The Mysterious Case of the Missing Tuk-Tuk

by Zach J Brodsky

  A farang guy approached him. Bob looked up, thinking the worst. There was nothing more annoying than some dodgy farang who wanted to chat with random people in a café. Bob tried to focus on his reading of the Bangkok Post and ignore the guy.

  "Interesting article that, don't you think?"

  Bob looked up from what he was reading – an article about a Spanish man who was trying to start an environmental movement in Chiang Mai.

  "Yes, I suppose," Bob muttered, disinterested.

  "Wonderfully well written, wouldn't you say?" the chap persisted.

  "Well, it's certainly pretty solid." Bob tried to ignore the guy.

  "I'm only pulling your leg. I'm John Albertson, I wrote it!"

  "Good Lord! John Albertson! I've been reading your articles for years. Wonderfully insightful." Bob was suddenly interested.

  "Always nice to meet a fan! Sorry, I didn't catch your name?" John spoke with a particular accent and Bob instantly clocked him as a classic upper middle class Brit in Thailand.

  "Bob Lowe, you may have heard of me, I'm..." Bob looked round and then spoke in hushed tones, "one of the top private investigators in the city."

  "Fascinating! Utterly fascinating. I mean genuinely utterly fascinating!"

  Bob sensed a kindred spirit. They chatted for a while and Bob felt guilty for his initially dismissing John as a weird random farang. They exchanged business cards, and Bob not so subtly suggested that John might want to run a feature on his PI business. Anonymous, no names of course.

  TWENTY SIX

  Marjorie was very happy with her developing friendship with Linda Taylor. She was acutely aware that she needed an ally if she was to confirm that Gladys was indeed stealing from the women’s society funds. The system the BWBLS ran was simple, perhaps too simple Marjorie had mused to Linda. Each week the women would pay fifteen hundred baht into the pot, literally. They had an ornate brass pot that would sit on the table and when the women arrived for their weekly bridge session they would put their cash in. This would cover the costs for tea, coffee and snacks at the weekly venue. Lunch, if they had lunch, would be paid for. In the old days they would always have a lavish lunch, hence the name of the society. But over the years more and more women were becoming health conscious and finding a weekly buffet lunch wasn’t an especially good idea. The money that was left in the kitty would go towards some other events, but more importantly it would form the basis of their charitable giving. They would make a string of donations at least twice yearly to charities that some of the members would put forwards to the BWBLSCC – the Bangkok Women’s Bridge and Lunch Society Charitable Committee. Usually simply referred to as the ‘CC’.

  “How do you think she is doing this?” Linda asked Marjorie on a recent coffee outing.

  “I can’t be sure, Linda, but from our last meeting, you’ll remember she arrived late? Rather than put money into the kitty she simply takes a few notes out. I was watching carefully and I am sure this is what she did.”

  “Of course! She is always late. But more importantly why is she doing this?” Linda was excited by the drama and scandal but she couldn’t get her head round it.

  “I can only imagine it’s…” Marjorie paused, putting her hand to her forehead, “dementia. Oh, it’s too awful.”

  “Maybe she just needs the cash,” Linda said.

  Trust Linda to think it was all about the grubby business of cash, thought Marjorie before she gave it some consideration.

  “Surely not? Gladys and Chanatip are very wealthy.” Marjorie dismissed the suggestion.

  “Well, all this travelling by BTS, at her age. What if it is actually all about necessity rather than some kind of environmental crusade?” Linda thought this was a genuinely plausible idea.

  “I just don’t know, Linda dear. Oh, poor Gladys.”

  The two women discussed a plan and agreed that on no account should they call the police. They didn’t want to humiliate Gladys, they just wanted to help her. Marjorie neglected to tell Linda that she had informed her dear friend John Albertson, Bangkok Post feature writer. She had told John that she would not allow him to write a story without her say so and he would never be able reveal his source. John, of course, agreed. He had known Marjorie for years.

  By a remarkable coincidence both John and her driver Sapong had mentioned this Bob Lowe chap. A farang working as a PI in the city. It must be written in the stars she thought. Sapong and John Albertson hardly moved in the same circles. From the way John had described this Bob Lowe character, she thought he would be perfect as a low-key person to confirm the shocking and terrible truth.

  She had arranged to meet Bob at a Starbucks outlet close to On Nut, very early one Sunday morning. She hadn’t been down to that part of town for years and years and was amazed at how it had changed. Fashionable condos and lots of them, cute little cafés, and a few respectable looking shopping malls.

  “Well I never, Sapong, just look at On Nut!”

  “Yes, Khun Marjorie. Very beautiful.”

  Marjorie wasn’t sure she’d go quite that far but it had certainly improved.

  Bob Lowe couldn’t quite believe what was happening. This business was more than just taking off, now he had the wife of the former British ambassador asking him to meet and discuss a ‘rather delicate matter’ as she had put it over the phone.

  He looked through his wardrobe and really didn’t know what to wear. His normal attire certainly wasn’t appropriate for an ambassadorial meeting. Then he remembered, on his most recent trip to the UK he had found some wonderful gems in the charity shops he loved perusing. He took his linen suit and Panama hat out of the wardrobe and was rather pleased with himself. He had longed for the right occasion to wear these and give himself the confidence to start to dress this way more regularly. The empire was dead but Bob still believed the fineries of colonial Britain could live on.

  He arrived early and settled himself down with a caramel macchiato. “Marvellous,” he said rather too loudly as he took his first sip, alerting curious glances from the smattering of people who were enjoying an early morning coffee or snack.

  It was plainly obvious to him when Marjorie arrived, she really was not your typical On Nut foreigner. Bob had very much categorised On Nut as a zone for ‘mid-ranking’ expats. Not the so-called ‘Nana Dwellers’ who spent all their time in Bangkok’s seedy bars, but close enough to be able to have regular nights out there. On Nut was pleasant, with a bit of an edge compared to the city’s more fashionable areas.

  “Mr Bob Lowe, I presume?”

  Bob was instantly impressed with the manner in which Marjorie spoke.

  “Marjorie Dubshott. Charmed to meet you.” Bob instantly morphed into ‘Lowe – sophisticated British gent’.

  Marjorie explained the situation, casually dropping the name of Gladys Suprawongse and then telling Bob she really shouldn’t have told him the name, since Gladys was such a well-known figure in Thailand.

  “Discretion personified. Client confidentiality. Whatever you say to Bob Lowe, stays between us.”

  Bob found it to be a terribly sad case, which he scrawled in his notes. Dear Gladys had clearly lost her marbles. He actually wrote lost her marbles then crossed it out for Alzheimer’s? as he felt even his notes should be following politically correct policies. He thought he should add that to Bob’s charter. It could be very important. What if they were ever needed in court?

  Marjorie wanted Bob to witness what was going on and if possible to keep the police out of the matter.

  “Absolutely! Bob Lowe only involves the police when clients agree,” he stated proudly. Then he began to wonder what he would do if a client confessed to a murder or he witnessed a murder. He would then have to break his own confidentiality rules.

  “Except in case of murder,” he hastily added.

  “What?” Marjorie was somewhat taken aback.

  “I mean, you know, a big murder case. Then I always involve the police. I mean, I have to, oh sorry. Moving on,
you were saying. Gladys… whoops, I mean the lady in question.”

  At that moment Marjorie realised that John’s description of Bob was spot on and he was indeed the perfect person for her to involve in this investigation.

  After Marjorie had departed, Bob took the opportunity to have a wander around the Tesco Lotus at the Skytrain station. He always felt something of an affinity with the area around On Nut; it was the first place he had ever lived in Bangkok, which of course in that era was the final station on the line. He fondly remembered how the lights on the train would flash when they reached the station to inform people it was the last stop, something that had often proved very useful for a daydreaming Lowe. He decided to have a stroll around the locality to visit his old apartment. He quickly regretted the decision, despite it being early morning the LST (Lowe Sweat Time) seemed to be higher than usual and with the new malls and fancy condominiums he quickly got confused by which soi it was he had actually lived on. He decided it would be prudent to abandon the idea and head back to his new home in Silom. He had settled in well to Daeng’s house and felt like he was really living the Thai life. Daeng made him coffee every morning and he enjoyed chewing the fat with Daeng and Nat, even if he could add little to the conversation. He would also regularly sit out in the evening with Daeng (and sometimes Nat) with a bottle of whisky or sang som or just a couple of beers. There were many farang around Silom but Bob was almost certain he was the only one living on this tiny sub soi. With that he quickly became something of a local novelty.

  Later that evening he sat back with a cold beer – Daeng had provided a big bag of ice – and talked over his various cases with Daeng. He had made it clear he could not possibly discuss the tuk-tuk case, as Daeng was personally involved. He did of course hint that it was becoming very complicated.

  “So, Daeng. Pim like German man. But easy live with British man. He bad man.” Bob’s Thai was good enough for the basics. Daeng said little and nodded a lot. Occasionally he asked Bob a few questions. From what Bob could ascertain, Daeng felt that Pim should follow her heart. His logic was simple. “German man better than British man.” Bob pretended to be very offended and they laughed and laughed.

  “Anyway, Khun Daeng, off to Bedfordshire for me. Another early start sorting out your tuk-tuk mess.” Daeng had rather lost interest. He was getting regular one hundred-baht notes left by the thief and he was content, but Bob was enjoying himself and was curious to know what was going on.

  “Bed-for-shy.” Daeng was slowly picking up Bob’s quirks.

  The following morning Bob spent quite a while observing the ‘pork ‘n’ drugs lady’ (as he was now calling her) and he was perplexed. She was either slicker than he imagined or she was genuinely only selling fried pork. He wondered if he could possibly be wrong.

  He texted Pat, Not impossible we were right about the simple answer being correct. Still no hard evidence of drugs.

  Pat replied simply, WE?!

  Well as a PI I have to be more careful with my thoughts, Nong Pat. Occam’s razor. Yes. Agreed. Maybe.

  Sometimes when Bob’s messages were confusing, Pat just ignored them. This was such a time.

  Bob had learnt about Occam’s razor from a TV quiz show and he rather liked the theory that when presented with numerous possibilities the simple one is usually correct. It would become his core business model. Though of course he couldn’t tell customers that. They wouldn’t need him if they knew. He laughed to himself and went back home to Daeng’s for a nap.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  After being shown the poster of the Avi Shielmann Disco Revival, Avi began to feel quite apprehensive. He hadn’t danced properly for over thirty years. One could hardly count the occasional jive and shake that he’d had in Nana bars. True, he had always got a good reaction from both the waitresses and the punters but he’d wondered just how genuine that was. Far more likely they clapped and cheered at the novelty of a sixty-year-old guy just randomly getting up and strutting some disco moves. He chatted with Mint about this while enjoying one of his regular evening drinks.

  “You dance very good, Mister Avi.” She was trying to convince him that if he enjoyed the dancing then he should just go for it. Avi was aware that this was why Thailand was so good for him; Thai people tended to be able to break things down to the core root of the issue. Mint was spot on. She often joked that Avi thought too much. His long hours gazing out onto the soi with a beer in hand surely weren’t that helpful. She was, of course, right. Mint’s view was that sometimes things really were simple. Avi could look back and realise the hours and days, years even, that he had wasted worrying about the future or bemoaning the past. Really what he needed was to start living the present. He had begun to consider Mint as a friend, albeit not a friend in the most traditional sense. But over time they had developed quite a unique kinship. Mint had quickly ascertained that Avi wasn’t interested in taking her home for a night or more, and as a result they both became more and more honest in their chats. They let their guard down as there was no pretence, no reason to lie.

  “Why you never take a girl, Avi? You like boys?” Mint enquired matter-of-factly.

  “No, no, Mint. Just not really looking for one night. Sex. That’s easy. Sometimes it’s boring.” Avi was being totally frank.

  “Yes. I think same.”

  Avi had noticed Mint was always in the bar and he had never seen her ‘bar-fined’ the term used for when a punter paid to take a woman away from the bar for an hour, or more.

  “Same question for you, Mint. You never go with a customer, why?”

  “Ha ha. Yes, that true.” Mint then began to whisper, “Most customer ugly. I not interest.”

  Mint explained to Avi that her looks and friendly manner tended to result in a lot of lady drinks, and the commission for her was lucrative enough. While her salary may be low she made eighty baht for each drink that was ‘bought’ for her. Even on a bad night she’d still get about ten lady drinks. Sometimes it could go as high as thirty. On average, therefore, she was making about twelve hundred baht per night from the commissions. That was good enough for her. It just wasn’t worth the hassle for a little bit extra to go off with a customer. She confided in Avi that she hadn’t had sex for over three years, and she’d never been happier. Again, for Avi, Nana never ceased to amaze. Here he was chatting with a bar girl who was avoiding sex! He knew she was telling the truth; this wasn’t a lie to try and interest a potential customer.

  Her past had been full of too many bad experiences. For every easy fifteen hundred to two thousand baht she’d made there had been handfuls of drunk men who wanted to do obscene things with her, who didn’t have enough money to pay, or who she’d be stuck with all night and have to wake them for her money in the morning. The list was endless. She’d vowed three years earlier that enough was enough. She had been bar-fined by a particularly arrogant British guy of about thirty-five. She was unsure about him but he said he’d pay two thousand five hundred and he didn’t seem too drunk. When they got back to his condo he had three friends there and had just assumed that Mint would service them all.

  “Okay, lads, who’s going first?!” At that Mint was quick enough to dash for the door and find the lift still waiting on the same level. As she walked out of the building she told herself it was time to stop. She was sick and tired of the attitude of these men.

  Avi was no longer shocked by the stories Mint told him. He’d heard it all on his visits to Bangkok, although at the same time Bangkok was always ready with another story at some time that beat all others.

  Mint asked about Mo Razzaq.

  “Who your friend Mo?” Mint had heard Avi talking with Bob.

  “I did a terrible thing, Mint. So, so bad.”

  For the next twenty-five minutes, when Mint was able to break off from delivering beers and join Avi to chat, he proceeded to detail what had happened. For reasons he still didn’t fully understand he had begun to feel a strong resentment of his friend. Was it simple jealousy t
hat Mo was outdoing him on the disco circuit? Was it a feeling of anxiety that their disco journey was inevitably going to come to an end soon? He couldn’t be sure and now looking back he couldn’t remember what was going through his mind when he did what he did.

  The result was humiliation and defeat for Mo when the world disco title was within his grasp. On the day before the final dance, Avi had seen Mo’s favourite sequin outfit hanging in the dressing room. It was quiet, he was alone, and almost without thinking he picked it up and shoved it haphazardly down by the drains, covered in by a piece of plywood in the corner of the changing area. He didn’t know what had come over him but once it was done, it was done. After a long search someone had found it, too dirty to wear, and it was clear to everyone that it could only have got there by a deliberate act. It sent shockwaves through the disco community that day. Avi’s strange bitterness and anger didn’t subside, and before the grand finale he took a screwdriver to Mo’s disco shoes, loosening the heels. The result was spectacular. Less than a minute into the dance that was surely to lead Mo to disco glory, both heels flew off. Mo fell flat onto his back and was in agony. He couldn’t continue. For a while people feared he may have done some serious damage having landed hard on his coccyx. Avi sat in the dressing room in tears. Only Mo realised why. When they were alone Mo looked at Avi. “Why?”

  “Avi, why? You were my closest friend.”

  Avi walked out of the dressing room and they never spoke or saw each other again.

  Mint’s eyes were a bit moist.

  “That so sad, Avi.”

  She found it hard to believe that someone as kind, and warm hearted as Avi could have done such a thing.

  A tear rolled down Avi’s left cheek and he quickly wiped it away.

  “I still don’t know why I did it, Mint. I still can’t answer Mo’s question. Why? Why?”