The Corruptionist

by Christopher G. Moore

  “The vet says they should get their appetites back in a few days.” Achara shook his head as if worried about the vet’s opinion.

  Back inside, Tanny shivered as she sat down at the table where she’d left her files. She sipped from her glass of water, the surface making tiny wakes as her unsteady hand struggled to keep the rim to her mouth.

  “I am sorry if you aren’t feeling well,” said Achara.

  She used both hands to put the glass on the table. “I’m fine. Perhaps we might start.”

  Calvino watched as she tried to compose herself. A couple more inches and that snake would have landed on her head, converting her into an unwilling Medusa lookalike. The near miss had been bad enough, making her heart pound, her palms sweat, and her eyes dilate as if she’d gone into shock.

  Once she cleared her throat, Tanny dug deep down to find her private investigator’s voice. “I understand that the police have arrested a suspect in the murder of the journalist.”

  Achara nodded. “Technically he remains a suspect. He

  has confessed, that’s the end of it.”

  “That’s not the reason I asked for this meeting.”

  “Please continue,” Achara said, leaning forward, hands on the table, an arm’s length from the throne.

  Calvino had been happy that he hadn’t sat on the throne.

  All that coolness from the lion enclosure would have gone out the French doors. Achara grinned at Calvino as if the party they’d both attended had somehow made them best friends.

  Tanny removed a document and passed it down the table. Achara’s long fingers stretched forward, and he pulled the paper until it rested in front of him. He put on a pair of rimless, gold-framed eyeglasses, reading with the same intensity Calvino imagined he put into the weather reports at the ski resorts he booked. Calvino had no idea what was in the document. He smiled at Achara as if the weather report had promised fresh powder on the higher slopes. Achara had a face that the hint of a smile softened into a state of polite, if not tender, concern. That smile had vanished.

  “Is it true?” asked Tanny.

  Is what true? Calvino asked himself.

  Achara removed his glasses and pushed the document to the side. “It’s true.”

  “Everyone agrees,” said Calvino. “We can move on.”

  “I gave him two million baht. It was my obligation. Khun Direk’s father and my father were from the same village in China.”

  “Direk is an active Thai government official.”

  “That is true.”

  “And he is also the official who approved tax relief for the GM and wind-power projects. You paid him after the approval was granted. Sir, you’ve just admitted to an act of corruption. You’ve just said that you bribed a public servant. I’m sorry, but Mr. Sawyer can’t do business like that. It’s illegal under American law. A grand jury might find it interesting to look into the files of a CEO in New York based on what you’ve just told me.” She started to collect her papers, taking another drink of water.

  “You apparently didn’t mention this payment to Brandon.”

  The final statement stabbed Achara like a knife. He visibly flinched.

  “The money wasn’t a bribe,” he said.

  “Then what was it?”

  “Are you Thai?”

  “I’m American.”

  Calvino waited as the silence grew near the throne end of the table. The deal was starting to look very much like the sick lions.

  “I don’t think that you understand our customs and traditions. Khun Direk’s father, like mine, came from a small village near Shanghai on the Yangtze River. They were boatmen who came to Thailand together. They left to start a new life. The two million baht was only one payment. There was an earlier one for one million baht. I am surprised you didn’t find that one, too. You seem quite thorough. But unfortunately you aren’t as careful in drawing your conclusions. The money was used to build a Chinese temple to our fathers and our ancestors. It is like a lodge, an ancestral meeting place. Khun Direk and I are from the same clan; we have a common ancestor. Like me, he is an eldest son of an eldest son. That means our names can be traced in the book of eldest sons uninterrupted, stretching back four thousand years. Is that against your laws in America?”

  “As a matter of fact, it might be. I’m not the person to ask. You’ll have to contact Mr. Sawyer’s law firm in New York. It’s just that no one wanted to make a mistake. You’ve confirmed the payment.”

  “Can I ask how you know I made the payment to Khun Direk?”

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential,” she said.

  Achara sat listening to this with the balance and skill of a downhill skier. At some point, over the distant roar of one of the lions, Calvino half expected him to reach across the table and throw Tanny out. She’d called him everything but an untrustworthy crook, which was fine for her. Instead Achara nodded at Calvino, smiling. “I remember Mr. Calvino’s speech the other night. You spoke eloquently about family. About your great-grandfather, the famous painter, your grandfather and father. And how you had become part of your Thai friend’s family. Not everyone understands how deep family runs for many people.”

  “Foreign custom isn’t a defense to corruption in America. I really don’t have anything else,” she said, gathering her papers and file folders and sliding them into her briefcase. “You can tell Marshall Sawyer that if he wants to sell me the Sawyer shares, I have no problem. An old Japanese friend will buy them. My friendship with Brandon, who came to me first, prevailed. I included Brandon out of friendship. You let me know in the next couple of days whether Mr. Sawyer wants me to make that call.”

  “Marshall Sawyer has another idea. He wants to buy your shares.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  So that was Marshall Sawyer’s play—go after the bribe angle, put the squeeze on Achara to unload his shares at a fire-sale price. It fit a pattern. Marshall Sawyer looked for an edge, starting with the murder possibility, and when that failed, without missing a beat he got Tanny to hammer Achara with allegations of a bribe. What else did Marshall have hidden up his sleeve?

  Achara had a good business plan, received the necessary permits, and after the first year cash-flow projection had started to look good; the problem was, it looked too good for Brandon to have brought in the door. When Brandon bragged about the payment Achara had made to the government official, it had been just that—a boast, an ego-sodden howl, that said, “Look at me. See. See. I’m connected. I’ve brought us a moneymaking machine.”

  Calvino sat quietly, glancing out at the grounds, thinking he had a good idea what papers Tanny had delivered to Brandon—buyout documents for Achara’s shares.

  “In your country you love to talk about the rule of law,” said Achara.

  “But in my country, Thailand, we talk about the rule of compromise. It’s the same, but different. Americans don’t consider a compromise that violates the law, even though the compromise results in peace and harmony between parties. For us, we would set aside the law if both sides agree to a compromise and end their conflict. That is what we are working on now in Thailand. When we have a state of emergency, that means both sides must reach a compromise. No one will get very far talking about who broke what law. The point is, how do people agree to live together? Most of the time, the law allows that. Good, apply the law. But sometimes the law is not your friend. It can get you into conflict, and once that happens, then nothing stays stable. What good is a law if it leads to people shooting each other? Compromise. That is our politics. Our way. Not democracy, not dictatorship, it is our own ideology.”

  “I don’t think the state of emergency would stop the right investor from buying your shares. Now would be a good time to make that deal. Governments change. Permits are revoked. Plans shelved. It happens,” Tanny said, snapping her briefcase shut and rising from the table.

  Calvino raised a finger and brushed against the chin of a terracotta warrior; he stood at eye level wit
h the warrior made of clay, thinking how the shape of the ears, eyebrows, mouth, and chin on one of the bronze busts and on the terracotta warrior were identical. Achara had used his father’s face as the model for two powerful artifacts. Lions in the large garden, terracotta warriors standing guard at the front entrance to the house. Achara was a man who took his links to the past seriously. Replicas of what the ancients had built were everywhere. Paneling in the style of the Forbidden City. The furnishings were from the region—Ming vases, a Shan throne, a flying garuda, and golden dragons.

  Achara’s faith was in his lineage, and here he had found his protectors and a way to surround himself with them. Calvino had taken one more look at the bust of Achara’s parents, wondering not so much how he was going to break the news to Brandon—that part would be easy—but how much fight Brandon had left in him. Whether he’d go head-to-head with brother Marshall. If Calvino were a referee filling out his scorecard, he’d have to score round one to Marshall. And Tanny.

  FOURTEEN

  A VIOLENT AND sudden emotional outburst hit like a monsoon storm—without warning, hard and fast. As they drove back to the city, Tanny’s face clouded, her eyes filling with tears. Her first sob sounded like a hiccup. The Lonesome Hawk had full-time drinkers who’d mastered the squelched hiccup as they wiped the beer suds off their lips with the back of their hand. Calvino looked over as the rain started pelting her cheeks, a river of tears. He reached into his jacket for a handkerchief and, finding it, held it out with one hand, keeping his eyes on the road. Tanny’s shoulders twitched, and she shuddered, a spasm of sorrow cocooning her as she blew her nose.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He could tell that she was embarrassed and disappointed with herself. She was tough, implacable, one of those women who looked a man in the eye and didn’t look away when he lost his smile. A green snake, a couple of sick lions, and a temple project had stripped away her protective shield, exposing what lay beneath. For the first time, Calvino got a look inside.

  “Is there something you want to talk about?” he asked.

  She’d been holding something back ever since they got into the car.

  “I’ve never been so scared. I felt like a fool. I must have looked like one, too,” she said, fishing for Calvino’s observation.

  “The snake, the lions, the strange banquet room. Okay, it was a little weird.”

  She laughed, shaking her head.

  “I make a pretty good pasta and salad. Why don’t you come back to my place, we’ll have dinner, relax, and I’ll drive you back to your hotel. You don’t look like you’re in any shape to go to the office or to your hotel.”

  “What kind of pasta?”

  Calvino grinned, glanced over, catching her eyes.

  “Campanelle, rotini, manicotti, penne rigate, you name it.”

  “Farfalle?”

  “I don’t do little bow ties,” he said.

  “Somehow I’m not surprised. But for the record, it is my favorite pasta.” She’d stopped crying, but the tears had streaked her face.

  Once they reached the outskirts of Bangkok, the traffic slowed to a crawl. The cage doors of every office opened at the same time, disgorging employees who, like escaped prisoners, rushed into the streets in one large tidal wave. The traffic jammed. Stopped. Calvino sat back from the steering wheel looking out at Rama IX Bridge, the superstructure an infinite span of individual filaments flaring out and creating something that reminded him of the hood of a frilled lizard who had spotted a mating opportunity. This also gorged on the flies swarming above the drop of honey.

  By the time Calvino had unlocked the door to his condo unit, Tanny was complaining about being hungry. He had the feeling that despite her American upbringing, some Thai gene triggered the primal desire to eat every three hours or collapse into a coma. He turned on the lights, leaning against the door to remove his shoes.

  “You do this even when they’re not watching,” Tanny said, taking off one shoe, then the other, and standing in the doorway with the patience of a yellow Lab.

  “Funny thing about habits,” he said. “I never thought about it. Yeah, it’s natural. You wanna keep your shoes on, no problem.”

  “That’s what the Thais say, too. ‘No problem.’ ”

  “You got me. Shoes off. No problem. That’s about all you need to know. I don’t understand why they don’t give me a passport.”

  But she wasn’t listening. She walked into the living room, to the bank of windows overlooking the Queen Sirikit Center and the lake. The blinds had been left open, giving an unobstructed view. “You do all right,” she said, not bothering to look back at Calvino. “Famous ancestors, luxury lifestyle, and a way with snakes.”

  A light went on in the kitchen hidden behind a shoji screen. Calvino peeked around the corner. “If you’re living in New York, you’re not doing too bad yourself. If I were really Thai, I’d come straight out and ask how much you make,” he said.

  “But you’re not that Thai,” she said.

  “So how much do you make?”

  “That’s none of your business.” There was something almost playful in her voice.

  “And now that we’ve established that neither one of us is Thai, let’s get something to eat and relax.”

  He found the remote, pointed it across the room, and a smoky jazz saxophone opened from recessed speakers, Pratt’s riff sending a mellow harmony into motion like a languid cat stretching after a long sleep, beginning to find its legs.

  “That’s nice. Who is it?”

  “A friend named Pratt. That’s Pratt playing at the Java Jazz Festival a couple of years ago. He wrote it, too.” The man is a musical genius who never should have been a cop, thought Calvino. But that’s how his life had turned out. “Destiny” is what Pratt called it, proving his point by quoting Portia’s line from The Merchant Of Venice: “The lottery of my destiny bars me the right of voluntary choosing.”

  “Ratana tells me that Colonel Pratt’s a very good man,” said Tanny.

  She turned away and walked a couple of steps, crossing the black marble floor illuminated by a large globe that slowly rotated, throwing flashes of red, yellow, and green as Africa, Europe, North and South America floated in a deep sea of blue. Her fingertips brushed against its surface, the sea and land in her reach. “Also, Ratana said that Brandon was your only client. If he’s paying you to live like this, then Marshall should be more worried about you than about Achara.”

  “I inherited some money,” he said. She’d been pumping Ratana for information, not necessarily knowing that what came out of that well would be just enough water to whet her thirst.

  Tanny nodded, confirming that she’d heard the same story from Ratana.

  Inheritance was the official version. It left out a couple of details like the shooting of a Chinese-Thai businessman, who had been the previous owner of the paintings. The idea of inheritance wasn’t the full story, but it had a clean, legal ring to it.

  Calvino boiled water. The lights in the hood above the gas burners shone on the built-in kitchen cupboards and counters. He glanced at the jars of pasta as Tanny hovered near the counter, watching him. He had decided on the rotini, and scooped up a handful out of a glass jar on the counter. Leaning over the counter, he opened his hand.

  “Rotini,” he said. The pasta looked like something a chef had made by carving a fan belt of rings around a slug. Calvino turned and dropped it into the boiling water. Opening a cupboard, he pulled out a bottle of Pomerol that he’d been saving for a special occasion.

  “You’ve got to drink wine if you wanna enjoy pasta,” he said. “It’s the law. No compromise when it comes to pasta and wine.”

  He set the bottle of Pomerol on the counter next to her. Tanny’s eyes widened as she read the label on the 1983 vintage. It wasn’t just any Pomerol but a Petrus, and it had the desired effect, bringing a slow, smooth smile. Not waiting for her to answer, he pulled out the corkscrew and had begun to peel back the silver pa
per surrounding the cork when his doorbell rang. His hand froze on the corkscrew as he tried to figure out who would be at his door this time of night.

  “Aren’t you going to find out who that is?”

  He rubbed his hands together, turned down the heat on the pasta, and covered the pot. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, he opened the door. Siriporn stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him on the mouth. It took her a couple of seconds before she realized that Calvino wasn’t kissing her back. She looked down and saw Tanny’s shoes, black high heels, lined up perfectly with Calvino’s. Around the corner from the door, she saw the light coming from the kitchen, smelled the pasta sauce coming to a boil on the back burner.

  “This morning I realized I must’ve left an earring last night. I’m sorry if it’s a bad time. It’s probably in the bedroom.”

  Before Calvino could say, “Tomorrow would be better,” Siriporn slipped through the door and into the master bedroom, switching on lights as she walked. It was uncanny how she knew the location of each switch. He’d been in the unit for six months and still hadn’t memorized what switch was connected with which light. The “left earring” was an old bar ying trick, with variations—it might be a watch, a ring, a bracelet, or a switchblade knife (apparently it had sentimental value, as she’d stabbed her ex-husband with it).

  Calvino leaned against the wall, thinking how he was going to deal with one woman in the kitchen and another in the bedroom. He walked back to the condo’s entrance and held the door open. A security guard passed, flashing a broad grin. Calvino closed the door, resting his back against it.

  “No,” she said. “I must have lost it in the living room.”

  “Of course,” he said, slapping his head. “Feel free to search the entire premises.”

  “Do you mind?”