by James Newman
TWENTY
NOK SQAWKED at Rang as he walked up to its perch to examine the bird more closely. The bird hopped nervously from one foot to the other inside it’s gilded cage.
“Don’t worry brother. It’s just the bird. A beautiful specimen don’t you think?”
“Never had too much time for birds myself, apart from those on a plate,” Rang laughed. “I hear the Hornbill is quite toothsome.”
“Have you been to the temple recently?”
The teachings of the Buddha were clear in Rang’s alcoholic mind. The first truth was suffering. Birth, old age, sickness and death. A desire for the unobtainable. The recognition that what is achieved is ultimately insubstantial. Desire was the rat in the trap with the bait there in front of him. Desire was the hooker who lost the John to another hooker because she pushed too hard. Desire was completely undesirable and the desire not to desire was worse than desire itself. The wheel of dharma spun on every day.“Never mind that. Where is the Whisky?” Rang said.
Shogun set the drinks down on the table and poured a generous measure of Mekong into his brother’s glass. He did not pour one for himself. “Drink likes the peasants, brother. You can take a bottle home with you if you like. Drinkers lack ambition, Rang. A workforce fuelled on cheap liquor is easy to govern. They lack any ambition beyond the next drink and are willing to perform the most mundane task to keep the glass topped up. Whiskey drinkers think whiskey. Beer drinkers think beer. Drunks are terribly predictable. They think they are liberating themselves while in reality they are limiting themselves.”
“Thank you Khun Shogun, you are, of course wrong.”
“I don’t require liquor. I can see why some would like to see others drink though. Where I stand the world is clear. I can’t afford the fog alcohol brings me.”
“Sometimes the fog is all I have,” Rang said.
“Exactly. Listen, brother. How does your daughter like a drunk for a father. How did your wife like having a drunk as a husband?”
“Lizard,” Rang swore at his brother.
“Buffalo,” Shogun shouted. “What are you going to do?”
“Why, you think I don’t have the nerve,” Rang advanced on his brother and reached out his hands. His hands gripped Shogun by the throat. “You, fucking lizard,” his grip tightened.
Shogun reached into his pocket and brought out the gun in one fluid movement. He pointed the Glock at his brother’s temple. “Do it, Rang, do it”
Rang fell to the floor. Shogun stood with the gun aimed at his brother. “Move, stand up.”
Rang used the sofa to get back to his feet.
“Get out of here,” Shogun barked. “Don’t ever come back.”
Rang turned to face his brother, spat on the ground, and headed toward the door.
TWENTY-ONE
Bangkok
THE FLOORBOARDS were wooden and the ceiling low, the few tables in the establishment were empty. Nautical scenes hung on the walls. The air-conditioning was arctic. It was the kind of pub Hale found himself drinking in and after a few pints forgetting that he was living in the world’s hottest city. Hale ordered a Guinness and took a seat near the window. It was six in the evening and the whores walked past going to the job. Not too bad a job Hale decided. You got to wake up late in the day and dress up in party mode. You go to a bar, get bought free drinks, and if a guy takes your fancy, you take him to a hotel and he pays you in the morning. It doesn’t seem too bad a deal on the surface and sure beats crippling your back in the fields. If Hale had been a Thai woman there was no doubt that he would have been a prostitute. Commercial sex was a slot machine. You put money in and sometimes you got lucky. But you knew deep down inside the machine always won. He’d rather be the machine than the punter. Hale drank the Guinness and ordered another. The barmaid looked bitterly at the room around her. Too many cocks and more often than not they were attached to the wrong body. She felt cheated and angered. They were both disenfranchised.
Hale shared her pain.
He paid the bill and walked up Cowboy, the neon lights and the girls spilling out from the bars. That awful stench of som tam salad. Hale walked past the bars like the old Bangkok hand he had now become. Newcomers walked with their eyes darting around in a look of wonder and amazement. A few girls called out to Hale but he simply walked straight on until he reached the end of the road. A man wearing a cap was smoking a cigarette. Hale walked into an internet café and asked to call international. The Thai girl called the number and handed him the phone.
“Hello, Lloyds of London.”
“Put me through to Wordsworth Syndicate please.”
Silence and then a secretary’s voice said good morning.
“Yes, please put me through with whoever deals with the Bluegreen policy. I’m the producing broker.”
“Oh let me see.” Hale sensed a difficult question. “Just put me through to your Asia non-marine department. I will deal with it from there.”
“Ok, Putting you through to Mr Wolfe.”
“Hello?”
“Yes, this is James Hale calling from Bangkok I need to speak to someone dealing with the Bluegreen hotel policy.”
“That would be me but I need to ascertain who you are and who you work for.”
“I work for myself: I’m the retail broker out here in Bangkok. Name’s Hale. I know the situation and I think I can help you out.”
“Go on,” Wolfe said.
“Well you paid out for one corpse already, I know that and the second one is the problem. There could be a third.”
“Yes, we are making investigations.”
“Yes. And he hasn’t come up with shit. I can. I will settle this for you if you can do something for me. I want out of this place. I want a ticket back to London and I want a job back in Lloyds. I can prove that the second death was fraudulent and I will save you from paying out the two million. Provide me safe passage back to the UK, a hotel and a job and I’ll give you all the evidence you need. What do you say?”
“A condition of the deal is that you work with Dylan.”
“I work alone.”
“It is not a request. It is a condition.”
“Ok. It may work. Goodnight London.” Hale slammed down the telephone. Outside the building a man with a baseball cap stared at him. He was ugly. Hale walked to the end of the soi and hailed a taxi to china town.
The Shark fin restaurant in China town wasn’t the kind of place you would want to eat in, but there wasn’t much eating done there. Five or six empty tables littered the main dining area. A dog with dermatitis scratched at his furless belly. Thirteen clocks each telling different incorrect times hung from the far wall. Chow looked up at Hale and smiled; he walked from around the counter and slapped Hale on the back. Chow stood at almost six foot tall with wide hips and shoulders. His hair was long and hung in pig-tails down his shoulder blades. He wore a sleeveless T-Shirt and a pair of army-style combat shorts. He motioned for Hale to follow him to a room beyond a door framed by a beaded curtain.
The room was sparsely furnished; three oriental mattresses sat around a large ceramic opium vase. The vase was decorated in a cool aqua blue with watercolour images of trees and birds. A pipe extended from the bowl and a thin line of smoke rose upwards. Chow busied himself making tea and motioned towards the pipe and the mattress. Hale sat down on the mattress jostling with a Siamese cat for position. He took a lighter from his pocket and lit the black opium on the top of the gauze, the smoke filled his lungs and he sat back and let the drug take effect. A slight tingling in the legs and warmth washed up his back. He closed his eyes. A sudden unexplained anxiety shot through him and then disappeared as he took the second hit. Chow brought the tea and placed it down on the floor. The jasmine leaves were measured out perfectly. Years of practice.
“So what brings you here my friend?” Chow sipped his tea and looked at the cup for a moment as if assessing its worth.
“I need a gun,” Hale said.
Chow looked
up into space for a moment. He considered the question but did not answer.
“I do not intend to use it,” Hale added.
“You should never have a gun unless you intend to use it my friend. I will ask no questions because it does not do one good to ask questions about this sort of thing. I can let you have, let me see...” Chow stood up and walked to a cabinet in the far corner of the room. He took out a key and unlocked the door. He took out a piece. “Will this do?” Chow handed Hale a Glock 19, butt-first. Hale dropped the gun onto the mattress, nearly hitting the cat who darted off to the safety of the restaurant. “Standard police issue. Don’t ask how I got it. It isn’t loaded, the safety is on. Do you need bullets?”
“As I say, I do not intend to use it, I just need some information from someone and a gun often loosens the tongue.”
“I see. The gun has made seventeen hits. It’s passed through many hands. Some of them no longer with us. Is there any way I can help?”
“No. I shall see to it.” Chow owed him a favour from a couple of years ago. Chow’s brother had died in a motorbike accident, hit by a truck. Hale negotiated the claim. A substantial figure considering the normal run of things.
“I hope it works out for you my friend”
“Wait,” Hale said, “There is something you can do. I fly to Ko Samui tomorrow. Can you get the gun onto the island ahead of me?”
“I’ll have a boy drive it down by motorcycle. He’ll load it too. A gun without bullets is useless. The boy will meet you at the airport with a board with you name on it. Although it won’t be your name. It will say, let me think, BANG. Mr. Bang. He will give the gun to you and drive you to where you need to go.”
“Good. I land a little after 4pm.”
Hale lit the pipe again and took a deep intake of the black smoke, his eyes closed and he could see the city of London in front of him. He could smell the bacon cooking and the booze-soaked carpet. He heard footsteps and a door handle turned. He opened his eyes. A man stood inside the room. He wore a baseball cap. He smiled showing crooked teeth, “Some people looking for you Hale. No use hiding anymore. Where’s the money?”
Hale raised the empty gun and pointed it at baseball cap. He stood up. “Don’t worry about me, Jack. I got Buddha on my side. Why don’t you run along and tell The Shark he can wait another forty-eight hours. We’re in the middle of something here.”
Chow walked the five steps to where they were standing. “Now is not a good time,” He put a hand on each of Jack’s shoulders and spun him around. “Walk,” He said. The Swiss spun suddenly and punched at Chow who not expecting it fell back. Hale was face to face with Jack. His finger tensed on the trigger and a gunshot rang out. The slug hit Jack and he fell backwards.
“I thought this thing was empty?” Joe shouted at Chow. “You told me it was empty!”
“I thought it was. I’ll clean this up. Get out of town Hale. Now!”
Jack was on the floor. His baseball cap had fallen from his head. He was bald beneath his baseball cap but that didn’t matter now. What mattered was the bullet that had entered into his brain. Hale stepped over the dead man, ran through the restaurant and disappeared into the crowds of Chareon Krung Road feeling the heat closing in behind him.
TWENTY-TWO
Samui Island
JINX KNOCKED on the bungalow door and listened for any movement inside. It was the third bungalow he had tried. He watched a lizard run across the wall. It’s tail disappeared through the crack between door and frame. He tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it. A foreign man was lying on the bed asleep. The pills were in his pocket. Rang had telephoned him two hours before. The instructions were simple. Find the farang and drug him. He had a history of alcohol abuse. An overdose of sleeping tablets. A neat plan. If the authorities came sniffing for an autopsy with toxicology reports then they would let them have it. If the farang awoke then he was to take him to Rang and then dispose of him. He had not spoken to Shogun to confirm the plan. He figured it was his boss’s idea.
Jinx smiled and walked towards the figure on the bed. It was Joe Dylan alright. Thirty-one, average build, short hair. Jinx didn’t speak. He saw a glass of water on the table beside the bed, he approached closer. The man in the bed moved suddenly like a frightened animal. Jinx grabbed Joe by the arm, grunted, and pointed with his lips toward the door.
“Tam aria nong?” Joe looked at the Jinx. He didn’t struggle as he told him to keep calm. His eyes panned around the room as if looking for something. Jinx’s squeezed Joe’s shoulder. Joe didn’t cry out in pain. He had been in this kind of situation before. He had been in worse situations. He had a strong mind. Normally foreigners would break down and ask for pity. Not this one. He was tough.
“Bpai,” Jinx said. Go.
“Bpai ti-ni? Me fon-dtok maak. Bpai ni mai di,” we can’t go anywhere in this rain.
“Bpai!” He repeated.
“Ok,” Joe told him to take it slow.
Outside the rain was hammering down. Jinx found it difficult to see more than a few feet in front of him. He dragged the farang and bundled him in the back seat of the truck. As they drove night fell. Jinx kept one eye on the road and the other on the rear view mirror. Joe was calmly looking out of the side window. Joe smiled. “What’s this all about?” Joe asked. “A bit rude to wake me up like that and not even have the courtesy to tell me what this is all about. I’m guessing you are Jinx. Shogun’s boy. The fighter. I like the way you drive. Say, maybe I could watch you fight one day. Sit ringside and cheer for the other guy.”
Silence answered him. Jinx stopped the truck. The darkness was broken by a string of fairy lights hanging from a row of trees. Inside, the lights were low; a few tables sat in front of a stage decorated with the same coloured lights. They went inside. Jinx pushed Joe towards a booth and he sat down. He ordered drinks from a girl with a Khmer forehead and a strong frame. Good bone structure. She nodded, disappeared into the darkness. On stage a girl sang a slow sad song about lost love. She was heavily made-up wearing a gold-coloured sarong that reflected the coloured lights. The Khmer girl returned with the drinks. A bottle of Thai whiskey, a bucket of ice, soda, coke, and three glasses. Joe nodded a thank you and smiled.
Jinx waied at a figure barely visible through the darkness of the bar. A tight uniform joined the table; he looked at Joe the way a jeweller might look at a fake stone. He nodded and grunted. He glanced towards the stage and caught the singer’s eye. She put down the microphone and gracefully walked towards the table. She put her hands together and bowed to the police officer. The music stopped. Rang sat down. The girl sat next to him.
“Joe Dylan investigator,” Rang said in near perfect pronunciation. “I am inspector Rang. It has taken us just twenty-four hours to find you. The number of police on Ko Samui are small but we have good resources. A bit naive to break into the deceased’s bungalow. You are not afraid of ghosts, this is good. In our country spirits are everywhere. Those that left the earth at a moment of danger, or violence, these are the most dangerous spirits. Do you understand?”
“Dead people don’t scare me as much as live ones do, inspector. Why were you so keen to meet me, sir: Thai hospitality?”
“Yes.” The inspector smiled. “This is it exactly. We want to assist you in your investigations and we are upset that you did not come to us in the first place.”
“Well, I can’t say that I have really began any kind of investigation yet. Of course, I should like to interview the doctor who signed the death certificates.”
“I believe you have already met.” The chief laughed. A single strand of hair attached to a mole on his chin moved around like an antenna as he spoke. His lips were carpeted by a thick moustache. Joe couldn’t see the man’s eyes behind the bug-like aviators.
“And the bodies?” Joe asked.
“We have photographs of the bodies for your inspection, along with the death certificates. All you need to do is have a little look, telephone London, and all this business
can be put to rest.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“This is a tourist island. I speak English. I know who goes where and who does what. Every day that this matter goes on the newspapers are printing more and more garbage. There are now two newspapers for Ko Samui along with the national and international newspapers. I don’t need to tell you what this sort of thing does for our tourist trade. I am here, Mr Dylan, to assist you in your investigation, but first let us have a drink.”
Rang poured a generous measure of whiskey into a glass and handed it to Joe. It wasn’t the officer’s first of the day. He held a leather case. He put it on the table. Joe looked at the glass and then he looked at the case.
“I took the liberty of picking up your mail from the postal depot.” Rang opened the case and handed Joe a UPS envelope. Inside was a file. Jinx watched Joe flick through it under the dim lights; death certificates, medical reports, grainy photocopied pictures of the dead divers.
A plate of fried grasshoppers arrived and Jinx helped himself to a handful. He enjoyed the salty taste. He chose the largest specimen and popped it into his mouth, he smiled. An insect leg protruding from his lips.
