’t you?”

  You’re not allowed a long time to think about that one. Not when the question is asked. You have to respond, very quickly, or else the response will be made for you. Just some friendly advice. Fortunately, I had thought about this one. I had thought about it on the flight to Singapore and the night before at the motel. I had gone to sleep thinking that I had to give this life up because I didn’t want to give her up.

  “Yes I do want to marry you, and thank you for asking.”

  “Asshole.” She grinned at me, and reached across stroking my chin. “You need a shave.”

  “There’re a few things I need. Shaving isn’t at the top of the list.”

  “If number one on your list is shagging me, then you’d better re-prioritize that list of yours.”

  “Okay, shaving’s moving up the list.”

  “Shagging wasn’t number one on your list?”

  “No”.

  “Oh.” We drove in silence for a bit.

  “What was number one on your list”?

  “Getting a blow job.”

  “Well forget that. Not until you shave. What’s good for the goose. I don’t want a rash from your stubble. Besides I shaved. Look.” She lifted up her skirt. I nearly crashed the car.

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “About what?”

  “Getting married.”

  “I didn’t change my mind. I’ve known I was going to marry you from the second day we met.”

  “Just the day before yesterday…”

  “Chance. I’ve always been going to marry you. It was just a question of when. Do you know how weird it is to be at your funeral? Listening to everyone talking about you. Even though the aunts are in on it. They spend all their time talking about you. More than one has said, in private, that if I don’t marry you they’d be happy to have their daughter take my place. One has even suggested trying hers as a minor wife.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not telling you. All I have had since last Thursday is a complete recapping of your entire life, as seen by them. All the scrapes and things you’ve done since you were kid. Mother’s been chipping in too.”

  “What did Mother say?”

  “Just telling stories about you. She took out the family album at one point, showing me photographs of when you were eight. You were really cute, by the way. When they take on a role, they really act the part. Sometimes I have to pinch myself to remind me that you’re not dead. That you’re off somewhere, doing whatever it is gangsters do. What is it you do?”

  “A lot of driving around and yakking on cell phones. Talk a lot mostly, lunches, dinners, drinks in bars at late hours – that’s it.”

  “Not to mention meetings in massage parlors. Doesn’t sound very exciting.”

  “Yes and sometimes meetings in massage parlors usually in the restaurant, but you’re right, it’s not exciting, most of the time.”

  “It’s not the most of the time that worries me. It’s when it gets exciting, that’s when you’re in danger. That worries me. Don’t you get scared?”

  “Honestly, yes. Before and after, but when it’s going down there’s no time. You’re just doing whatever it is that needs doing. No time to think. The thing that scares me most, apart from the thought of family or you being hurt, is the thought of going to prison.”

  “Mere Joom told me about when you first came to the house. She and Por had been trying to have children. She said, ‘a boy’, not children, but hadn’t had any success. The other wives kept producing daughters and she’d been to specialists and tried everything, dragging Por along when needed. This went on for years. There was no medical reason why they couldn’t have a child. It just didn’t happen. Nothing worked. She came to the conclusion it was in Buddha’s hands. She went to Erawan, the four-faced Buddha, late, one night. She made her offerings, and then with the boys surrounding the outside area so no one could look in, she danced naked around the statue nine times. The next morning Por showed up with you.”

  “I’ve never heard that before.”

  “Her eyes shine when she speaks about you. You can hear the love and pride in her voice.”

  “Have you said anything to her about me leaving the family business?”

  “No, nothing. That’s for you to do when the time is right.” She stroked my cheek. “Now is not the right time. Now you have to find out who’s doing this. And Chance?”

  We had reached the little resort on the river. I drove into an open slot in the car park and turned to face her. “Yes.”

  “When you do find them. Kill them all.”

  Special Delivery

  16 May 2010 Bangkok 11:45 am

  Later that morning, having caught up on all the S’s, I dropped Pim back at Joom’s hous
e and drove back to the warehouse. The situation in Bangkok had worsened. Sniping and firefights with automatic weapons were flaring up all over central Bangkok. Smoke, from burning tires, marking the demarcation lines, separated by live fire ‘no-man’s land’ zones, hung over the city like a dark gray cloud. It looked like the movie, ‘Blackhawk Down’. Only it wasn’t. It was real. Surreal more like it.

  Back at the warehouse the caravan was ready to roll. Four guys in the VW with the money, five guys in each of the Landcruisers, Mother standing on the loading bay, still wearing the same clothes from yesterday.

  “Mother, please go home. I’ll handle it.”

  She offered her cheek, and I kissed her.

  “I’m fine. I slept earlier this morning. Don’t worry.”

  She stepped down from the loading bay, giving final instructions to the drivers. Beckham handed them each pre-programmed GPS devices. A quick time synchronization to get everyone on the same page. Last minute instructions from Mother - speed not over one hundred and twenty, if pulled over everyone stops, if you need to piss use the bottles in the car, if you need to shit, jump out. They all laughed. They’d heard that one before and were waiting for it. They waied her, and got in the vehicles. The caravan pulled out.

  The women who’d done the counting started filing out. Giving Mother a wai, they all climbed into the air-conditioned coach, Mother had brought them in on, tired but happy and smiling. Five thousand baht each, about a hundred and sixty US dollars, for twelve hours work counting paper. They didn’t think of it as money and were sworn to secrecy on pain of being covered in chicken blood and tossed into a crocodile pit at night. Joom had told them it was counterfeit. It was easier for them to think about it that way. Much easier than them thinking they had just counted three billion baht’s worth of United States dollars.

  The warehouse, fifteen minutes earlier, a hubbub of activity and noise, was now quiet. Mother watched after the coach as it drove away. Beckham and Chai stood near the gate, Beckham having a smoke. Mother joined me on the loading bay.

  “I found out about the tip to Thai Rath. It was sent in anonymously. Photo of Samuel Harper compared with the photoshopped photos of you dead from Pim’s phone. They un-photoshopped them and compared the two. The note just said that Samuel Harper and Oh were the same person. Of course they want an interview.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  Joom smiled, her hair and clothes immaculate, despite having been awake and on the move for over twenty-fours.

  “I told them, sure, anytime. Tell the reporters I’m waiting for them at the Crocodile Farm. I do have to get back. We’ve just received a ‘special delivery’ at the farm. Some people are using this little war as a way to settle scores and clean house. I can see we’re going to get busy next week.”

  ‘Special delivery’ was code for dead bodies. No questions asked, one hundred thousand a body, discounts applied for more than ten at a time. No children. Having a hundred thousand crocodiles twenty kilometers from Bangkok was Por’s idea. Growing it into an internationally known show business, that was all Joom.

  “Try to get some rest, Mother. Have you heard anything from Malaysia?”

  “I will, and no, I haven’t heard anything back yet. My usual contact is on a safari in South Africa. So far no luck getting ahold of him. Aunt Ning is trying through one of her connections in the army. I’ll tell you as soon as I get something.” She looked tired. I waied her and walked her to her Benz, Beckham in the driver’s seat.

  The ‘chase’ cars should be arriving in Phuket at about eight. We’d arranged two ‘chase’ cars and two to bring up the rear of the caravan. The chase cars were to keep ten kilometers in front of the caravan and the rear cars ten behind. All were connected with radio and phones on. This wasn’t the first time we’d done this. The unknown element was the State of Emergency that the government had imposed on Bangkok and twenty other provinces. Most of these were in the north, but the army was on a heightened alert status everywhere.

  I had to entertain Big Tiger’s Aussie business partner at eight, and some time before then I expected Lisp to call. I hoped to speak to Uncle Mike. I had to hope that Aunt Ning’s or Mother’s connections would come through and we could get people working on tracking down the yacht. I had four guys working on it but that would take too long. Was taking too long. I was running out of time. Sometimes you have to be patient. There’s no choice. When you’ve covered all the bases, dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s, you have to be able to let go. If you don’t, you start second-guessing yourself. Just the nature of the beast.

  Suddenly it occurred to me. I hadn’t covered all the bases. The blast must have done more damage than I realized. They might have chartered the boat. The boating, ‘yachtie’, community in South East Asia (SEA) is a tightknit one. Each has an eye on the other watching what the competition is doing. There aren’t that many companies chartering yachts, and those with a Hatteras 53 were even fewer.

  I called Pim.

  “Search the net for charter companies in SEA, start with Singapore, Phuket, and Malaysia.”

  “Hang on a second. It’s a bit noisy here, hold on…” I could hear the noise of monks chanting, chatter of women in the background.

  “Okay what did you need?”

  “Search the net for charter companies in SEA, start with Singapore, Phuket, and Malaysia.”

  “Okay, got it.”

  “Once you’ve got a list, call them. Tell them we’re looking to charter a Hatteras 53, must be a Hatteras 53. If they say okay, say you want it immediately. If they say okay, then talk to them about where the boat is and talk about price. Whatever price they give, say you’ll think about it. Any hits let me know, right away.”

  “Okay”

  “Thanks. I’ll call you when I get to Phuket, if I don’t hear from you sooner.”

  Chai closed the gate after Mother and joined me. It was hot now, just after noon. The loading bay was in the shade, the concrete warm, the air dusty. I walked back inside to the office. The air-conditioning too cool, I eased the thermostat up to twenty-four Celsius. It reminded me of the Cambodian freezing to death.

  I put the phones on the desk along with my guns. I felt lighter. The chair was comfy, overstuffed with a high back. I kicked off my shoes and put my feet up. I noticed the headache I’d had for the last few days was gone. Chai followed me into the office, a bottle of Johnny Walker black, two glasses, and an ice-bucket in his hands. He put them on the desk and shut the door of the office. He poured us both two fingers and dropped some ice into each glass. The warehouse was silent except for the sound of the air-conditioner in the office.

  “Cheers. Good idea.” I raised my glass to Chai and took a good swallow, the whiskey burning its way down my throat and hitting my stomach with a warm wash. I took another sip, a smaller one this time and let it rest on the back of my tongue.

  “Where do you think Ken will make his move?” Chai asked.

  “Chumphon would be my guess, halfway between here and Phuket. Time enough to get set up. He’s got the tracking devices to follow so he knows where they are. Our guys know what to do right?”

  “They know what to do.”

  “I don’t want anyone getting killed over this. Nice and easy.”

  “They’ll surrender the money without a fight, but if the Yakuza come in shooting, they’ll defend themselves. Okay?”

  “Sure. I hope it doesn’t come to that. Although it is a risk. That, and Ken just having them executed after they surrender.”

  “He won’t. Stealing the money is one thing. Killing a bunch of our guys another. He doesn’t want a war, he wants the money.”

  We were both operating on the assumption that Ken would try to steal the money. Ken had put tracking devices in the smaller bundles. X-ray had showed them up. Otherwise nothing would have detected them. They had only just now started transmitting. We had kept one. Wafer thin, Japanese technology.

  “You heard anything about Uncle Mike?�
�

  “Nothing. We’ve got feelers out but nothing’s pinged back yet. I tell you, Chai, I can’t figure out what’s happening. The bombing, the attacks, the kidnapping. None of it. I’ve got no idea where it’s coming from or even if it's connected.” My gut screamed at me - it’s connected, don’t be a fool. And I knew my gut was right. I just couldn’t figure out how.

  Shells by the Seashore