He sat. Thought. Confused, and almost amused. Was this some sort of prank? Who would play such a prank? In the past it might have been the sort of joke that Nat would play, but those days were long gone. Both Nat and Suchart were now the ‘wrong side’ of sixty and so it seemed an unlikely chain of events. No. Nat did not have the energy for these sorts of high jinks any more. Suchart sat and continued to contemplate what was going on. At that moment, Nat shuffled down the soi to join him for a morning coffee, as was usually the case.
“Morning, Daeng.” Nat always called Suchart by his more common nickname, ‘Daeng’ the Thai word for the colour red. A nickname that had all but gone. If someone was called ‘Daeng’ you knew they were over sixty, and you’d expect them to be much older still.
They exchanged their usual morning pleasantries before Daeng went inside to brew another cup of coffee for Nat. He would bring the tin of condensed milk out for Nat, as he always did. Nat was quite particular about adding his own, as he wanted to get just the right amount of sweetness. They sat in silence, looking out at their street. Two men who had known each other for nearly forty years.
“My tuk-tuk was stolen this morning. No idea by who. Or why.” Daeng broke the silence.
Nat looked up, and just turned his head sardonically and stared right at the offending tuk-tuk.
Before he could speak, Daeng added, “Yes, I know. The thief returned it. Crafty blighter.”
They continued sitting in silence, sipping their coffees before Nat chipped in, “Is he a thief then?”
“Or she,” smirked Daeng.
“Who’s she?”
“The thief.”
‘The thief was a woman?!” Nat was genuinely confused now.
Their conversation continued in this way for a few minutes before they both ended up laughing.
“Tuk-tuk’s here. I wouldn’t worry,” was Nat’s final word on the issue. Daeng nodded in agreement.
The two were such close friends that they were very comfortable with silent pauses in their conversation. They inevitably knew what the other was thinking and so sometimes those thoughts didn’t need to be vocalised. It was amazing how much could be said with the odd raised eye, a glance or a smirk. It was almost as if they had a secret code and that the other could access a vast database of previous conversations. When a motorbike sped too fast down their little side street, it just needed a tiny, almost unnoticeable shake of the head and both Daeng and Nat would be revisiting many ranting conversations they’d had about motorbikes treating this tiny soi like it was the highway.
Their morning coffees and regular late afternoon meals were about as wild as life got for the two of them these days, but it hadn’t always been that way. There was a time when Daeng, Ploy, Nat and Ning would sit out on their soi deep into the night; arguing, joking, and drinking lots of whisky. Life had been kind to them, they all recognised. They had always had enough money to live a good life and to raise their children in a manner that was better than their own childhoods. Daeng had begun working at the age of 14 in Lopburi, but in reality he had already been working for many years on the family farm before he began full time employment. His kids had no idea how good they had it, he often thought. Both his son, Boom, and daughter, Toon, had done well at school. Both had gone to university and thrived there. Daeng was so proud of their success. His best friend Nat would often remind him, “They get their brains and good looks from their mother!” Daeng always laughed, he was probably right.
Boom had just passed his thirty-fifth birthday. They celebrated with a family lunch at the Lumpini Park Hotel, a short distance from the family home. Boom was a deputy manager at another five-star hotel in town, but the Lumpini always held a magic, romanticised nostalgia in the family’s hearts. Boom had been married for nearly ten years and had two wonderful children of his own. Daeng was so happy that in the last years of Ploy’s life she had been able to spend so much quality time with her grandchildren. Both Boom and his wife, Noi, worked, so Noi would drop the children at Daeng and Ploy’s early in the morning until they started going to school.
Boom’s younger sister, Toon, was thirty-two and Daeng understood much less about her job. She was a marketing executive for a large Thai company but when she spoke with Daeng about work he had never been able to fully establish what it was she actually did. A hotel job he could easily imagine. He had seen Boom at work; he greeted customers, he answered their questions and dealt with complaints as well as organising the concierge and reception staff.
“A hotel is a hotel, simple!” he would often exclaim. Toon had always been very career focussed even before she had graduated from Chulalongkorn University. She was single, but happy with her life.
Daeng always said, “If my kids are happy, I’m happy and so I know somewhere Ploy is happy. That’s all I need in life.”
After thirty minutes of typically slow chat Daeng told Nat it was time he went to work.
“Another day scamming tourists, old man!” Nat chirped.
Daeng chuckled. “Never in forty years.”
THREE
It was a beautifully cool January morning when Bob started to work on the Pim case. Bob loved this time of year. He didn’t have to use his Lowe Sweat Time (LST) calculations to assess how long it would take for him to be drenched in unsightly sweat patches. In January he knew he could do a reasonable amount of walking outside, safely. April was a different story altogether. There was an intense heat to Bangkok at that time of year and Bob would often have to declare an LST of only a couple of minutes or if it became really serious, a matter of seconds, which would lead to a Lowe sweat crisis.
January though, he loved. It was often as cool as a British summer. He stood across the road from Pim’s condo and tried to inconspicuously blend in. Eventually he saw Brian leave, pretty much at the time Pim had predicted. Bob made a careful entry of this into his small notebook before stuffing it into his pocket and beginning to follow Brian. He continued at a distance but also from the other side of the road, down to the Skytrain station. With an LST of ‘N/A’, Bob could happily keep up with the pace.
Bob was starting to make an initial assessment of Brian as he walked along the road. He had an air to him, Bob mused. An arrogance of sorts. He had seen this swagger many a time in the classic Bangkok expat – they thought they were something special. Bob wondered if Brian was one of those types who imagined he was immersed in Thai culture, as they boozed with other foreigners in British-style pubs in the popular expat areas of town. They tended to speak embarrassingly bad pidgin Thai, while believing that they were Thai speakers. Brian was unquestionably British. Bob could see it in his face, and of course Pim had already informed him of that anyway.
While in pursuit, Bob had to store all his notes mentally; he simply didn’t have the time to keep stopping and writing in his notebook. Bob wondered if he should use his mobile phone as a recording device and take voice notes. He vowed to do a full feasibility study of that later on.
British, late thirties, Bob guessed. He also suspected Brian was one of those types who wanted to create an impression that he was a younger man. Although it wasn’t easy to see from over the road he appeared to have a slightly angry, pinched look to his face. Possible West Ham fan, Bob considered as he began to imagine Brian as an arrogant cockney know-it-all.
They reached the BTS and Brian got on the escalator. On Bob’s side there were stairs.
“Oh good Lord!” Bob exclaimed out loud and he began to race, insofar as Bob could race, up the stairs so as to keep tabs on Brian. His pace was just good enough as he did indeed reach the top shortly after Brian. Bob watched as Brian slipped through the entry gates with his Skytrain pass. At this moment Bob realised he would have to buy a ticket. “Remarkable,” Bob muttered as he muddled through his pockets for some loose change. He had seen Brian go up the side for trains in the direction of Samrong, so Bob decided to select a ticket all the way to Samrong, the terminal station on this line. A few of the coins were rejected
and he had to re-insert, much to his annoyance. Bob demonstrated his frustration with the sort of audible moans and grunts for which he was well known, among his friends.
Bob shinned it up the stairs and as he got to the platform a train was just pulling out of the station. There was no sign of Brian, so Bob’s experienced detective skills ascertained that Brian had boarded the train. Sweat patches began to form on Bob’s shirt (LST did not factor in running up the stairs at a BTS station). Bob got his notebook from his pocket and having already written down his general observations of Brian, he also added:
Target boarded Samrong bound BTS.
Target lost. Pursuit ended.
Nevertheless, Bob felt this was a start. He had learnt that Brian worked somewhere between Ratchatewi and Samrong. Not a bad first day on the case.
It had been nearly a year since his ‘business’ with his former friend, Alf Hayes, and while the knees didn’t give Bob any trouble, his pride was still hurt. Looking back, Bob found it hard to believe he had agreed to go to Burma for a double knee replacement. Inside each knee was stuffed quantities of ya ice (crystal methamphetamine) that had made Bob a cool five thousand dollars. While the money had been useful, he later found out that Hayes had used him as a sap and had himself made a hundred thousand dollars from the deal. He hadn’t seen Alf Hayes since the night Hayes had humiliated Lowe in a Nana bar, telling him just how much of a loser he was. Bob wondered if he should take it as a case. Was Alf Hayes in fact missing? Had he become too deeply immersed in the drug scene? It certainly was odd that he hadn’t seen Alf in any Nana bars over the last few months, but he didn’t want to think about his former friend anymore. Hayes’ cruelty that night had triggered Bob to sink into a deep depression. Looking back now though, Bob realised that the infamous night with Alf Hayes was the beginning of the path to redemption that he saw himself on now. “No Hayes thoughts, Lowe.” Bob had to remind himself that musing back over the Alf business was not at all healthy for him.
Bob had arranged to meet his old friend Susie Hoare for coffee and a spot of lunch at a café she knew down between Sala Daeng and Chong Nonsi station. He was feeling positive and upbeat as he descended the BTS steps and decided to enjoy the novelty of a tuk-tuk, rather than the ten to fifteen minutes it would take to walk. Tuk-tuks, while very much a symbol of Bangkok were rarely used by expats, particularly in these touristy parts of town. They were invariably a hassle, hot and dirty, and would inevitably involve a negotiation with a tuk-tuk driver, no doubt ready to screw the next unsuspecting farang out of his cash.
Khun Daeng was sat with his feet up and almost asleep when the tall and slightly scruffy Bob Lowe approached. Daeng was having something of a lazy day. He had nipped a couple of tourists down to the Neilson Hays library and done a few other short local runs. He didn’t feel like he had much energy for a busy day of work. This apathy he had noticed ever increasing, the older he got. As a young man he would relish the chance to take a tourist around and act as a tour guide, but now he preferred the simple cash of short runs about the local area.
Bob spoke in Thai to Daeng, in an utterly bizarre Thai accent, but Daeng had heard this sort of Thai before and become quite adept at understanding. “Bai raan gafee soi pipat na khrap.” (Go to a café on Soi Pipat). Daeng was old enough to still be impressed even when he heard bad Thai spoken by a foreigner, and he also knew these foreigners loved being complimented for their language skills. “Farang phuut Thai, gaeng maak.” Daeng informed Bob he was impressed to hear a foreigner speak such good Thai.
Daeng proposed a fare of one hundred baht, about double what it should really be. He expected this farang to haggle him down.
“Marvellous, old boy,” the affable Lowe agreed.
They managed a confused chat in part pidgin Thai and part pidgin English. Bob had specifically learnt how to say private investigator in Thai, as he felt this would impress people. So he managed to explain the basics of his new business venture to Daeng.
Indeed, Daeng appeared to be suitably impressed. They had already reached their destination but continued to talk. The bizarre content of the chat made it all the more confusing. Bob understood from Daeng that his tuk-tuk had been stolen.
“This tuk-tuk?” enquired Lowe.
“Khrap pom” Daeng cheerily confirmed.
“But we’re in it?” Bob was genuinely baffled.
Eventually Lowe got the gist of the situation, that the tuk-tuk had been stolen, but then returned. A fascinating business, though he did wonder if he had misunderstood the details. Bob exchanged names and numbers with Daeng and had told him he could solve the case for a minimal fee.
“This is just the sort of case I eat up for breakfast, Daeng, my old pal.” Bob was warming to the PR elements of his new job.
Susie was sat waiting for Bob and she greeted him with a big toothy grin. Often Susie’s grins seemed false but Bob had noticed that since she had started taking antidepressants she had definitely seemed more relaxed and natural. He sat down and looked forward to a delicious lunch.
FOUR
Mint arrived for work at around one o’clock. She tended to vary her start times, but rarely would opt for a full afternoon session. Mid to late afternoon was usually a good start time for her. She could settle herself in, slowly working her way up to another evening punctuated by smiles and banter for Nana's drunks. In the past it was certainly not impossible for her to pick up a customer in the afternoon, for a quick ‘short-time’ session (namely a punter who just wanted a quickie, often less than thirty minutes). Even if that didn’t materialise there was always the commission she would get from the bar if she was bought a drink by a customer. She found the afternoon punters were always straightforward, they simply wanted a quick bit of light relief. They were usually sober, which helped, and they were often reliable regulars. The only problem was an afternoon short-time customer was never a guarantee and so generally it would be much later in the evening she would get a paying client. After a few years of embracing her life as a bar girl, Mint preferred not to have too many customers in one week, finding that her body couldn't take it anymore and she didn't crave the money enough. If she was bar-fined two or three times a week that would be fine for her. Now she had gone further and reached a point where she was content with taking the cash from the commissions she earned for drinks bought in the bar, that was enough for her. Years of sex work had taken its toll and enough was enough.
As she walked into the bar she noticed the unusual regular, Mr Avi, in the corner. He certainly was unusual, she had known him from his regular visits to Bangkok over a number of years but she had never heard of him taking a girl home. He was a rarity indeed, he enjoyed the bar scene, he would drink for a few hours, have a meal, he would often tip well and tended to be on his way home by nine or ten o’clock. Mint liked him. She didn't tend to meet guys who seemed nice and pleasant, and who had no interest in purchasing her for the night. She immediately went over to say hello.
"Sawat dii, Khun Avi. How are you?" Mint bellowed cheerfully.
"Mint!" Avi was genuinely pleased to see her, he enjoyed a chat and Mint's English was pretty good compared to many of the waitresses.
"You know me Mint, can't complain."
"When you arrive Bangkok?" enquired Mint.
Avi told her he had been here for 2 weeks but had spent a few days down on the beach in Hua Hin, just to indulge in some much-needed pure relaxation. For those days he had done nothing but read by the pool and eat some good food.
Avi Shielmann, was indeed an unusual character. An extraordinary and unique character perhaps. You only had to observe him for an hour or so in a bar to start to see his eccentricity reach the surface. Like most, when he had been drinking beer for a few hours Avi Shielmann would need regular visits to the toilet. Unlike most, Avi would never just walk to the toilets. He would dance, or specifically he would perform a light disco dance. Nothing too flamboyant these days, but noticeable, nonetheless. He would swing his hips, twirl the arms, pe
rhaps do a mini half-spin. At sixty, Avi Shielmann still had it. If he wanted to, he still had the energy for a more serious boogie. If you were lucky enough to be in a Nana bar when Avi had been drinking for a couple of hours and a 1970s disco classic was played you were in for a treat. A full-energy disco jive was still well within the veteran’s ability.
Avi Shielmann saw himself as a nomad. Israeli-born he had officially given up his Israeli citizenship as a political protest in his fifties and now travelled the world on a Swedish passport he had been able to obtain due to his time spent living in Stockholm. As a younger man he had a much more positive outlook and dreamed of a time when his nation would live in peace with their neighbours. He had long since given up even dreaming of that. Avi Shielmann's proudest moment in his life was his fifth place in the 1981 World Disco Championships. He believed then he would be part of a movement for peace in Israel. Among his friends were Lebanese, Egyptians, Jordanians and those who lived in the occupied territories. "That's the power of disco," he would often say. "Avi Shielmann, dancing for peace," was another of his strap lines.
In the early 1980s he had teamed up with Mohammed Razzaq – the finest disco dancer to ever come out of Pakistan (in the opinion of Avi), and together he felt they would show the world that Muslims and Jews could live side by side. Avi and Mo couldn't though. They fell out, initially over purely artistic reasons – Shielmann felt Razzaq didn't understand the political possibilities of disco. Disillusioned by the split, Shielmann quit the disco scene in the mid-1980s and settled back into life as an accountant in Tel Aviv. He continued his quiet campaign for peace, and in the 1990s he began to have some genuine hope. But like Razzaq in the 1980s, Israel ultimately broke Avi's heart and he left for Europe.
The Mysterious Case of the Missing Tuk-Tuk Page 2
