Bangkok Noir

Death of a Legend Dean Barrett

His dark brown hands working the cleaning rod were large. By Thai standards they were huge. Stubby and rough. But not calloused. And despite their size his finger had no problem slipping inside the trigger guard and working the Smith and Wesson revolver when occasion demanded it. It was what he did for a living. And he was good at what he did.

But what struck you on seeing him for the first time was his overall size. Something about an Asian male of six foot, two inches, with lots of bulk — far more functional muscle than fat — made you either take a second look or look away so as not to draw his attention. But unless he had a contract to eliminate you, you had nothing to worry about. He was the type of hit man who never shot or beat up anyone or even raised his voice without being hired to do so. Using his talent for free would have been anathema to him. And that’s why, despite his nearly unbroken string of victories against better known opponents, he had left the Muay Thai ring forever. Why kick people senseless if there was no money in it? The only thing he still had from those days was a slight scar over his left eye and a damaged elbow that ached during the rainy season. And the tattoo of a scorpion on his broad back.

He was casually dressed in an open shirt, which revealed a thick neck without wrinkles, although he was already well into his late forties. He had served a few years inside Bang Kwang prison for one mistake or another, but those were the days of his youth, and those days were over. Now, when he received a call for his services, he spent days, even weeks, surveying the scene, checking out the person he was to hit — or in his lingo, the poo rap, “receiver.” He never asked what the receiver had done to deserve to be on the receiving end of his talent; that wasn’t his business. His business, as the poo hai, “provider,” was to do the job and leave the scene without being identified, much less caught. And despite increasingly difficult and dangerous assignments, he had never failed.

The living room he was in was on the third floor of a run-down apartment building in a section of Bangkok infested with freelance Thai hookers, elderly, Viagra-fuelled johns and filthy short-time hotels. The room was permeated with the stale smell of some spicy northeastern Thai dish. But he was from a village near Petchaburi, a town known for producing excellent hit men. And even though he had fled the province in his teens, he still favored the unique cuisine his mother could make from the area’s plentiful sugar palm fruits.

A colorful but clichéd painting of a Thai village scene hung on a wall. A village not unlike the one he grew up in — except the painting had left out the poverty, the drunkards, the anger, the petty feuds and the feeling of confinement. And yet even the amateurish rendition of a Thai village made him nostalgic for the way things had been. Before his first hit.

The room’s sofa was worn. Everything was worn, old, second-hand, shabby, used up. A cheap wooden statue of a Buddha in meditation was on a shelf above a cracked oval wall mirror, which reflected the poverty of the room. But there was no dust or dirt; it was just shabby. Someone lived here. Someone who had probably been paid a few thousand baht to make themselves scarce for a few hours.

A thick white bath towel and a clean set of shirt and trousers had been neatly folded and placed on top of an out-of-date television set. A narrow hallway led into the darkness of unseen inner rooms. The venetian blinds on the only window of the room were dust-covered and stained with yellow spots. They were tilted downward, and a few streaks of late-afternoon light spilled out across the table beside his glass of Mekong whiskey.

He paused to take a drink and then again worked the cleaning rod into the weapon, meticulously and without hurry. Steel cleaning rods and small white cotton cleaning patches were spread out neatly on the sports page of a Thai language newspaper. Beside the paper were his gun-cleaning kit and a can of gun conditioner oil. And five bullets. He would occasionally hold the revolver up to the ceiling’s old-fashioned circular fluorescent light and check the barrel or cylinder for any buildup of debris or sign of rust. Regardless of what he saw, he would replace the patch with a clean one, sparingly spotted with oil, and clean again. A friend of his who had been a monk for years had told him that what he was doing wasn’t really cleaning the gun, that for him it had become a meditative experience. The big man had liked the phrase and remembered it.

The knock on the door was tentative and soft. The man continued to clean. His voice was rasping and gruff, he figured from the years when he still smoked. “Yeah.”

After a pause, the knock came again. Only slightly louder.

“Yeah!”

The door opened slowly and a thin, young Thai man entered cautiously. He was in his early to mid-twenties and wore an expensive street jacket over a long-sleeved shirt and well pressed trousers. His leather shoes looked as if they’d been spit-shined. His complexion was several shades whiter than that of the big man. He attempted to affect a cocky exterior but his nervousness was obvious. He stared at the big man for several seconds and then closed the door and looked around the room.

“You left the door unlocked?”

“If you say so.”

“What if it had been him?”

For the first time the man in the chair glanced up to look at the boy. Then he continued cleaning his weapon. “Him?”

“The guy we’ve been hired to hit. He’s a legend!”

“Legends die, kid. Like anything else.”

“But he might have come here early and—”

“And what?” For a few seconds the man stopped cleaning and locked eyes with the boy. Then he resumed cleaning. “Don’t worry, kid, he’s known to be punctual.”

The boy hesitated and then walked to the man and held out his hand. The man ignored it.

“I’m Sombat Ti—”

“Don’t tell me your name. Don’t ever tell me your name. How long you been in this business?”

“Uh... Lo-long time...”

“So how long you been here?”

“A while. Wichai hire you?”

“Yeah, Wichai.”

“What’d he tell you?”

“About what?”

“About the hit!”

“Just that the guy does what we do. And that he’s the best.”

“What do we do?”

The boy threw his shoulders back and began strutting as he spoke. “You know. Eliminate obstacles for people. Settle disputes. Solve problems. Permanently... Like when I did the Kaeochart hit.”

“You did the Kaeochart hit?”

“Yeah, I did the hit. You heard about it, huh?”

“Kid, everybody in the business has heard about the Kaeochart hit. Right in the middle of Lumpini Park. I heard the shooter got off the motorcycle, brushed past the guy’s bodyguards, shot his target, walked casually back to his bike and took off. He was staring at them the whole time. Bodyguards were too scared to react.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s the way it was. Cool and daring.” The boy stopped to preen himself a bit in the mirror and stared at the big man’s reflection.

“But the guy we’re waiting for pissed Wichai off.”

“That right?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what. But if Wichai wants him dead, he must have fucked up big time. So Wichai wants it done and done right. That’s why he sent me.” The boy checked his watch. He suddenly spotted the clothes on the TV set. He held up the towel. “What’s with the clothes and towel? ... Oh. That’s good. That’s really good.”

“What’s good, kid?”

“I can see from the way you’re cleaning your gun. You value cleanliness. So you brought clean clothes, just in case you get blood on what you’re wearing.”

The big man stared at the boy and said nothing.

“Or maybe it’s like a spiritual thing. You change clothes after a hit and throw away the old clothes. Shed the old skin. Start out fresh. Right?”

The big man took another hit of Mekong. “If I were you, I’d clean my weapon.”

The boy reached inside his jacket and, not without difficulty, pulled out a semi-automatic. “Don’t worry. Mine is always clean.” He popped out the clip and then slid it back in. “And ready.”

“It better be. This guy is the best there is. Like you said, a legend.”

The boy replaced his gun in his shoulder holster inside his jacket. “Yeah? So how come I didn’t recognize him in the picture Manny showed me?”

“Kid, when you’re recognized in this business, you’re dead. And I doubt the legend ever allowed any recent photo to be taken.”

The boy continued to walk about. “What a dump. Whose apartment is this, anyway?”

“I couldn’t tell you, kid. It’s safe enough for the hit. That’s all we need to know.”

“Well, I know he thinks he’s coming here for a meeting. Wichai told him it’s a meeting to plan a hit.” The boy slammed his fist into his palm. “Hah! But what he doesn’t know is he’s the target. We’re the hitters and he’s the hittee! This should be fun.”

The big man gave him a look, saying nothing.

The boy looked at his watch. “Shouldn’t he be here by now?”

“He’ll be here. And shouldn’t you be sitting down somewhere by now?”

The boy walked toward the man and stopped just a foot away. His hand reached out near the man’s gun. “Hey! Tha—”

The big man quickly and expertly moved behind the boy, throwing one arm around his neck and holding a knife at his throat.

“I... I was only going to say Ampol won at Lumpini again. It’s... it’s there. In your newspaper. I mean, motherfucker, he’s practically an old man and he’s still fighting.”

The man looked toward the newspaper and understood his mistake. In his day Ampol had been one of the best Muay Thai fighters he had ever fought. It was Ampol’s incredibly fast mid-air elbow strike which had scarred his face and dropped him. One of the big man’s few defeats in the ring.

He released the boy, replaced his knife in his belt and sat down. He reached into his gun kit and withdrew a silicone gun cloth. He began wiping down his revolver. “Sorry, kid. I thought... You know.”

The boy stared at the big man. “That hurt! We’re on the same side, right?”

“You been in this business a long time, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Lots of hits, right?”

“Yeah. That’s right.”

“So how come you talk so much?”

The boy stared at the man, his expression a cross between shame and anger, and sat down on the sofa.

“... How come you still use a revolver? You only get five shots with what you got.”

“Had a semi-automatic jam on me once. Almost got me killed.”

“I got thirteen rounds. And one in the chamber.”

“Doesn’t matter how many rounds you got if your weapon jams. You’re dead. You die because you’re semi jams, you’ll end up the wrong kind of legend.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m gonna be the right kind of legend. The biggest there ever was. I’m gonna be the best! A guy’s name is what counts, and people are gonna say my name with respect.”

The boy pointed his finger toward the room’s only floor lamp and pretended to fire.

“Bad-ass, huh?”

“Damn right!”

“And you’ll get top dollar?”

“Fuckin’ A!”

The boy took out a pack of cigarettes, placed one between his lips and struck a match.

“This is a no-smoking area.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“I don’t mind dying quick with a round through the heart, but I’m not lying in a hospital bed coughing my lungs out.”

The boy hesitated and then angrily snubbed the match out. He muttered a swear word under his breath. He tried to sit still but was too restless and fidgety.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. The kid drew his gun and jumped up. The man continued cleaning as before. The footsteps faded. The man glanced up at the boy. The boy, embarrassed, put his gun away and sat down.

“Shouldn’t we at least lock the door? I mean, he could barge in on us and take us out before we could react... You just gonna keep cleanin’ that thing?”

“Two rules, kid. One, respect your weapon. Two, respect the intelligence of your opponent.”

“That’s why we should lock the door.”

“No. That’s why we should leave it unlocked.”

“Man, I just hope—”

The big man suddenly stared into the inner hallway of the apartment and held up his hand. “Shhh!”

“What?”

“You hear anything?”

The boy jumped up awkwardly. “No... I don’t know.”

“Maybe I should have checked the other rooms.”

“You didn’t check the apartment?”

“The front door was locked when I got here.”

The big man shrugged. “I just thought—”

“You dog’s ass!”

The boy pulled out his weapon and rushed from the room. The big man watched him enter the narrow inner hallway and disappear. The man quickly placed all five bullets in his cylinder, snapped it shut and placed his revolver in a belt holster. He rose and stood to the side of the hallway where the boy wouldn’t be able to spot him in time.

He could hear the panic in the boy’s voice.

“Motherfucker! Motherfucker!”

The boy rushed into the living room, gun in hand. The man drew his own gun.

“There’s a body in the bathtub! There’s blood all over the fuckin’ place! You hear me? There’s a body in the—”

In one fast, smooth movement, the man lifted the boy’s gun from his hand as he smashed his own gun down on the back of the boy’s head. The boy fell to his knees, stunned by the blow.

“Don’t move.”

The man placed the boy’s gun in his own belt and checked his body for other weapons. The boy held the back of his head with both hands.

“Jesus Christ! My head! Are you crazy?”

The man finished patting him down. He found no other weapons.

“Okay, I get it. He came early. You wasted him before I got here. You want to keep all the money, right? Okay. You earned it, so keep it! It’s yours. I’ll tell Wichai I got here too late. You hadda do the job yourself. Just let me go!”

The man walked behind him and placed the muzzle of his revolver flush against the back of the boy’s head. “You still don’t get it, do you, kid? The man in the bathtub was the man you were supposed to meet.”

“... The who?”

“I’m the legend.”

The boy started to turn his head, but the man pushed the gun harder. “Don’t turn around, kid.”

“How did you...”

“I warned you: always respect the intelligence of your opponent. You don’t get to be a legend by falling into traps. I’m not the hittee.” He cocked the hammer of his revolver. You are.”

“Don’t! Please!”

“Okay, kid, here’s how it works. You tried a hit; it backfired. But nothing personal, right? No need for you to suffer. So, I’m going to send a round into your brain. It’s the fastest way to get your body to shut down. But, even then, your heart will most likely keep pumping for a few minutes. Problem is, it’ll be pumping the blood out of your system. Like the plug’s been pulled, and the heart’s now working against itself. A brainless muscle if ever there was one, huh? Then your body temperature falls and your system begins shutting down. Clinical death. Biological death. End of story...”

“Please, no! Don’t kill me! I can pay you. Just take my wallet! I’ll—”

“Stop crying, kid. It doesn’t help. But I’ll tell you something. You know what I noticed in this business, kid? Some guys die with their eyes open, and some die with their eyes shut. I wondered about that for years. Then I decided that either was acceptable. There isn’t any god that cares one way or the other. But the guy with his eyes open? I’d say he’s more dead than the guy with his eyes shut. Which are you gonna be, kid? Open or shut?”

“Don’t kill me! Please! I’ll pay you whatever you want!”

“Kid, don’t take it so hard. Like I said, it’s nothing personal. But if I don’t waste you now, you might come after me. Who knows? You might get lucky.”

“No! I wouldn’t. I swear it. I wouldn’t dare!”

“No? A man with all your hits might dare anything. After all, you did the Kaeochart hit.”

“I never hit anybody! I never killed anybody! This is my first time. I just wanted to be like my uncle. He was in the business for years. I just wanted to be like him! Please, don’t! I’ll never come after you!”

“I believe you, kid. ’Cause, you see, I did the Kaeochart hit.”

“Oh, I — look, mister, please!”

“You had it right, except you weren’t there to see my semi jam up on me. I had to use the backup revolver. That’s why I won’t touch a semi-automatic again.”

“Look, I swear I—”

“But it’s like this. You being an amateur makes it even worse. Somebody teams you up with a guy like me, a pro, and you could accidentally get the pro killed by doing something stupid. I can’t allow that to happen.”

The boy’s sobbing grew louder. His voice broke. “No! I swear. I don’t want to kill anybody. I’ll never do this again. Nobody will die because of me. Please don’t kill me! Please! Take my wallet! Just let me go!”

“... If, if I let you go, how do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“Mister, I swear to you! If I ever try this again, you come after me and kill me, Okay? I just want out. Please!”

The big man slowly let the hammer down. “Okay, kid. That’ll be the deal. You try another hit, I’ll hear about it. And I’ll put a bullet through you.”

“Yes! Yes! But you won’t have to. I swear it. Please!”

“I told you to stop crying... You piss your pants?”

“...Yes.”

“All right. I’m probably doing something I’ll regret.” He stared at the boy, who continued to sob uncontrollably. “You got ten seconds to get up and get the hell out of here. And nine of them are gone.”

The boy jumped up, ran to the door, opened it and ran out, slamming it behind him.

The man stared at the closed door for several seconds then replaced his revolver in his belt holster. He walked to the table and began replacing rods and patches and cloth back into the gun kit box.

Suddenly, from the inner hallway leading from the bathroom, a middle-aged man appeared. He was slim and dark and unhappy. And dripping wet. His clothes appeared to be covered with blood. He carried a pair of dry shoes over to the sofa and placed them on the floor.

“If I had to stay in that bathtub one more fucking minute I would be dead for real. As it is, I may have got pneumonia. I still say I coulda just been on the bed.”

As he spoke, he grabbed the clean clothes and towel from the television set and stepped back into the hallway. He raised his voice while he changed. “What the hell did I have to be in the tub for, anyway?”

“I told you: it looks better.”

“Yeah, right. It looks better.”

“He might have checked you out on the bed. Nobody touches a body in a tub full of bloody water.”

“That right? Well, you’re the expert. But I got ketchup in my hair, my nose, my ears... my eyes, for fuck’s sake!”

The big man said nothing. The man with ketchup in his hair quickly finished changing and walked back into the room. “First time I ever made money playing a corpse. How about you? You ever played a corpse?”

“Never did.”

“You shoulda taken the punk’s wallet. I’ll bet he was loaded. He offered it to you, didn’t he?”

“I’m not a thief.”

“Well, pardon me all over the fuckin’ place, but where I come from money is money.” The slim man suddenly sneezed three times in a row. “See? I’m getting pneumonia from that tub. And it’s not like I got health insurance or somethin’.”

The big man finished packing up his gun kit. Folding the newspaper neatly, he dropped it into a trash can. He lowered himself slowly into a chair and waited for the slim man. He stared at the stylized painting of the village. It could be any Thai village. He’d left his after his first hit. And never returned. Images of long ago flickered across his mind. A beautiful young girl, a competing suitor, the flash of a knife, blood, screaming, running, hiding.

The slim man sneezed again before he could get his sentence out. “You got health insurance?”

“No.”

“I don’t know anybody in the business who does. Who the hell can afford it on what Wichai pays? What pisses me off is that punk kid is gonna go to a college in the States and fuck lotsa blondes and drink lotsa beer and end up in business with his corrupt uncle and makin’ a fortune. And me? I’m gonna croak from not having health insurance.”

He rubbed his hair vigorously with the towel and then sat on the couch. He angrily put his socks and shoes on. “We didn’t get enough.”

“Forty thousand baht apiece to scare a kid out of the business? Seems pretty fair to me.”

Yeah, forty thousand baht will pay off a few gambling debts. But how much did the kid’s uncle pay Wichai to hire us? What’s Wichai’s take? You know who that kid is? Who his uncle is? I mean—”

“I don’t care about Wichai’s take. But...”

The slim man noticed the hesitation. “What?”

“I don’t like it.”

“What?”

“I’m good at what I do. I don’t like this kind of thing. The money’s not clean.”

“Money’s dirty to you unless you took somebody out for it?”

“It doesn’t feel right. It feels phony.”

“What’s phony about it?”

“I acted out what I am. I only pretended to do what I do. And took money for it. So what am I? A whore? I feel like a goddamn actor.”

“You? An actor! That’s a good one. Yeah, well, if it makes you unhappy, you can always give me your share. ’Cause the only thing don’t feel right to me is havin’ no money. How I get it is never the question.”

The big man remained in his thoughtful mood. “I wish somebody had done that for me when I was his age.”

“Done what?”

“Kept me out of the business.”

The slim man stared at him, shook his head and then continued checking himself in the mirror for any remaining traces of ketchup. “You! Man, you are in some mood today. That kid musta spooked you. I couldn’t believe his bullshit about the Kaeochart hit. I thought you might take him out just for trying to take the credit.”

“Kaeochart was a clean hit.”

The slim man interrupted combing his hair to stare at the big man, finished combing it and then walked to the door and opened it. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting the hell out of here.” He exited into the hallway and left the door open.

The big man listened to the sound of the slim man’s receding footsteps. He glanced again at the painting and then pushed his large frame up and out of the chair. He picked up his gun case, walked to the door and paused in the doorway to look back into the room. He spoke aloud but to no one. “I just wish somebody had done that for me.”

He exited the room and closed the door behind him.