He shrugged his shoulders. “Some people have to be dealt with in a different way. I cannot help you tonight Pao.”
The policeman nodded matter-of-factly. He opened his desk drawer and removed a pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a blade. The Chief sighed sadly. “I don’t like this work. I’ll need to raise the price for my aggravation.” He then brightened. “But Declan I’ll still meet your fee. Oh, and the young lady you introduced me too. She is perfect and lovely. The hilltribe girls know their place and don’t ask for too much money.” He reached into the lower draw and produced a bottle of Seagram’s 100 Pipers.
Pao looked up with a smile. “To our good life and fortune,” he cheered. Their glasses met and they poured down the fiery contents.
Napoleon then plodded on to the room where John Larkin was awaiting his belongings. The cries were not pretty. They had haunted Declan for weeks. Perhaps he should have put in more effort. But, Declan reasoned, people get what they deserve. John Larkin, last he had heard, had relocated down south and was holding down a teaching gig in a government school. Another lesson learned.
Ben Post cracked open his third beer of the still young day. At one in the afternoon it was way too early to get on the piss. But this was no ordinary day. He phoned Declan Power one more time. “What the fuck,” Post shouted as another call went unanswered. He paced up and down on his balcony. Usually the rolling hills which enveloped the nearby Wat U-Mong Temple provided a peaceful salve to whatever ailed him. Not today. He poured himself a shot of bourbon. “Martin ‘Fucking’ Gay,” he cursed to the swaying trees which bracketed his balcony. Ben once again went over the details of his morning’s ordeal.
He had woken up with a stunner who had come back last night to share his bed. Ben had spotted her at Foxy Lady a few weeks previous. Rose was her name. She came with long legs, a small curvaceous bottom, and breasts that make grown men silly. This chick had it all. Rose was new on the Chiang Mai nightlife scene. All of eighteen, she had hopped on a bus from her village home and headed for the big city. Rose’s job options were limited yet highly lucrative. She quickly got a job in a bar. But a small beer-bar wasn’t going to hold a looker like Rose for too long. She found a chrome pole. Shortly after, Rose had the center stage pole at the premier joint in town. Her destiny was secured.
Rose was out of Ben’s league. He knew it. She did too. Rose would choose whom she would bed and for how much. But Ben did have one ace in the hole. His best friend was Declan Power. He didn’t like to rely on their friendship as a crutch. Usually his money was enough. But with a girl like Rose, a once in a year go-go beauty, he had neither the looks nor the cash to close the deal. He could dangle Declan’s highly sought after centerfold spread however.
Declan was a sport about the whole thing. In fact, he appreciated Ben’s ‘second set of eyes.’ And some girls, dames like Rose, could easily be swept off the stage by Mr. Deep Pockets and shuttered in a condo before Declan had achance to immortalize them on his girl of the month page.
Ben would arrange a meeting with a suitable candidate and, if Declan agreed, a photo shoot would be arranged. Declan would then let the girl know that Ben would be in charge of delivering her to the shoot. She’d get the message. Ben would then enjoy some quality time with a hot bird for a few days. For free. Declan got his centerfold. Ben got his top shelf sex. The girl got a shot of local fame which increased her earning power. Everybody walked away fat.
Only a few short hours ago the plan was working its magic. Declan had signed off on Rose the moment he laid his eyes on her. Rose was dutifully, if not enthusiastically, showing her gratitude. Then a loud knock on the door disturbed his tranquility. Who the hell knocked on the door midmorning?
Rose lay naked on the couch watching videos while Ben went half-dressed to see who was making such an early house-call. He called lazily, “Who’s there mate? I’m busy.”
The door violently flung open. It slammed him in square in the face knocking him to the floor.
“The police are here mate,” was the icy reply.
Ben looked up to see three brown shirts, Chiang Mai City Police. “Are you too busy mate,” the Chief called in an exaggerated mocking tone.
‘Shit’ Ben whispered to himself. ‘Bye bye sunshine, hello rain.’ A long morning was in the offing and he knew it.
Declan Power started to fidget. He didn’t like to wait. He especially wasn’t keen on wasting his time in a dingy police interrogation room. The temptation to up and leave was strong. But there was something in Chief Pao’s demeanor that set off alarm bells. His radar sniffed trouble. He grinned. Trouble meant story.
The door opened and a sharply dressed man walked purposefully into the room. He clearly wasn’t police. The Brooks Brothers wing tips, spit and polished, the expertly pressed tan Arrow shirt smartly matched with Armani slacks, a silk tie, Jim Thompson Thai silk, added up to something way out of Chiang Mai’s league. Declan was staring at a Bangkok man.
Bangkok Man smiled. The smile matched his bright tie: Pure silk. “Mr. Power, my name is Phitak Pantrem. I have a few questions and I’m truly sorry to take up any of your time.”
Silk was the flavor of the day Declan thought. His jaw remained set. But inside he allowed himself a smile. Silk tie, silk smile, a silky tongue, Bangkok Man had it all. The story, his story, just got richer.
“I’m always happy to help,” Declan answered evenly. He had become adept at eliciting the information he needed. One might say he was ‘silky’ even. “And you are?”
“Yes of course. I am an investigator from the Department of Tax and Revenue, Bangkok branch, national headquarters.”
Power bolted to attention. In the United States it was far better to deal with the F.B.I. than the Internal Revenue Service. It didn’t even add up. He was on salary at the newspaper and they paid his taxes. Shit! ‘My asshole boss,’ his mind screamed. No story here, just a one way ticket out of paradise. “Ok,” Declan said indifferently.
“Can you describe your relationship with a Mr. Martin Gay?” his inquisitor began.
Declan relaxed. Another twist. “We don’t have one.” He knew Bangkok Man was after more but he’d have to dig for it. Any story would lay in the questions asked.
“You were close friends were you not? Please describe that relationship.”
Bangkok Man’s English was precise. It was a tongue trained abroad which meant he occupied a high station. This told him a great deal. The case of Martin Gay was not closed. Brilliant. “We were close friends. But that was years ago, back in 2003, 2004. We went our separate ways a while back, he into the TEFL business and I into journalism.”
Pantrem let out a slight laugh at Power’s mention of ‘journalism.’
“Yes, and it was your story of Gay’s illegal activities at King Mengrai University which led to your former friend’s downfall,” Bangkok Man stated.
“Ah, you read it, brilliant stuff!”
Bangkok Man looked up from his dossier. He looked as if to comment, a slight grin crept across his neatly shaved face. It quickly disappeared.
“When was your last interaction with Mr. Gay?”
“We almost got into a bust up over at Spotlight a go-go. He suggested we handle this ‘the ‘ol Aussie way.’”
Pantrem nodded. “So the last contact you had was violent. When did this altercation take place?”
Declan smiled to himself. Bangkok Man was good. “No, it didn’t come to blows, just a lot of pushing, shoving, and yelling. This incident was a year or so ago. Marty finally stormed out of the bar. His parting words, and I quote, ‘You fucked with the wrong bunny mate!’”
Bangkok Man’s grin returned. It was accompanied by a laugh. The humor did not escape Declan either.
“Colorful,” Pantrem offered.
“Marty was that.” He caught himself talking in the past tense.
Bangkok Man picked it up as well. “You said ‘was.’ Has something happened to Gay?”
The question opened up another door
. “Not to my knowledge. He’s out of my life so I suppose I think of him in the past tense.”
Phitak Pantrem stood up. The silk interrogation was over. “Fine. Here’s my card Declan. If you should hear of Martin Gay’s whereabouts please contact me.”
The interview was over. Bangkok Man marched out the door as smartly as he had entered. Declan followed. He exited the police station with a head full of questions. A seed had been planted, a story born.
Ben Post struggled to get up but one of the Chief’s underlings, a twentyish tough looking thug, kicked him back to the floor. Ben twisted his head to look at Rose. She had taken notice but did not seem to be in a state of any alarm. She returned her gaze to the TV.
He again attempted to right himself. The urge to put up a defense was fierce. He quickly realized it would be futile. They were the police and, in any case, he was outnumbered. Truth be told, the brawny younger brown shirt would have made quick work of him.
“What the hell do you want!” he said in a wavering voice.
The Chief’s eyes had yet to leave Rose. He barked some orders to his second in command. Ben understood Thai well. “Question this one! You’ll know if he is lying. If he is, roll him down to the station. I’ll question the girl.”
The Chief then leisurely walked over to Rose and whispered something quietly. Rose giggled. She bounced off the couch, grabbed the Chief’s hand, and led him into Ben’s bedroom.
Ben could only quietly rage.
The interrogation was torture. Not of the physical nature but rather it was a mental ordeal. In all fairness, the crisply uniformed lieutenant was polite and got right to the point.
“Do you know the whereabouts of Martin Gay?” His English was trained, articulate even. But Ben wasn’t paying attention to that. The romp in the bedroom was just getting started.
“Marty Gay!” Ben snorted. “No.”
“Look at me,” his interrogator said with a snap of the fingers. “Gay’s chopper is in your carpark is it not,” he continued in the form of a statement.
Ben began to worry. What kind of pickle was Marty in? Only a few days ago Gay had come to his apartment looking for help. ‘Look Ben, I’ve got to sort some things out.’ He should have just told Gay to hit the road.
“Yeah, that’s his bike. He dropped it off here a few days ago, said he had to sort some stuff out.” Was that slapping he heard? That’s exactly what it was, hand meeting ass. And did Rose have to enjoy it so much?
The second in command nodded towards the door. “The Chief likes his fun,” he said with a smirk. “Ok, so Martin Gay leaves a high end chopper with you to drive around the city.” His voice carried a heavy dose of skepticism. “What did he have to sort out?”
“I don’t know mate,” Ben replied truthfully. More slapping and moaning. Shit! A full on orgasm!
A card was handed to him. Ben looked at it absently. “You’ll contact me directly if Martin Gay reappears.” It wasn’t a request. “The keys please.”
“What,” Ben replied distractedly.
“The keys to the Kawasaki please,” the lieutenant snapped.
If his day could get worse, that was it. One hundred thousand cash money to Gay in exchange for a two hundred and fifty thousand baht bike. ‘What can go wrong?’ he heard Marty’s voice clanging in his head.
He wanted to protest. Another slap. Another orgasm. A satisfied giggle. Screw it! He went over to his kitchen table and tossed the keys into number two’s lap.
The bedroom door opened and Rose bounced out. She was brightly dressed in a yellow and blue polka dot summer dress. The dress Ben had bought for her last night. The Chief, a smug satisfied smile on his face, leaned into his underling’s shoulder. Ben couldn’t overhear. The Chief nodded, looked over at Ben, frowned, and walked out the door. Rose followed.
“Bye Ben! I’ll see you tonight? At Foxy ok?”
“Yeah yeah,” he said waving his finger at the bulky brown shirt’s back.
The door closed. The Kawasaki roared. Ben Post opened his liquor cabinet.
Declan bounded up the stairs to his fourth floor condo. In an effort to shed some pounds, he had foresworn the elevator. He usually began to labor after the second floor but not today. His mind was racing. Martin Gay, the gift that kept on giving. He’d need to contact the Chief. His call had gone unanswered.
Oum was waiting for him. She was sitting at the kitchen table, a concerned look on her face. Declan didn’t notice. He hopped on the futon and began to undress.
“C’mon my bundle of love, give big daddy some afternoon delight!”
This was their ritual. Meet in the afternoon for a ride on the futon followed by a nice lunch. He noticed her look of consternation.
“Declan we need to talk.”
Those were the dreaded five words.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Ok baby, what’s the matter.”
“I talk with Nam today.”
He knew at least ten ladies going by that name. “Ok,” he replied unsuccessfully trying to show some interest.
She motioned for him to join her at the table. His shoulders sagged. He patted the futon’s cushion. Oum shook her head ‘no.’ She meant it.
He reluctantly shuffled to her side. “And what trouble did Nam drop in your lap? We’ve got the wedding to think about Oum. We can’t be lending out any more money.”
Declan softened and wrapped his arms around her. She was always there to help a friend in distress.
“Nam, Marty’s wife.”
His ears jumped. Martin Gay’s wife was in no need of money. She was fat. Thoughts of the futon faded. “I was called down to police headquarters this morning baby.”
“Why?” Oum asked.
“A man, a Bangkok man, questioned me about Martin Gay.”
Her eyes opened wide. She reached into her purse and produced the envelope Nam had given her. She slid it across the table. Declan recognized it for what it was. He was paid in the same fashion down at headquarters. Only this was fatter. He picked it up and held it in his hands. He didn’t need to open it. “There’s one hundred large in here Pilsbury Dough girl.”
Oum nodded. “Doc Martin leave it with Nam. He say to give it to you if have problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“She say government man come to see Marty. Next day he go to meeting and he never come back. Nam want you to find her husband. She say Marty say you are the true friend and you will take care sure.”
Declan flipped the envelope from hand to hand. Martin Gay was a con-artist, a good one. That was beyond a doubt. But what was the con? He continued to toss the envelope in the air. The smart move was to give it back. Getting in bed with Martin Gay meant trouble. The envelope fell to the floor with a thud. He picked it up. It was fat. Everybody was getting fat.
His mind traced back to the last he had heard from Marty. The time he didn’t mention to Bangkok Man. It was at Best Bar, Oum’s pride and joy. In came ‘Doc’ Martin. He was off the wagon and all lathered up. Declan thought they would finally come to blows. But his former friend had a different way to rub his nose in the dirt. Marty hopped on the bar and gleefully rang the bell. Not once but twice. He grabbed the microphone. “Sold the company! Made a shitload of dough! So go fuck yourself Declan Power.” Before exiting the pub a hero, he ambled up to Declan, spit in his face, and tossed a roll of bills into his lap.
Declan had blown up Martin Gay’s TEFL scam, torpedoed his reputation, all on the front page. But there he was, walking around all puffed up, walking around fat. Declan Power slammed the envelope on the table. He had an idea.
He took Oum’s cherubic face gently in his meaty palms. “Baby, here’s what we’re going to do.”
The beginning of a story, a truly juicy tale, was like the beginning of a relationship. It was exhilarating. Still there was an element of danger, turf never travelled. The bird would take flight with one wrong move. Trust needed to be built. Declan took a long drag off his Marlboro. He had promised Oum he would q
uit, but now he was on the chase, a story to be romanced, to be tracked down. The sticks would be cast away later.
He could sit on his balcony, gaze up at the famed mountain monastery of Doi Suthep, and formulate a story in his head. A Jack and Coke cast his mind towards the scent. It was time to game-plan. He’d meet the ‘Mayor’ tonight. Martin Gay had gone missing. If he was hunkered down in Chiang Mai most likely the ‘Mayor’ would know about it. The how was anybody’s guess. But this man held the pulse of Chiang Mai in his palm. That was step one.
The Chief had finally contacted him via sms. ‘Tomorrow, 19:00, meet at Pom Pui, bring wife.’ It was a strange message. The chase was off to a good start. Strange is good when dealing with a potentially hot story. The odder the details meant a hotter account. And something truly odd was going on at the station. That was step two.
Ben Post was another matter. He shook his head, drunk by mid-afternoon. Ben was his best friend in the city. He could trust Ben with just about anything. But his tale was becoming too much like the flotsam and jetsam which make up the majority of the Chiang Mai farang scene: too much booze, too many dames, not enough honest labor. It was a dangerous cocktail. He’d meet up with him at Foxy Lady later that night.
He took the World TEFL Center envelope into his hands. It was thick, a healthy stack of cash. Declan was getting paid. ‘But for what?’ Martin Gay was a skilled conman, a pro’s pro. Declan knew the type. South Boston was littered with the artist of the scam. Some big, some small, but they all had one thing in common: a sharp eye for detail. ‘Doc Martin’ was big. His con, at its height, was netting him in the neighborhood of 10,000 U.S. per month. ‘That’s a nice neighborhood,’ Declan whistled. Martin Gay knew detail.
He walked over to the little safe they kept in the corner of their bedroom. He deposited the cash inside. His payment was secured. There was only one conclusion to draw. Declan Power was being paid to write a story. It was the only thing he could do with any competence, a fact known only too well to Martin Gay. He slapped his hands with determination. “Ok, Martin! You’ll get your story. How it helps you is anybody’s guess.”
The Chiang Mai Chronicle: A Declan Power Mystery Page 2
