“Hi, Bob, could you get that box down for me?”
Bob sighed. His shoulders slumped. For just a few seconds he was living the dream, but reality had once again kicked in all too soon. That had been the closest he had actually got to thinking that he and Pat could actually be a thing. Now he couldn’t see any possible way forward with Pat, romantically speaking. The irony of Bob’s ‘successes’ with the women in Bangkok had left him short of confidence and totally incapable of approaching a woman in a traditional way. It hadn’t always been like this. As a younger man, working in London, he’d happily approach a woman in a bar and ask to buy her a drink, or simply spark up a conversation. He’d dated women throughout his twenties. Sometimes as he looked back he tried to convince himself that nothing had changed. Back then he was a young investment banker, flush with cash. Wasn’t the principle just exactly the same? Maybe even those women were attracted by his job and perceived wealth as opposed to his personality and sparkling conversation. He then scolded himself for this line of thought. “New Lowe, less misogynist more feminist.”
Bob and Pat sat down at a favourite sushi restaurant. She ordered for them both.
“You’re the expert, Nong Pat.”
“Oh I see! Asian woman must know all about Sushi. I’m Thai, not Japanese!”
“Yes, very droll.” On this occasion Bob was wise to Pat’s gentle ribbing. Pat demonstrated how to mix the wasabi paste with soy sauce.
“Honestly! I do not need lessons. The Lowe is an international man.” Bob stirred in much too much wasabi and then rather ham-fisted with the chopsticks he dropped a piece of sushi into the dipping sauce. He fished it out with his hands; “confounded cheap chopsticks, not up to the job” and stuffed the sushi into his mouth, with attached extra lump of wasabi that had not been properly mixed in. “Oh good Lord! Spicy! Aaah!”
Pat just glanced up. “International man, lor?”
SIXTEEN
Police Sergeant Apichit Wuttiwattana (Pun to his friends) was something of a Nana fixture. Not because he was a boozing womaniser – although Pun had always enjoyed a few beers he had never been unfaithful to his wife of nearly twenty years – but because he had been the senior law enforcement officer working Soi Nana for just over five years. He’d seen it all, and more. The job had of course proved to be very profitable for him. The system of bribes, payoffs, and commission payments to junior officers was extremely complex but the long and short of it was that Pun made a small fortune from these streets. This was a way of policing that just worked in Thailand and it certainly worked for Apichit Wuttiwattana. Pun felt that the Thai system, rather the unofficial Thai system, ensured that small issues could be dealt with quickly and effectively. In Europe even minor traffic offences might result in yards of paperwork; fines being administered, people appealing, letters and emails being sent back and forth. Pun had heard all about it and found the very notion of such a lengthy administrative process utterly ludicrous.
Pun would see what he wanted to see, or to be more accurate he would see what he felt he needed to see. His main aim was to ensure that the goings on in Nana were confined to harmless consensual fun, and a bit of escapism. Did it really matter if every establishment obeyed the letter of the law when it came to the licensing of booze? No, of course it didn’t. For a few thousand baht a week from each bar, the police would officially turn a blind eye. His own personal moral and ethical code was important to Pun. There were lines that he would never cross, regardless of any potential financial rewards. Not all police officers shared his own unique attitude but Pun was one hundred per cent sure he was right, always. Did a young foreigner really need to go to prison for possession of a joint or a small amount of something that little bit stronger? Pun felt that for such a misdemeanour when someone was obviously using for purely recreational purposes, that ten to twenty thousand baht and a warning was more than adequate. He was proud of how ‘his’ bars operated. There were areas in Bangkok where boys and girls under the age of eighteen worked, almost openly, in bars and massage parlours and were of course available for hire. Not in any of the bars in Pun’s area of Soi Nana. Unheard of. There was a strong moral contract between Pun and the mamasans who managed the bars that was never broken.
Pun lived a life that simply couldn’t be achieved on his official salary, even as a high-ranking officer. His family enjoyed one or two holidays a year to expensive locations (they had been skiing in Switzerland last year), and his daughter attended an expensive international school in Bangkok. Some of the boys in her class had googled the salary of a policeman and joked with Mae about how her dad could be so rich when his salary was apparently so low. Mae tried to laugh it off. She had asked her dad once and he gave what she felt was a perfectly acceptable explanation. Firstly, he claimed that the kids in her school shouldn’t be believing anything they read online. “Police salaries are very complicated, remember I am a senior officer. The Royal Thai Police does not put our salaries on the internet.”
That alone did not satisfy Mae, so Pun added, “Don’t forget your mother and me make a lot of money from our investments and properties.” Mae left it there, not thinking deeper about how they had so many investments and properties! She now had a good response for the kids in school when they tried to mock and imply her dad was part of a corrupt system.
Pun was a solidly-built man, of medium height with a short-cropped hair style. He had managed to just about avoid the bulging gut that was so prevalent among many of Thailand’s officers and that had becoming something of a national embarrassment. Sure, Pun was on the chunky side but he could get away with being seen as more muscular than fat, just. It was a close-run thing though and Pun spent many hours in the gym to keep his physique on the right side of the line. He had a warm but wise face, which worked perfectly for him. People always felt at ease in his company, but no one thought they could out think him and he was very skilled at getting people to open up and talk, often even to confess to their crimes. These days he didn’t spend as much time on the street as he used to. He had a core of good junior officers who could be relied upon to deliver his method of policing, though he did feel that it was important he visited Nana often enough to retain his visible presence. When it came to handling the regular payments from bars, he left that to his trusted disciples. Yes, Khun Pun ran a tight, well-oiled ship. His role was to stroll around, chat with those in the know (usually the mamasans of Nana’s bars) and keep abreast of any important issues. That was the best way to pick up on the gossip and in particular who the main drug dealers were for example. He wandered into Mints bar, and sat down at a table near the back, as he always did. The waitress greeted him extremely politely wai-ing him appropriately and asking him to let her know as soon as he was ready to order something. She knew him well from previous visits. Pun nodded.
Mint approached him within a couple of minutes and they exchanged the usual pleasantries before she asked, “Hamburger with extra bacon and cheese?”
“You know me well, Khun Mint.”
Mint barked the order to one of the other waitresses for show, she wanted Pun to know she considered his order a priority. She was a skilled operator and knew how to keep the business running smoothly. Pun never paid for food or a drink, another perk of the job.
Pun picked up Bob Lowe’s shabby business card from the table display. “Is this something I need to know about?”
“I don’t think so. You know Bob, tall scruffy farang guy who drinks here often.”
“Oh, English Bob? The pool hustler?!” Pun bellowed a deep laugh.
Mint explained that as far as she could work out Bob had a few random clients and wasn’t doing much of any interest.
“I’ll give him a call, we could help each other, and maybe I’ll challenge him on the pool table again! Keep me posted.”
“Of course, Pun, of course.”
The kitchen had prepared an extra-large portion of fries for their VIP and when the plate with the juicy burger oozing cheese and bacon strips
, was placed in front of Pun he smiled but sighed as well.
“This will need extra time in the gym!”
“You’re looking as fit as ever, Pun.” Mint told him, genuinely. This wasn’t an insincere bar girl line.
“You’re too kind, Mint.”
With that, Mint left him to eat, letting him know to shout if he needed anything. She knew Pun liked to eat his food in peace and couldn’t stand someone standing over him chatting while the grease of a burger began to drip down his chin.
Pun tucked heartily into his burger and surveyed the scene. It was very early in the evening and Mints wasn’t busy. He very rarely had any issues in this bar. Mint had been effectively running the place for some years and she was something of an expert. Her girls worked hard and there was rarely a cross word between customers and bar girls, or between the girls themselves; which was sometimes a problem in other bars. He observed two guys playing pool. To his finely tuned eye and ear they seemed to be Australians. Both were dressed in shorts, ‘wife-beater’ tops with a Thai beer logo, and flip-flops. He took an instant dislike to this sort of character. “Why are they dressed for the beach?” he’d often ask his colleagues. He felt his instant judgement was quickly proved justified when one of the guys rather aggressively shouted out that he needed more beer. It seemed he wasn’t happy with the service, no one had noticed that his beer was finished. Pun gave a look of utter disdain, before getting up and walking over to the pair.
“Problem here?” Pun had perfected a dismissive, angry cop role from watching movies.
“Nah, mate. These chicks are just slow with my beer.” Both men laughed.
Pun couldn’t believe the brass neck of these two, laughing like this.
“You like this bar?” Pun increased the amount of sinister in his tone to try and get a message across.
“Yeh it’s ok, mate.” The taller Aussie spoke, this time with a bit more caution in his voice.
“These girls work hard. You show respect, or you leave. Or you come to the police station with me.”
Both men apologised profusely.
“One warning. From me, only one warning. Remember.”
With that, Pun strolled back across the bar, gave a small nod of recognition and thanks to Mint and left to continue with his rounds.
SEVENTEEN
Bob was continuing to find it hard to juggle his caseload and was already becoming acutely aware that this business was not as simple as he’d previously thought. He had neglected Pim and Brian, so he sent them some holding texts.
Pim, let’s meet up soon to discuss updates to the case. All is going well. Lowe is on it.
By meeting Pim he would effectively be working on the case for Brian, and vice versa when he met Brian. A wonderful situation. This was slick stuff, in his mind. He wondered if he could work out this sort of scenario for all his cases, before quickly realising that to try and engineer such a muddle was both dangerous and foolhardy.
He sat at his laptop and googled Mohammed Razzak, over four million hits. This wasn’t going to be easy. Bob tried to refine his search but his internet skills were slightly lacking and he got near as nowhere. In his mind he thought he might just find a direct link to a homepage about former disco sensation Mo Razzak, complete with an email contact. He wondered if the Pakistan embassy might be able to help. But his information was very limited. He needed to try and get more details from Avi. Bob knew that great private investigators could find one little seemingly insignificant detail that would ultimately become the key to cracking the whole case. Could he train his mind? He pondered. He made a mental note to read some Hercule Poirot mysteries, perhaps that would get his brain onto the right path.
As for the other part of that case, helping Avi rediscover his love of disco, well Bob was somewhat bemused by this. He wondered if he should add ‘therapist’ or ‘life coach’ to his business card. The idea was hilarious. A forty-something washed-up Bangkok expat giving people help in sorting out their lives! You couldn’t make this up. Only in Bangkok.
“Remarkable,” Bob uttered out loud, as he tended to do.
However he did have some ideas about how he could help Avi and he had already run some of them by the ever-reliable Pat. Bob Lowe, PI, Life Coach, Event Promoter. What else could he add to his repertoire? He knew enough of the mamasans in town who he thought he could convince to arrange special disco appearances from the former great Avi Shielmann. ‘For one night only’ he could use that line repeatedly in different bars around town. “Classic marketing trick, Lowe,” he bellowed.
He began to list possible venues, focusing on the ones where he had a good rapport with the staff. They would easily accommodate his wishes. He had found some YouTube videos from the old ‘World Disco Championship’ days, one with Avi representing Israel. Avi was quite a dancer, it had to be said. He had also perfected a big cheesy grin as he strutted his moves. On one of the videos Bob was fortunate enough to see Mo Razzaq. Razzaq! With a Q!
“Aha! Gotcha!” Bob again shouted to an empty room.
He then got distracted watching cricket videos as his Mo Razzaq searches brought up some links to the Pakistani cricket star, Abdul Razzaq, and before long Bob was immersed watching videos of some of his favourite cricketers from the sub-continent.
“Wonderful!”
“Remarkable!”
“Wristy!”
Bob then laid back on his sofa and slipped into a typical Lowe daydream. He imagined himself in his late forties, part of an intrepid group of Thai cricketers foraging their way in the one-day game. ‘Bob Lowe, swashbuckling middle order bat, and tricky wrist spinner.’
The most amusing thing about Bob’s daydreams was that even they had a hint of tragedy or near-misses. In one, he was bravely flogging the Aussies all over the ground; the quickest century in one-day cricket history, before he was agonisingly run out with victory in sight.
Bob realised he was running late for his meeting with Pim and launched himself off the sofa, leaving behind a pool of sweat that had formed on the cheap faux-leather covering. He texted Pim to explain he’d be a little late due to a complex case issue. Bob had arranged to meet Pim once again at Coffee Corner. He liked the continuity, also it helped his brain to focus on the correct case. He had a terrible fear of slipping up while working for both Pim and Brian.
“Pim, my dear. Sabai dii mai khrap?” Bob asked Pim how she was in his best Thai.
“I’m fine. How are you?” Pim spoke nervously.
“Couldn’t be better, young Pim. Now, I’ve been exceedingly busy on your case, putting in the hours, approaching it from different angles.” He was increasingly confident in his bullshit now.
“Brian, he have many gik chai mai?” Pim got directly to the point. A ‘gik’ in Thai was effectively a mistress and was an extremely common word. It was also said that for many men, having a gik or two was common practice.
“My initial work phase says no, Pim. But I must add this is early days and I can’t be sure yet. I have many different leads and angles to pursue.” Bob was talking the talk, for sure.
“That mean what?” Pim wanted this put more simply.
“Well, Pim. He does drink a lot around Nana with work friends, quite regularly. My contacts are monitoring and so far we have no evidence of him ‘offing’ or ‘bar-fining’ anyone.”
“That good. I worry much.”
“Yes, dear Pim, I can see this must be a worry. Now I do have to ask you some difficult questions. One doesn’t like to, but this is very much part of the job, as they say.” Bob was ready to machete in and work on the other side of the case. Pim was able to predict what Bob wanted to ask.
“You think I work same bar girl, alway. Same many time before?” Pim was able to make herself understood by Bob who was fluent in bar girl English. Another of Bob’s hare-brained schemes was to try and make a Bar Girl English to English dictionary. He had even once begun scrawling down words but he got himself all muddled with the phonetics and thought it would need to
be an audio dictionary, and then gave up.
“Well yes, Pim, I’m sorry to ask, but I must consider all aspects of the case. Complexities, Pim.”
“I no go customer. But sometime customer text me. I worry if Brian bad man, I go new man quickly soon.”
Bob was beginning to feel real empathy for Pim’s position, not a skill that he usually had. He could see Pim’s predicament. She desperately wanted security, wanted out of the bar girl scene, but she needed that with a solid and dependable guy.
“One man. He like me many time. My friend think Brian too young.”
Bob was listening intently and allowing Pim to talk.
“Usually I think old man very narak. So I wrong choice for Brian. You think I mistake, Khun Bob.” Bob was now putting his life-coach hat back on.
“Nong Pim. My dear sweet Pim. This is quite the pickle. Ordinarily I would advise to follow your heart, but you must be aware of the risk. This old man, tell me about him.”
Bob spoke in warm calm tones, putting Pim at ease, even if she didn’t fully understand.
“He narak. Very old man, near fifty-eight year old. Germany man. Little grey hair only. He visitor to Bangkok many time. Now he say he stay here talod chiwit.”
Bob was amused by Pim using the occasional words in Thai but this was one of those expressions he had no problem understanding. Talod chiwit – forever, for the rest of your life. Bob had uttered this in many a conversation with bar girls over the years. In his more cringe worthy moments, he had expressed love for a new fling ‘talod chiwit’.
Bob began to move into what he guessed was very unprofessional territory. “You’re glowing when you speak of this German chap. Pim, I think you must go and see him. I can help so Brian doesn’t find out.”
At that Pim dabbed a tear from her eye.
“You nice man, Bob. Why you no have girlfriend?”
The Mysterious Case of the Missing Tuk-Tuk Page 8
