by Ian Hamilton
At Pantip she ordered all five seasons of The Wire — fifteen DVDs — for forty dollars, and then she bought three film-editing software programs for one of her friends. The software cost three dollars for each program; her friend would save a couple of thousand dollars. While she waited for the DVDs to be burned, she went across the street and had a bowl of tom yam kung.
After Chinese hot and sour soup, which ranked as her uncontested favourite, tom yam kung was at the head of the second-tier list. Like a good hot and sour seafood soup, it is made with a chicken stock base and a generous amount of shrimp. Cilantro, straw mushrooms, scallions, fish sauce, lime juice, lemongrass stalks, and kaffir lime leaves are added to produce a flavoursome broth, its surface dotted with a crimson oil slick from the final ingredient, red chili peppers. The soup had a clean, clear aroma, like pure oxygen with just a hint of citrus.
After lunch she went back to Pantip to collect her DVDs. As she was paying for them, Arthon called. He had had no luck with Antonelli’s phone, but they had compiled some information on Seto.
“Can I drop it off at the Hyatt?” he asked.
“Fifteen minutes,” she said.
“More like an hour,” he countered.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
( 12 )
AVA WAITED FOR ARTHON FOR CLOSE TO TWO HOURS. She drank several glasses of fruit juice and read all the newspapers in the lobby: the two English-language papers — The Nation and the Bangkok Post — a Chinese paper, the International Herald Tribune, and the Asian edition of the Wall Street Journal. The news was all the same: the economy was in tatters. This usually made for good business for Ava. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Arthon came through the front door, leaving his car running right outside. He had clout, no doubt about that. He was better dressed than he had been the night before, in tight blue slacks and a form-fitting red Lacoste golf shirt, with sunglasses perched on his head. If she hadn’t known him, she might have figured him for a dealer.
Arthon didn’t apologize for being late — given the traffic, it is understood in Bangkok that meeting times are an estimate at best. “I can’t stay,” he said quickly as he handed her two sheets of paper.
“That’s it?”
“Seto’s comings and goings. That and his hotel stays are all we have on record. He’s been here three or four times a year for the past six years, at first going to Hat Yai and then to Bangkok. He stayed at the Novotel with Antonelli when he was in the south, and at the Water Hotel when Antonelli moved north.”
“Seafood Partners?”
“If he was a partner, he was a discreet one.”
“When was he last here?”
“About five months ago.”
When he was organizing the Major Supermarkets scam, she thought.
“I have one more thing for you,” he said, passing her what looked like a passport photo. “I didn’t know if you had one.”
She looked at her target. Thick black hair streaked with grey and combed straight back with no part. Long, thin face with a small mouth, looking even smaller under a moustache that drooped on the right. His eyes were almost hidden by hooded lids. He stared right into the camera with a look of defiance.
“Now I have to go,” Arthon said. “It’s payday and I still have some collections to make. What are your plans for tonight?”
“Barry Bean’s for happy hour. Maybe I can get Antonelli to talk to me if he has a few drinks in him.”
“Call me if you need me. I should be free by about seven.”
* * *
Ava got to the bar by six, figuring that happy hour would be in full swing. Barry Bean’s was packed but there was no sign of Antonelli. She mentioned his name to her waitress and was told that “Kuhn George” would be along eventually — he hardly ever missed happy hour. She chatted with a German bathtub manufacturer who was thinking about relocating his business to Thailand but was trying to do it without bringing his wife and kids. The problem was that his wife wasn’t an idiot.
At seven the bar staff gathered in one spot, a bell was rung, and they yelled, “Happy hour is over, happy hour is over.” Still no sign of Antonelli.
Ava called Arthon.
“Oh shit, I forgot this was Friday,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she groaned.
“On Fridays he goes to an Italian restaurant near Soi Cowboy. It’s owned by actual Italians and is one of the trendiest spots in town. After dinner he shows up at Nana Plaza for his weekly romp with a katoey.”
“Does he bring her back to the hotel?” Ava asked.
“No. Security checks all the guests brought back to the rooms and holds their ID until they leave. Antonelli wouldn’t want the staff to know he’s into ladyboys. He uses a hotel attached to Nana that rents rooms by the hour.”
That might even be better, she thought. “Arthon, it might be useful if we had proof of his little habit.”
“What do you mean?”
“Pictures,” she said.
He didn’t hesitate. “It’s worth a try, but I’d have to pay someone, and maybe more than one person.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Five thousand baht at least, maybe even ten.”
Two to three hundred dollars, Ava calculated. “That sounds reasonable, but only if we actually get the pictures.”
“Let me see what I can arrange.”
“Call me later?”
“Whether I’m successful or not?”
“I need to know either way.”
Ava closed her phone and went upstairs to the Water Hotel’s Italian restaurant that Antonelli frequented. It was deserted. The hostess was happy to have someone to talk to and was very forthcoming about Antonelli, or “Khun George” — a verbal sign of respect, the equivalent of “Mister” in English. It turned out that Khun George ate a lot, was very demanding, and tipped badly. Ava was finding it easy to work up a big dislike for him.
After dinner she walked back to the Hyatt. The streets were even more difficult to negotiate than earlier in the day because the night markets and restaurants — appearing as if by magic on the sidewalks — were in full swing. She shuddered when she saw the level of sanitation. There was no running water, and plates and cutlery were being washed and rewashed in the same tub. Ava had eaten street food once, and it had taken her two days to get over the food poisoning.
She thought about going down to Spasso, and then about going to Zeta. She ended up in her room watching HBO. At around eleven she fell asleep.
Although she felt like she had been asleep for a while, it was only eleven-thirty when the phone rang.
“Bingo,” Arthon said. “And with one who hasn’t completed the surgery — she has tits and a cock. Our guy burst into the room when they were in the middle of their fun, both of them completely naked and Antonelli staring right into the camera. He is one very ugly farang with no clothes on. His tits are almost bigger than hers.”
“When can I get the photos?”
“Tomorrow morning. I’ll drop them off first thing.”
( 13 )
ARTHON CALLED AVA AT EIGHT THE NEXT MORNING
to say he was on his way. She had already been up for two hours and had gone for another run in Lumpini Park. Saturday morning was even busier than Friday, and after two laps she walked the third so she could take in more of the sights and sounds. She hadn’t known there were so many variations of tai chi.
When she got back to the hotel, she showered and changed and then camped out in the lobby to wait for Arthon. She was reading the Bangkok Post, which had an article in the lifestyle section about a katoey rock band. From the photo she couldn’t have guessed that it wasn’t just another gorgeous all-girl band.
Aside from his nasty violent streak, Ava had no issue with Antonelli’s sexual tastes. She also knew Thailand well enough to be sure that the Thais wouldn’t care either. Katoeys were a part of everyday life, an accepted third sex. Ava had been in public
buildings that actually had three washrooms: for men, women, and katoeys.
A small cottage industry had developed around the katoey, and partly because of them the plastic surgeons in Thailand were some of the world’s best. They had been lucky to catch Antonelli with one who hadn’t yet completed the surgery. If she had, no one would have believed she was transgender. Then again, Ava thought, maybe we weren’t lucky. Maybe Antonelli likes them half and half.
Arthon arrived on time, wearing the same clothes as the night before. He looked tired, and Ava guessed he hadn’t slept. He slumped onto the couch next to her and groaned.
“Rough night of police work?”
“I wish,” he said. “It’s month-end and I had to make my collections. I’m responsible for the gambling joints, and some of them don’t open till midnight.”
“How much time do you spend on actual police work as opposed to running all these side businesses?”
“It’s about fifty-fifty, although at month-end it gets crazy.”
“And I didn’t think gambling was legal in Thailand,” she said.
“It isn’t,” he said as he passed her a large brown envel-ope.
There were five photos. She winced as she looked at them. Antonelli was even more repulsive with his clothes off than she had imagined, and even though she already knew about his partner, it was still a bit of a shock for Ava to actually see her.
“Wonderful,” she said.
“Do you want me to be with you when you drop this on him? He might not be too pleased.”
“It should be okay. What you can do for me is find out his room number at the Water Hotel. I’ll slip a picture under his door and then arrange to meet him somewhere public where he can’t go off on me.”
“He’s in room 3235.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m going home to get some sleep. If you need me, just call.”
“Here, I owe you this,” she said, giving him a roll of baht.
“Forget it. I talked to my boss and he said he’d kill me if I took anything from Uncle.”
She shrugged. “Give it to a temple or something.”
“I can’t do that,” he said. He stood up and stretched wearily. She noticed some of the female staff eyeing him. He noted them too and smiled and wai’d. Wais all round ensued, and one of women, who looked about sixteen, drifted towards him. A few words were spoken in Thai and then she laughed, took his card, and walked with him to the front door. Ava could only admire how aggressive these women were.
She went back to her room and changed her clothes; the linen slacks and pink Brooks Brothers shirt would create the right impression. She went outside, intending to walk to the hotel, but the sky was clear and the sun was brutal. She didn’t want to get there covered in sweat so she took a taxi, even though the ride would take longer than the walk.
She caught the elevator to the thirty-second floor. The corridor was empty save for the room maid’s cart. Ava stood outside Antonelli’s room for a moment, her ear pressed against the door. She heard faint noises coming from what sounded like a television. She had left one picture in the envelope, on which she had written: Meet me in the lobby downstairs. I’m Chinese, a woman, and I’m wearing a pink shirt.
Ava slid the envelope under the door, rang the doorbell, and then used the nearby exit to run down the stairs. She got out on the thirty-first floor and pushed the elevator button, hoping she’d get to the lobby before him, and hoping even more that he wouldn’t get into the same elevator car as her. It took less than a minute to arrive.
She walked into a lobby that was nearly deserted and chose a chair in the middle of the lounge. Across from it was a couch, with a broad coffee table in between. She ordered an espresso and waited. A few minutes later the elevator doors opened and Antonelli charged into the lobby. He was wearing a Georgia Tech tank top, baggy shorts, and a pair of blue Crocs. His legs were pale and surprisingly smooth. He hadn’t brushed his hair, and the few strands he had left were sticking up in the air. He looked around the lobby; she could see a mixture of anger, urgency, and desperation on his face.
Ava waved at Antonelli and smiled. He headed towards her, the envelope clasped tightly in his hand.
“You, you bitch! You Chinese bitch! You fucking Chinese bitch!” he yelled when he was still ten metres away.
“Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the sofa.
He ploughed towards her, his face contorted, and for a second she thought he was going to try something physical with her. She shifted her feet, bracing herself for a countermove. He stopped when he was still a short distance away from her. “You fucking bitch,” he spat.
Even from that distance she could smell breath that was foul from beer and God knows what else. His bared teeth were stained and coated with a yellow film. She guessed he hadn’t taken the time to brush.
He brandished the envelope in front of him. “You fucking Chinese bitch.”
“You’re getting repetitive, and not accomplishing anything. I suggest you sit,” she said.
“You were the one who was here yesterday. I remember you, you bitch. I thought there was something funny about you.”
“Obviously there was.”
He waved the envelope again. “What is this about? What the fuck is this about? I don’t know you. There is no fucking reason for this.”
The server hovered nearby with Ava’s coffee, afraid to come any closer. “You can bring it over now,” Ava said to her, and then turned to Antonelli. “Do you want something?” she asked. “I’m buying.”
“Fuck off.”
“Later. Right now we need to talk.”
“What do you think you’re going to do with this?”
“You are George Antonelli, correct? And you have a partner named Jackson Seto, and the two of you have been stealing money from a client of mine. That’s why I’m here.”
“I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do, but really it doesn’t matter one way or another. I have very little interest in you or your hobbies. What I need to do is find Jackson Seto. I want you to help me.”
“I still have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”
She pulled the file Arthon had given her from her purse and placed it on the table. “I know all about you. I know how long you’ve been here, who you’ve worked with, how many scams you and Seto have pulled. I also know about the wife and kids back in Atlanta. Their address and phone numbers are in the file.”
Antonelli sat down and reached for the folder. He opened it and started to read. She waited, watching his face for reaction. His jaw tightened, and he licked spittle from the side of his mouth.
“What the fuck are you trying to do?” he said finally.
“It’s very simple — I need to locate Seto. You know where he is, or at the very least you know how I can contact him. You have two options. You tell me what I want to know, or I’m going to make a hundred copies of that photo — and the five others that I have — and send them to your wife, your kids, your Atlanta neighbours, your parents, any siblings you have, your in-laws, and anyone you’re doing or have ever done business with. My experi-ence is that Americans, particularly Americans in the South, and Baptists at that, are slightly less liberal about matters like this than Thais are.”
He closed his eyes. A good sign, she thought. He was imagining the worst. He was calculating the odds. “How do I know —”
“You don’t,” she interrupted. “But I am in the habit of keeping my word. Just help me find Seto and the photos will be burned.”
“Fuck.”
“I’m sorry it had to be like this, I really am. If I could have found him any other way this wouldn’t have been necessary,” she said.
“What will you do if you locate him?”
“Get the money back.”
“What if I direct you to him and you can’t get the money back? What will happen to the photos?”
“Just get me to him. Do that and
you’re completely off the hook, I promise.”
He chewed a fingernail while he thought. “You got a pen?”
She took out her notebook and Mont Blanc. “Go ahead.”
“I’ll give you his email address. He rarely checks it and normally doesn’t answer directly. I email him and tell him I need to talk, and he phones me. But you can try. You never know.”
“All right.”
“Right now he doesn’t have a North American or Asian phone number that works. You’ll have to call 592-223-7878.”
“What area code is that?”
“Guyana.”
“He’s in Guyana?”
“Obviously.”
“Why Guyana?”
“We used to buy bangamary and sea trout there. We’d ship it to Atlanta, tray-pack, and sell it to the black and Hispanic markets. It was a good business for a while. Jackson has a house there, and a kind of wife, and he knows enough of the right people that he feels safe there. Whenever things get tight, he always fucks off to Guyana.”
“You’re sure I’ll find him there?”
“He was there yesterday.”
“Why does he feel safe there?”
Antonelli smiled. “Guyana is a shithole, filled with people who either helped make it a shithole or people who thrive in shitholes. Even for me — and I’ve seen a lot of shitholes — it’s more shithole than I can stand. And Jackson has surrounded himself with the nastiest bunch of shitholes he could find. As long as he pays them, they’ll do what he wants.”
“What about the police?”
“Most of the people he’s paying are the fucking police.”
“Do you have an address for him?”
“Malvern Gardens. I don’t know the number but there are only about ten houses in the subdivision. It’s fucking grand by Georgetown standards, and he’s the only Chinese there.”
“Georgetown is the main city?”
“Yep. A shithole.”
“I get the picture,” she said.
“You think you do,” he said. “Wait till you get there. However bad you think it is, it will be that much worse.”
