Bangkok Tattoo

17

Farang, I humbly offer an apology. I had intended, on my return to Krung Thep, to reread Chanya’s diary and share it with you (honestly), but duty-and ambition-compel me to postpone. Just now, while I was unpacking in my hovel by the river at about six this morning (the flight from the South was delayed, I didn’t get in until after midnight), the cell phone rang. It was Vikorn’s formidable female assistant, Police Lieutenant Manhatsirikit, known, not inappropriately, as Manny.

“The Colonel’s not around and I can’t get hold of him, so you’ll have to sort this out on your own. It sounds like a nice little Trance 808 at the Sheraton on Sukhumvit. The general manager’s scared shitless about the publicity, so you’d better get over there. Take someone with you.”

“Why me?”

“I think it’s X file.”

“Zinna?”

“Must you be so indiscreet over the phone?”

I call Lek, whom I extract from the depths of sleep by dint of persistent ringing on his cell phone. He is all deference, though, as his mind clears and I tell him to be waiting outside his housing project so I can collect him in the cab.

At the Sheraton the general manager, an elegant but anxious Austrian (one of those European men who spend a good chunk of their time in this body trying to persuade a slick of hair to cover a bald patch-he was a woman last time around: vain, snobbish, and French; as is often the case when we switch genders between incarnations, he is having trouble adjusting: bald was never an issue last time; on the contrary he kept a magnificent head of hair all the way to his-actually her-deathbed), is waiting for us.

He ushers us into a lift, which takes us to the floor of suites near the top of the building. Outside room 2506 he produces a key to let us in. “Room service found him early this morning when they went in to collect a food trolley from last night. No one responded to their knocks, so they assumed the suite was empty. No one’s been inside since.”

In the room Lek takes one look at the corpse, then falls to his knees to wai the Buddha and pray that we will not be contaminated by death or bad luck, while the manager looks on in amazement. I tell the manager to wait outside.

The Japanese, dressed in smart casual, is slumped sideways on the sofa with that telltale professional hole in his forehead. I note that rigor mortis has set in but have forgotten exactly what that means in terms of the time of death. Lek, fresh from the academy, can’t remember, either. I undo the buttons on the shirt to check if there are any other wounds, in the certainty that there will be none.

“Not a mark on him,” I confirm, mostly to myself. There won’t be any other clues, either, of course, so why waste time looking for them? I call the manager back in.

“It’s a very professional hit. One small-bore slug between the eyes. How long has he been staying here?”

“He wasn’t staying here. He must have been invited by the guest, who has disappeared, of course. Why the hell they had to choose this hotel I can’t imagine.”

My cell phone rings. It’s Vikorn. “What are you up to?”

“I’m on a T808 at the-”

“I know where you are. Get out of there.”

“But Manny said it’s X file. Zinna.”

“That’s why I want you out of there. This is needle, pure provocation, I’m not taking the bait. Let the fucking army deal with it. I don’t want any record that you were there at all. I’ll needle him back with silence, while I think up something better.” Despite the restraint in his strategy, he is boiling with rage.

“Oh.” Somewhat crestfallen, I take another look at the corpse. “This is the General’s calling card?”

“He’s just letting us know he’s back on form, after that court-martial.”

Out of the corner of my eye I watch Lek posturing in front of the long mirror opposite the sofa. He can stand on one leg and pull the string of an imaginary bow with extraordinary elegance. I’m wishing I hadn’t allowed the manager back in.

“So who’s the stiff?”

A grunt from Vikorn. “The victim is a muckraking journalist based here and employed by some Japanese environmentalist group with an ax to grind about Japanese destruction of forest lands in Asia. He was investigating a Thai-Japanese corporation that intimidates peasants off their lands in Isaan so they can plant eucalyptus trees. Eucalyptus soak up the whole of the water table and destroy all other forms of vegetation, making the land useless for generations, but they grow fast and keep the Nips supplied with disposable chopsticks. Why the fuck they can’t use plastic chopsticks, I just don’t know. If the Chinese used disposable wood, there wouldn’t be a tree left on the planet.”

“So what’s in it for Zinna?”

“The dear General owns a thirty-five percent stake in the Thai-Nippon Reforestation and Beautification of Isaan Corporation. His men do the intimidating.”

“He’s never done this on your patch before.”

“The little prick’s showing off, making a point, breaking all the rules. He got off that court-martial, and now he’s rubbing my nose in it.” The Colonel can hardly speak for indignation.

“You’re going to let him get away with it?”

“I’m hardly going to knock heads with Zinna for one little T808, am I? Because that’s exactly what he wants me to do.” A pause dominated by his dragon breathing. “There’s always more than one way of skinning a snake.”

“What shall I tell the general manager?”

“That there won’t be publicity. That’s all he needs to know.”

I close the phone and lock with the manager’s anxious eyes. “It’s taken care of,” I say. He checks my expression to see if I mean what he wants me to mean, then grunts with relief. “What about the corpse?”

“Army specialists will take it away later today.”

“Army specialists? Why would they deal with this?”

“Because we won’t, and they can’t just leave it here. Someone will call them. Don’t worry about it-it’s one of those funny little Thai things.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“I don’t take money. Save it for the army.”

“Look,” Lek says as we are about to leave. I’d left the corpse’s shirt undone. Lek is pulling it open again. “Isn’t that the most beautiful butterfly you’ve ever seen? I mean, it’s just gorgeous.”

I pause to study the tattoo, which in my haste I had disregarded. It’s true, the workmanship is magnificent, the colors both subtle and vivid. Come to think of it, it’s a minor masterpiece.

“I’ve never seen one as good as that before,” Lek says.

In the cab on the way to the station, stuck in a brooding jam at the intersection between Petburri Road and Soi 39 (on the other side of the glass: carbon monoxide laced with air), Lek says: “Did you know that according to Buddhism there were three human beings at the beginning of the world?”

“Yes.”

“A man, a woman, and a katoey?”

“That’s right.”

“And we’ve all been all three, over and over again, going back tens of thousands of years?”

“Correct.”

“But the katoey is always the loner.”

“Katoey is a tough part of the cycle,” I say as gently as I can.

“What’s a Trance 808?”

“The murder, love. It comes from the number of the standard homicide documentation: T808. Vikorn called it Trance 808 once, and it caught on.”

Back at the station Manny (she’s five feet tall-just-and so dark she’s almost black, with the intensity of a scorpion) commands me in her most severe tone to go see Vikorn. “Don’t take him with you,” she adds, not rising from her desk, jerking her chin at Lek. In a meaningful glance at me, she adds: “The old man’s been looking at the Ravi pictures.”

I turn pale but say nothing.

Upstairs, I’m standing all alone on the bare wooden boards outside his office. In response to my knock, a bark: “What?”

“It’s me.”

“Get the fuck in here.”

I enter gingerly, in case he’s waving his pistol around, a common adjunct to Vikornic rage. Well, actually he has taken it out, it’s lying on his desk, but the signals are even worse. In a single timeless locking of eyes, I see that he’s been playing those old memory tapes again; wallowing. There’s a near-empty bottle of Mekong rice whiskey next to the gun, and an album of photographs in a large plastic cube showing his son Ravi at key moments in his short life. Ravi ’s corpse dominates the montage.

For everyone in District 8, the story is fundamental to our mythology. None of us were there at the time, but each of us has lived every moment. A few snaps from the photo album will be enough for your astute understanding, farang:

Snapshot 1: Ravi at age zero. Vikorn, husband to four wives, father to eight girls, holds his only son as if he were holding the meaning of life.

Snapshot 2: Ravi aged five, playing kiddie golf in a lush garden with the lovestruck Colonel.

Snapshot 3: Ravi at age sixteen bearing the symptoms of a seriously spoiled brat (smirk; gold Rolex; Yamaha V MAX motorbike; a beautiful girlfriend he was in the process of destroying with cocaine, sex, and alcohol; the old man making up the threesome with an obscene beam).

Snapshot 4: Ravi in his early twenties in Gucci casual standing in front of his scarlet Ferrari in Vikorn’s country estate up in Chiang Mai.

Snapshot 5: Ravi dead from a wound in his chest, his shirt soaked in pink blood fresh from the lungs.

The riots of May 1992 took everyone by surprise. It was supposed to be just another army coup (we’ve had thirteen since our first constitution in 1932, nine of them successful), but something had changed in the common people. General Suchinda, our prime minister of the month, was totally wrong-footed: the downtrodden were actually marching for democracy. A few bullets should do the trick. The order was given from on high. Zinna, no more than a colonel at the time, was one of those officers who believe in leading by example. (Perhaps he doubted his men would fire on their own people?) He raised his own gun, a large pistol, and fired just as he gave the order for his men to do likewise. Fifty died in the un-Buddhist bloodbath. Outrage and democracy swiftly followed (it was that or civil war), but Ravi, it seems, had never intended to join the march; he had simply been forced to abandon his Ferrari because the demonstrators were blocking the street and he got caught up in their rage. (The autopsy revealed white powder all but blocking Ravi ’s nasal passages; he had died with a half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label in his left hand, and the alcohol level in his blood was high.)

No mention is made of Ravi in the final report of the commission of inquiry into the riots, but every Thai understood what had gone on in Zinna’s mind when he selected his one and only target. Ravi, you see, looked like a rich man’s child, even from a distance. Perhaps Zinna didn’t know who he was, but he understood very well what he was, and by all the rules of feudalism he should have held his fire. But Zinna, an upwardly mobile soldier-gangster of humble origins with chips on both shoulders, saw no reason for special treatment and fired deliberately at the arrogant, spoiled, drunk, drugged product of the system he served. Or did Zinna indeed recognize the son of his greatest rival? This is Vikorn’s firm belief, for Zinna had purchased his commission with the fruits of his own substantial trafficking. Only Zinna knows what was in his mind when he pulled the trigger, but certain it is that with one fatal shot, he started a feud to last a lifetime. An unexpected consequence has been Vikorn’s passionate conversion to democracy. He saw that the people were the only stick big enough with which to beat the army.

There have been many skirmishes in this war, for Zinna is no mean adversary. Deciding eventually, like all great narrators, that truth is best expressed through fiction, Vikorn one day last year had a truck dump a pile of morphine bricks onto Zinna’s land in his country hideout up in Chiang Mai, then tipped off the local police chief. The scandal almost sank the General, but with his usual resilience he mounted a spirited defense at his court-martial, during which he supplied video shots taken from a security camera. The film showed a truck inexplicably arriving across a field, then two young men wearing black lace-up boots unhooking the back and pulling the gray brick-sized contents onto the land. Close-ups indicated the boots were not army but police issue.

The minute he saw that Zinna would survive his trial, Vikorn began another tack. Rather than micromanage Zinna’s downfall himself, he has instead guaranteed promotion and a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for any cop in District 8 who finally nails the General. In addition, he has placed a trusted subordinate in charge of the file (if you can call it that, for nothing is ever written down in this inquiry), with the standing instruction to work on it whenever there’s nothing more pressing in the in-box. Vikorn’s choice of subordinate in this case was shrewd in the extreme: how did he guess that buried among my most secret defilements was a passion for promotion?

“He dropped the mark on my patch.” Vikorn glares at me.

“Not the best party manners.”

“Don’t give me your fucking supercilious farang back-chat.”

“Sorry.”

“D’you realize what this means?”

“Maybe I’m missing the finer points.”

“Maybe you’re missing the main fucking point. Would you come to my house and drop an elephant turd on my Persian rug?”

“Your what?”

“That’s the level of insult. It doesn’t get worse than this. No one, I mean no one, not even your army fuckups, does this. It’s the main rule. Without it we’d have-we’d have-”

“Anarchy?”

He looks at me but does not see me. In this case blind rage is no metaphor. He stops abruptly, goes to his desk, and picks up the gun to examine it curiously, as if unsure of the crimes it is about to commit, then with great care lays it down again next to the photos. I breathe a sigh of relief, for I have seen this before: the white heat of his fury slowly but surely mastered by a Herculean determination to use his great intellect for the purpose of spite. He looks at me again, eyes still glazed somewhat, but brighter. “Yes, anarchy. Do farang really suppose that our society could survive one minute without rules? Just because we don’t follow the written ones doesn’t make us third-world bums. No jao por wastes a mark on another jao por’s patch. It just doesn’t happen. This could take us back to the stone age.”

“I understand.”

“Good. You understand. Well, that’s all that fucking matters, isn’t it? In the whole fucking universe, what really makes the stars shine and the planets orbit is whether Sonchai Jitpleecheep understands or not.”

“I didn’t-”

“Didn’t what? You’re in charge of the X file-you were supposed to protect me from this.”

“Huh? You never said anything about protecting you from Zinna’s provocation. You said keep an eye out for opportunity-”

A scream: “Don’t you see I’ve got to respond? And it has to be even worse than what he did to me?”

I refrain from saying: That’s not a very Buddhist point of view.

Heaving, but resuming self-control. “Give me a report. How many major drug busts since Zinna got off?”

“Only two. They were both attempted exports to Europe.”

“And?”

“The first was a minor player, a mule. She’s pleading guilty. There’s no obvious connection to Zinna-it was heroin, not morphine.”

“And the other?”

He looks at me, causing a great quaking in my guts. “Sorry, I forgot to follow up.”

“You what?”

“I was distracted. They brought him in a few days ago, looks like a heavy hitter, but we got focused on the farang Chanya wasted, and then I made that trip down south.”

Glaring: “We still have the junk?”

“It’s with the forensic boys.”

“Morphine or heroin?”

“Looks like morphine.”

Screaming: “Do what you need to do. I want to know where that morphine came from. I know he took my dope back from the army after the court-martial.”

Exiting with a high wai: “Yes, sir.”

I’m out in the corridor making running repairs to my psyche after the Vikornic onslaught. Look at it this way: for the Colonel to guess what Zinna will do next, he merely has to consult his own psychology. If Zinna dumped a hundred kilos of morphine on Vikorn’s land, what would Vikorn have done? Do I hear: Sold the dope, of course? In the event (not, when all was told, unlikely) that Zinna found a way of wriggling out of the frame-up, would the General miss an opportunity of making twenty million dollars or so out of the product that his arch-enemy so generously supplied free, gratis, and for nothing? Do wounded bulls charge red rags?

Back at my desk, my first call is to Sergeant Ruamsantiah.

“That farang with the morphine last week. What was his name?”

“Buckle. Charles, but he calls himself Chaz.”

“The Colonel is taking an active interest in the case.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because it’s morphine. How many times do we see morphine these days?”

“Hardly at all. It gets synthesized into heroin before it leaves the Golden Triangle.”

“Exactly.”

A moment of silence, then: “Wow! Vikorn, that cunning old bastard! He knew Zinna might get off the inquiry, persuade his army chums to sell him back the confiscated dope, and export it, right? So now Zinna has to get rid of more than a hundred kilos of morphine in a hurry before someone blows the whistle on him. All the heroin labs are inconveniently located up north, so he’s not going to have time to synthesize.”

I say nothing.

“So anyone caught with morphine at this moment has a better-than-even chance of being a courier for Zinna?”

“Correct.”

“Amazing. I never would have thought of that.” A pause. “It’s like they say: with the Colonel it’s the B plans you have to watch for.”

“You got that right.”

All enthusiasm now, with little bubbles of ebullience punctuating his speach: “I’ll go check on Buckle myself-he’s downstairs in the cells. I’ll call you back in five.”

“Great.”

While we’re waiting for the good sergeant, farang, let me revisit the Buckle bust with you. It happened about a day before Chanya killed Mitch Turner.

18

Flashback: I was having a quiet morning pottering around the Old Man’s Club when my cell phone started ringing. It was Lieutenant Manhatsirikit at her least glamorous.

“Get over here, pronto.”

I showered quickly and grabbed a cab, only to discover when I arrived that it was not a shoot-out or an investigation by the Crime Suppression Division (our anticorruption bureau: everyone’s worst scenario) but an interpretation job. I’m the only one in the station who speaks English worth a damn, so they tend to drag me in whenever there’s a farang who needs terrifying. (Hard to convey the finer points of intimidation if the perp doesn’t understand a word you’re saying.) This guy, though, was something else: the kind of shaved skull like a pink coconut that belongs on the end of a battering ram, a fat round face bursting with Neolithic fury, small eyes, ironmongery hanging from his pincushion ears, short and incredibly muscular arms and legs, a frown characteristic of the intellectually deprived, tattoos on both forearms screaming of his inextinguishable love for Mother (left forearm) and Denise (on the right, in indigo, from elbow to wrist), and puncture marks in all major veins. On the bare wooden table in the equally bare interrogation room: two suitcases, open to show plastic-wrapped gray blocks about six inches by four. Ruamsantiah handed me a British passport: Charles Valentine Buckle. The sergeant explained that Buckle had been caught at his hotel in a combined police/customs operation after a tip-off, bang to rights.

“Tell me if he’s as stupid as he looks,” Sergeant Ruamsantiah ordered me.

“And if he is?”

“Then we better start looking for Denise.”

Ruamsantiah’s intuitive approach to law enforcement is famous throughout the station. I myself would have preferred a more thorough investigation, in which the stages of detection are more clearly defined, but his conclusion that this sack of testosterone:

1. was too stupid to arrange for the purchase, transportation, and export of $500,000 worth of morphine on his own;

2. must therefore be within the control of another person of superior intellect, who on the evidence of his tattoos and macho-slave posture was likely to be a woman;

3. whose name, on the balance of probability, was likely to be Denise,

was hard to fault. I noted, with admiration, that the Denise tattoo was darker and fresher than the other, which virtually proved Ruamsantiah’s hypothesis. Indeed, the more I looked at him, the more convinced was I-as was Ruamsantiah-that he would not make a move without Denise. Yep, Denise done it.

“His mobile?”

Ruamsantiah took a rather outdated Siemens from a drawer under the table and handed it to me. With considerable pride I was able to locate both his telephone address book on the sim card and the list of numbers recently dialed and calls received. (You don’t work with whores without learning mobiles, farang.) There was a predominance of one particular number, which looked like another mobile. When I checked with the address book, I saw that it corresponded to the number under the single letter D. The Pink Coconut was watching me with increasing fury, which expressed itself in recurring bursts of sweat with which his face and shaved pate were covered, just as if he’d come in from a tropical storm. (There was a periodic seeping and an unpleasant odor characteristic of consumers of dairy products-you don’t get that sort of stink with lemongrass.)

“D is for Denise, right?” I snapped.

I did not, myself, consider this as evidence of forensic brilliance on my part, but Charles Buckle was clearly impressed. “Yeah.” Then he clammed his mouth shut in an odd kind of way, fearing he’d said too much.

“Let’s see if she’s awake, shall we?”

I used the autodial feature to call the number under D. Twelve rings before a British accent that had been dragged from the bottomless pit of sleep answered. “Chrissake Chaz, what the fuck d’you want now?”

“Good morning,” I said. “This is the Royal Thai Police Force, and Chaz is going to jail for the rest of his life, assuming, that is, that he avoids the death penalty. We would like to ask you a few questions concerning-”

Neither the sergeant nor I was ready for it. Arrested persons in Thailand are hardly ever violent for cultural reasons: the cops would shoot them. Indeed, a second after Chaz charged at me, apparently discounting the wooden table between us, Ruamsantiah was on his feet reaching for his service revolver, which he had stuck in his belt at the base of his spine, but Chaz, mad as a hatter, had launched himself across the table, apparently in a desperate but chivalrous attempt to protect the subject of his right forearm from implication in international drug trafficking. The table had other ideas and moved with him, creating the impression (as I and my chair went down under it) of a kind of four-legged land raft on which the lone sailor was making an adventure tour of the interrogation room, while Ruamsantiah prepared to take a shot at him and I rolled out of the way, spilling the Siemens as I went, which exploded into its various components. The suitcases followed me to the floor, and a few of the blocks burst their packing and crumbled, increasing the net value of my khaki open-neck shirt and black pants by maybe $50,000 as I rolled in their contents. I think Ruamsantiah would not have resisted the temptation to shorten the case with a bullet through that pink coconut had not the coconut itself made violent contact with the opposite wall, leaving its owner groaning in a heap along with what was left of the table. A flimsy third-world piece of furniture, it pretty much disintegrated when it hit the wall, unlike that robust first-world cranium, which suffered no more than a dramatic increase in its pinkness. Still, Ruamsantiah agonized over every cop’s dilemma in such circumstances: shoot the bastard or merely beat the shit out of him?

Reluctantly, but perhaps bearing in mind the mountain of paperwork that invariably accompanies the death in custody of a farang, Ruamsantiah opened the door of the interrogation room and called for reinforcements. Before long the room was filled with vigorous and enthusiastic young men in black lace-up boots who were quick to see a cure for boredom. Coconut began to squeal as I left the room with the remains of the world-class narcotic smuggler’s mobile in my hands.

I had to go to the latrines to dust off my shirt and pants, where I used the occasion to reflect on the fragility of human values: this gray poison, for which people risk life and liberty, was now worthless dust on the floor of an old police toilet. There is no constant in life but change. I also wondered what would happen if I encountered one of our sniffer dogs from the narcotics unit before I had the chance to go home and shower. To the dog, of course, the heroin would remain the most valuable commodity in the universe, since without it he’d be just another unemployed mutt wondering where his next meal was coming from: there are no more enthusiastic supporters of the war on drugs than our sniffer dogs.

Downstairs the forensic boys were too involved with their MP3 project (WAV to MP3 is no problem, but transferring Windows Media Player format into MP3 is quite a challenge, they explained) to check the sim card immediately. They pointed out that in view of the screams from the interrogation room, it did seem as if a confession was imminent, so what was the hurry? They’d get back to me.

Down in the canteen I tucked into a chile-intensive breakfast with a 7-Up before returning to the second floor, by which time the screams from the interrogation room had ceased.

At the top of the stairs one of the young cops in heavy black boots came out to tell me the Coconut wanted to confess. At least, they thought that’s what he wanted. When I entered the room, I was quite pleased to see no blood, bruises, or broken teeth. Whatever they did, though, was amazingly effective. The Neolithic fury had quite dissipated, and the fat face was flabby with surrender and exhaustion, revealing the soul of perhaps a five-year-old yearning for Mother as he lay supine on the floor with a cushion thoughtfully placed behind his head which they propped up against a wall. With most of the buttons on his shirt popped, I saw what a gift he had been to various body artists over the years, some more talented than others, though all with the standard addiction to indigo.

When I asked him if he wanted to confess, he licked his lips and nodded. Now we hauled him to his feet and dragged him to a chair, revealing the telephone book he was lying on. The telephone book is the interrogator’s best friend in these parts. Inserted between boot and perp, it prevents all signs of physical abuse without detracting too much from the point of the exercise.

Ruamsantiah shook his head in wonder. “He’s tough, I’ll give him that. They’ve been going at it all the time you were having breakfast, and they only just broke him. I’ve never seen anything like it-incredible pain threshold. The ugly bastard must be made of concrete.”

Now he mentioned it, I noticed that all the young men were sweating and some were still breathing heavily.

Somebody brought a Dictaphone so Chaz’s confession in English and my simultaneous translation into Thai were both recorded. Chaz was commendably brief (Him: I done it. Me: Done what? Him: The dope), so much so that Ruamsantiah told me to tell him that if he didn’t think up some convincing details, he was in for another round, this time without the telephone book. Chaz seemed to want to comply but was inhibited by some mystic force that had the power to banish fear.

Ruamsantiah: “What happened with the idiot’s mobile?”

I explained that it might be a while before our musically inclined geeks were able to retrieve Denise’s telephone number from the sim card.

“I’ll get it myself,” said the sergeant, who made for the door. By now about twelve young men were all licking their lips. I was not sure how long I could hold them off; nor was I sure if I should hold them off. Maybe if they gave Chaz Buckle a really good going-over while he was still weak from the first beating, he’d see the light and get his sentence reduced by giving us details of Denise’s smuggling ring. If I used my influence to save him from a further beating, on the other hand, he would almost certainly get the death penalty. A man whose main crime was a room temperature IQ would rot on death row while the mastermind Denise went free. Properly understood, karma is more complex than a weather system, but fortunately I was saved from the need to intervene in this man’s destiny by the sudden and triumphant return of Ruamsantiah, who had, he explained, grabbed back the mobile and simply clipped all the bits together again. It seemed to be working, indeed was that very minute receiving a text message: Chaz, where the fuck R U and? is going on?????

I confirmed the message originated from the same number as Denise’s mobile. Ruamsantiah’s eyes flicked between Chaz and the mobile. He nodded at me, and I pressed the autodial button. This time only a couple of rings were required. A cautious tone: Yes?

“It’s me again. He’s in a Bangkok police station getting beaten up after being found with two suitcases of ninety-nine-percent-pure morphine, which he has confessed he was planning to smuggle out of the country. He has named you as an accomplice-”

A great bull yell from Chaz, who tried to attack me again, but this time everyone was ready. Two of the cops sat on him while others held his arms.

A contemptuous tone from Denise: “Leave it out, sonny boy. My Chaz wouldn’t grass on me for all the tea in China. What kind of rank fucking amateur are you?” She closed the phone, leaving me stranded in perplexity. When I tried her again, I got a busy signal.

I looked thoughtfully at Chaz. Whatever doubts I might have had concerning Ruamsantiah’s rather precipitous conclusion that Denise was behind the racket had now been cleared up. But our evidence against her, although intuitively compelling, could be argued away by an expensive lawyer. Indeed, it could be pretty effectively laughed out of court by a cheap one, since it consisted entirely of that tattoo on his right forearm. Even a Thai court might hesitate to condemn her to death without more to go on.

The sergeant and I shrugged at each other. Ruamsantiah seemed to feel sorry for this great pink baby, who would probably not actually be executed (because he was pink, not brown, the King would pardon him eventually after a few decades on death row) but who would certainly be ground down by our prison system until he was no more than a toothless shade on slopping-out duty. Well, there was nothing more to be done for the moment.

“I guess we better check that it really is morphine in the suitcases,” I said to Ruamsantiah, who blinked. What else could it be?

And there it was left, farang, because the next day, before I’d had a chance even to consider what the morphine might signify with regard to Zinna, there was the problem of Mitch Turner to deal with and then that trip down south to Songai Kolok.

End of flashback, farang.

19

Ruamsantiah, still in awe of Vikorn’s low cunning, calls back slightly breathless:

“I’ve just been in the cell with him.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Bad. Really bad. The jailer had to use restrainers.”

“Withdrawal?”

“Cold turkey with extras. He’s strong, he was bashing his head against the bars.”

“Is he in interrogation mode?”

“He could be, with a little help. You’ll have to do it-the brute hardly speaks a word of Thai. ”

“I’ll be down. By the way, did you get his record from Scotland Yard? I’ll need it before I question him.”

“I’ve got the fax, but I couldn’t read it because it’s in English. I’ll send it up to you.”

The sergeant sends a young constable, who arrives on the double with Buckle’s British record sheet. He started in reform school, after which he began a five-year career as a moderately successful burglar, followed by jail, where he addicted himself to heroin and began an apprenticeship as a small-time trafficker. After the first serious drug bust he developed an increasing sophistication in his MO and is now suspected of large-scale trafficking from Southeast Asia to the U.K. via Amsterdam in a well-organized ring. Said to have developed a serious reluctance to go back to jail, which has resulted in greater caution in the way he does business. Despite numerous detox programs, he has never been able to kick his smack habit.

I meet Ruamsantiah at the steps down to the cells, and we walk with the jailer to cell four. For once the jailer has exercised compassion in that he has used padded, hospital-style restrainers instead of his usual chains. We stare through the bars. Chaz is in poor shape, shivering and groaning, with some nasty cuts and bruises on his forehead. “Self-inflicted,” the jailer defensively reports.

“Is he on anything?”

“Only tranqs.”

The jailer selects a key from a sparkling chrome chain as long as infinity, then opens the door. Ruamsantiah and I enter the cell, dank with one man’s total despair. I say: “Chaz.” There is only a flicker of recognition, then a return to his compulsive shivering.

“Maybe we can help you.”

Again, a brief flicker of recognition, but this is not the same man as the one I interrogated last week. Thwarted craving shows us our darkest places, our deepest fears, our basic cowardice. “Denise didn’t get you out of here like she promised, did she, Chaz?” I am using Paternal Concerned with plenty of saccharin and just a dash of menace. He stares at me, then lets his head down again, shivering and shuddering.

“You weren’t any ordinary courier, were you? You’re a pro, Chaz. I’ve seen your record sheet-you’re not just some dumb mule like the other losers who hang around Ko Samui and Pataya, waiting to be used, those other ugly dumb tattooed bastards who’ll risk anything for a fix. You were the boss’s main man, her lover, weren’t you? You didn’t have to worry about a little thing like a bust, because the boss is so rich and influential and so damn well connected, she could get you off of anything anytime. That’s why you had the nerve to jump me, remember? This is Thailand, and all she needs to do is bribe the forensic lab-throw money at it, as they say-and you were going to be walking the streets again, shooting up on the best stuff money can buy, right? That was the plan, you talked about it many times, she told you how special you were, how powerful she was, didn’t she? But you were way too experienced to take her word for it. There had to be more to it than this, she had to show you her influence. Her connections. You’d been east enough times to know what connections mean over here. According to your passport you’ve made twenty-five visits in the last five years. Connections are wealth, power, happiness-connections are everything. And even Denise is just another lost farang if she doesn’t have them. So tell us, who is her main man?”

This time he doesn’t even bother to look up. I nod to Ruamsantiah, who produces a small glassine bag with white contents from one of his pockets.

“Chaz,” I say softly. A sudden flick of his eyes, which fix on the bag in Ruamsantiah’s left palm, then down again to stare at his navel. “I can relieve your suffering, Chaz.” I finally have his full attention. Suddenly his eyes are pleading. “It’s okay, Chaz, you can trust me, I’m a cop, ha-ha. No, really, I give you my word. We’ll let you come down slowly, reduce the dose a little every day till you’re clean, maybe even find you some methadone. That’s the humane way to do it, isn’t it?”

He gulps, opens his mouth, stares at the packet, and shuts his mouth. In a whisper: “I can’t do cold turkey, it’s killing me.” Our eyes lock. This is a confession straight from the soul. He just can’t do it. He really can’t do it. Oh, how he would love to play the macho martyr immune to all weakness, but the dope dragon is too powerful.

“Of course, you’ll have to help us nail that bitch and her supplier.”

A quick look, a nod, and then he bursts into tears. In a sob-drenched whisper: “Gimme the smack, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Ruamsantiah and I exchange a glance. “Better get him some gear,” I tell the sergeant. “Make sure it’s sterilized.”

While the sergeant is gone hunting for syringe, oil lamp, and other accessories, I use Coaxing Voice on the perp: “You’re small fry, Chaz, a mule, a dummy. She used you, then she let you twist in the wind. But she’s not such a big fish, not really. She’s just another middle-aged fucked-up farang on her last life, isn’t she? She moves nothing, shakes nothing, she just hangs around the table with her tongue hanging out. So her crumbs are bigger than your crumbs, but at the end of the day it’s still crumbs. Because over here the trade is owned by the locals, right? There are no farang jao por, Chaz, no farang big bosses, they’re all Thai-but you know that. Now tell me, who did Denise produce to convince you that she had the connections to keep you safe? That’s what it takes in your game, doesn’t it, for a wise guy like you to take a risk, even if you were screwing her. She had to show her credentials, didn’t she?”

Ruamsantiah has returned with a disposable plastic syringe still in its germ-free packet, a small oil lamp, and some aluminum foil. He lays it all out on the crude wooden table at the back of the cell, while Chaz watches intensely. Ruamsantiah lays the packet of smack next to the syringe. Now the sergeant and I are both looking at Chaz.

“A Thai army general,” he says in a broken voice.

“Name?”

“Zinna.”

“Tell me more about General Zinna. How many times did you meet him?”

“Once.”

“She produced him just the once to convince you she was kosher?” A nod. “You must have been impressed.”

“He came in uniform, with soldiers.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“How do I know? She took me somewhere, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Describe the place.”

“Big house, three stories, lot of land, dogs, monkeys.”

When I translate, Ruamsantiah stares at me. “He’s talking about Khun Mu.”

Chaz Buckle has recognized the name: “Yeah, Mu, that was it.”

I nod. “Can you manage to cook on your own, Chaz, or shall we get someone to help you?”

“I’ll do it.”

I watch while the sergeant drags the table over to where Chaz is taped to the bars by his ankles and wrists, then releases Chaz’s wrists. He immediately hunches over the table, pulls off a strip of aluminum foil, and starts to shake out the smack from the packet, oblivious to all human emotion, including his own shame. I leave him with Ruamsantiah.

20

In a jam at the intersection between Asok and Sukhumvit-that black hole where time gets lost-I ask the driver to switch off his Thai pop CD so Lek and I can listen to Rod Tit FM. Pisit has invited none other than my mother on the show in her capacity as Thailand’s most famous, and vociferous, ex-prostitute.

These are sad times for sleaze, farang. Our government is going through one of its puritanical phases and has decided to impose an earlier curfew. Starting next month, all the bars will have to close at midnight. Naturally, the flesh industry is outraged, the whole of Soi Cowboy has been mobilized, no farang is allowed to pass by without signing a petition. Pisit’s first guest is a katoey who works the bars. Lek listens, riveted.

The katoey with deep voice maintains that she intends to sue the government for the cost of her operation and the ruination of her life. She had the whole shooting match cut off for purely commercial reasons. She grew up as a boy in Isikiert, one of the poorest regions in the poorest part of the Northeast, with five sisters and one brother. Her mother is blind from cataracts, her father’s health is broken from rice farming in the tropical heat twelve hours a day, her sisters are all mothers of infants by drunken Thai men who don’t pay child support, and anyway none of the girls were likely to make a fortune in the Bangkok flesh trade for aesthetic reasons. Her only brother suffers from Down syndrome and requires constant supervision. As the cutest of the brood, she was nominated (unanimously) as the one to solve the family’s financial problems in the big city. Borrowing as best they could and pooling everything they had, they just about scraped enough together for the operation that turned her into one of the sexiest-looking whores on the Game. It was a onetime, high-risk capital investment that, after apainful lead-in period, is finally beginning to yield a reasonable return, and now the government is sabotaging the fledgling cottage industry with this early-closing nonsense. Everyone knows the major part of the business of the Game is conducted between midnight and two p.m., when the johns’ resistance has been properly ground down by alcoholand the attentions of near-naked young women (or katoeys). What maniac in government had this bright idea? Obviously they care nothing for the poor. If she has no money to send home, is the Interior Minister going to take care of her family?

Pisit turns to my mother, who needs little launching:

The government isn’t merely killing the goose that lays the golden egg-it is ruining the only wealth-distribution system we have in this feudal society. This government has no common sense at all. Do they seriously think we’ll get rich by becoming as sterile as the West? I’ve been to Paris, Florida, Munich, London -those places are museums populated by ghosts. The bottom line is that for more than three decades the people of Isaan have been kept alive by what little cash their daughters in Bangkok have been able to send home. There are whole towns, roads, shops, farms, water buffalo, cars, motorbikes, garages-whole industries that owe their existence to our working girls. These courageous young women are the very essence of the female genius for sustaining, nurturing, and honoring life with life. They are also everything that is great about the Thai soul, with their selfless devotion and sacrifice. They ask for no help or gratitude, they don’t expect admiration, they gave up looking for respect decades ago, but they are the heart of our country.

Pisit: How much of our government’s attitude is influenced by Western media, do you think?

Nong: Well, I must say I don’t know what the Western TV networks would do without a brothel in Southeast Asia to point their cameras at. Of course our government is influenced, but it’s just a question of the TV networks improving their ratings. They never trouble to really understand us. What can you do? This is the ersatz morality of the West.

Pisit: Does this crackdown spell the end of the sex industry in Thailand?

Nong: I don’t think so. After all, it’s been illegal for nearly a hundred years, and look what we’ve achieved. Also, there’s a lot of investment from the West these days because the upside potential of investing in a well-run go-go bar is much greater in my view than, say, investing in General Motors. Our girls charge far less per hour than in most societies, yet at the same time they are among the most sought-after women on earth. Rates have not increased in real terms since I myself was active.

My heart swells with pride at my mother’s mastery of a vocabulary usually reserved for the ruling classes, but the taxi driver twists his head around. “That’s your mom? She must have been a real goer in her day.”

“You may go back to your Thai pop CD now,” I instruct.

When the jam finally starts to ease, Lek says: “Have you seen the new stuff from YSL? It’s in the Emporium; some amazing dresses.”

“I haven’t kept up with the fashions this year.”

“Armani and Versace still have the best colors, though.”

“Italians have the best eye for color.”

“But I still prefer the Japanese designers. Junya Watanabe’s stuff this season is out of this world. Dusty grays in satin and velvet. Such a shock at first, you know, then you think: perfect. So did you speak to your mother?”

I swallow, then cast a glance at his ink-black hair, the hue of youth still on his flesh, the buttery glow in those high cheeks, the innocence still in those eyes. I’ve been mulling the thing over in my mind for days, wondering if my mother’s wisdom had deserted her in middle age. It seems almost against nature to introduce this angel to Fatima. Then it clicks. Initiation is the word. My mother is right, as usual. Not only will Fatima be good for him-she is exactly what he needs for experience and survival. Also, Fatima is very rich. If she decides to adopt him, he’ll be set up for life.

“Actually, she suggested a friend of mine who I’d just not thought of in connection to you. I haven’t seen her in over a year, but it won’t be difficult to look her up. I’ll see what I can do.”

Lek beams happily and throws me one of those grateful swooning looks of his. “Remind me again, where are we going?”

“We’re going to see Khun Mu, Lek.”

21

Take a poor Thai girl out of her third-world village, throw money at her, and what is the third thing she wants, after the three-story wedding-cake mansion and the lurid Mercedes? Louis Quinze furniture in acrylic tones, as a rule. Even beige is garish at this level of light reflection, and the green carpet is like something you might play tennis on, but Khun Mu somehow fits the decor.

A word about Mu. Before Vikorn shot him, her husband Savian “Joey” Sonkan used to boast that he’d spent more money renovating her body than he’d spent on the house and the five-car garage, but Mu began sculpting her body before she met him. She was what was known as a late developer. Most of her friends left the Isaan village at around eighteen to work in the big city, and many of them returned for holidays to boast about the money they were making out of dumb farang men who hired their bodies for ludicrous prices. (You could buy a fully grown buffalo for what those guys spent in a night at the bars.) For years these stories seemed not to affect Mu overly much, until one fine day she stole the family savings from under her parents’ bed and blew everything on silicone breast enhancements and a new wardrobe, then fled to Krung Thep to make her pile. As luck would have it, she found her destiny not with Western men (the rigid echoing bosom and the pink body stocking proved resistible, despite assurances from her consultants) but with a home-grown jao por-a young drug baron who appreciated a woman whose taste was as bad as his own.

Joey didn’t just deal drugs-he lived with them. After my Colonel took him down, we found whole cupboards full of yaa baa, the matrimonial mattress stuffed with heroin, bales of ganja in the garage. Vikorn, who had long grown out of shoot-outs with desperadoes and would have been happy to come to some arrangement (say, a modest seventy percent tax on Joey’s gross profits), never wanted to kill him, but Joey’s other passion, apart from drugs and modifications to his wife’s body, was chase movies, the more violent the better. He wanted to die like Al Pacino in Scarface, and after years of provocation Vikorn finally granted his wish.

My dead partner Pichai was there at the stakeout, as were I and half the cops from District 8, not to mention all the TV networks. Joey appeared unarmed on the bedroom balcony, insulting Vikorn’s manhood and goading him into a duel, while Vikorn crouched behind one of the police vans clutching a hunting rifle with infrared aiming device, which he fired before Joey finished proposing his rules of engagement. Maybe Joey had expected some such foul play, for he had placed himself at the very edge of the balcony, thus providing for a telegenic fall, including a backflip before the final splat. A few minutes later Mu appeared on the balcony waving a frilly Louis Quinze white handkerchief and smiling for the cameras. She held no grudges, she explained, beaming. After all, the house and cars were hers now, not to mention the furniture. A couple hours later at the station we discovered, to our astonishment, that the dumb moll who could hardly read and write possessed total recall. She was also apparently fearless and listed a total of three hundred and twenty-one names of her husband’s business associates (a selective list even so: none of them were cops), while maintaining the same eager-to-please smile on her face and pointing her pyramids at us. With very little encouragement (well, an offer of immunity from prosecution, to be precise) she was able to confirm that, despite appearances, Joey had been secretly (and invisibly) armed and that Vikorn was correct in claiming he’d shot in self-defense, thus silencing bleeding-heart critics in the media. Her negotiating skills also proved superior to those of her late husband. Before she left the station, she pointed out to Vikorn that her life was now worth maybe one baht and that if she didn’t have protection for the rest of it, she had as good as committed suicide by giving us that list of suspects.

“You need money” was Vikorn’s response.

“Exactly.”

“Okay,” Vikorn said. Mu took this single foreign word as permission for her to continue to trade with the army. He also let her keep about ten percent of the drugs in the house. After all, the remainder was more than ample for the ritual photo-op with Vikorn standing in full Pol Colonel uniform smiling before a table laden with heroin, morphine, meth, and ganja, the street value of which was enough to buy a fleet of airliners.

All that was a few years ago. We still consult Mu now and then. Vikorn is no mean negotiator himself, and part of the deal was that she should remain an informant-particularly against Zinna, who was Joey’s principal supplier. To keep her alive, our visits to her are restricted to no more than one a year, and total anonymity is required.

Money and time have shown her to be by nature neither a whore nor a crook but a true-born eccentric. Despite the security risk, she has refused to vacate the mansion, the grounds of which she has turned into a refuge for stray dogs and monkeys, which she feeds personally three times a day, usually in a blinding pink housecoat, except on anniversaries of her husband’s death, when she wears mauve, Joey’s favorite color. (One of the Roll-Royces is also mauve.) Armed and uniformed (mauve) security guards are everywhere and constantly patrol the perimeter of the grounds. There is even a sentry box where I had to flash our IDs, and a digital camera that enabled her to examine my and Lek’s faces before letting us in.

Now we’re standing on the tennis-court carpet in the main reception room while she sits on a glittering beige five-seater sofa, fondling a young and very sleepy female Dalmatian. I happen to know, for Vikorn likes to keep tabs, that she has no regular lover, unless it is one of the security guards, which is unlikely. She is like a billionaire nun with a weakness for animals. The solitude has all but dissolved self-consciousness, and the unrestricted play of emotion across her face, from sad to gay and back again, is quite childlike.

Lek is in shock at the vulgarity of the decor and stands rooted to the spot.

Mu says: “I remember you. You are the half-caste who was at the shoot-out. Did you kill my husband?”

“You know very well it was Colonel Vikorn.”

“Ah, yes. At least, he took the credit in the media, but he’s a very cunning man. Perhaps it was you or one of your colleagues who pulled the trigger.” I say nothing. “Would you like to see him?” I cough. “Come along, I’m sure he’ll be delighted.” She lays the Dalmatian down in one of the lounge chairs, then casts a glance at Lek. “Is the beautiful boy coming?”

In a room adjacent to the lounge, Joey is embalmed à l’américaine in a characteristic pose from life, sitting in a director’s chair holding a mobile to his ear, a cigar in the other hand, an open-neck Gucci shirt and jacket, smart YSL slacks, and multicolored loafers. His huge smile, acrylic in intensity, perfectly fits the house theme. In a neat melding of cultures, Mu has surrounded him with gold images of the Buddha in his various postures, and electric imitation votive candles flicker everywhere. The decor is the house standard, and the dominant color-you guessed. She changed into a mauve housecoat before entering the shrine. I have the disturbing sense that there is nothing but modified naked body underneath.

A finely manicured hand flits to her mouth. “You know, every time I think of that day I feel awful.”

“We really didn’t want to do it,” I explain. “Vikorn would have made a deal if Joey hadn’t wanted to die.”

“I know. But afterward. At the station. You must have thought me so stupid, so naÏve, so much the typical country girl out of her depth in the big city.”

“Not at all. We were all pretty impressed, actually.”

“You were?” A deprecating laugh. “Don’t sweet-talk me, Detective. You were all laughing behind my back.”

“Why should we have done that?”

“The silicone, of course. Joey was always so busy making money, he never inquired about proper enhancements. Look.”

She pulls open the housecoat, and there they are. For the first time Lek shows an interest in the case. I feel it will be a load off her mind if I follow her directions and examine them, although I’ve already seen the point. The stiff silicone is all gone, replaced no doubt with saline bags or collagen, which, I can report, yield nicely to the touch, bounce and swing beautifully, and really are more or less indistinguishable from the real thing, although a purist might complain they belong on a woman ten years younger.

“Can I?” Lek asks. Mu smiles and nods. With great reverence he handles both breasts, as if examining art objects that he soon will own himself. “They’re amazing.”

“Yes,” I say, “excellent. You must be very proud.”

“Yes,” as she does up the coat with a quick glance at Joey. “Now, what d’you want to know? About once a year Vikorn sends someone to me, but I’m really very out of touch now.”

“In front of Joey?”

“Of course not. Let’s go upstairs-I like to look at the animals.”

The bedroom is so large, it is like the bedding department of a great store. Everything is high schlock. For a moment my tortured eye rests with optimism on a modest set of bookshelves. I’m impressed that the books are all Buddhist; my heart sinks, however, when I see they are all the same book.

We three sit demurely on a window seat, which I think must be her favorite in the house, and look out onto the courtyard, where a monkey is riding a Great Dane, just like a jockey, even using his long arm to urge him forward. All is going well-even the dog seems to be enjoying the privilege of transporting a higher species from place to place, when another monkey, a chimp I think, somewhat older and shrewder looking, wants to hitch a ride.

“That’s Vikorn,” Mu explains.

Vikorn’s first thought is to swing from the tail, which has the effect of halting the dog. Now he jumps on his back, joining his colleague, while other monkeys gather round. Mu pronounces their names softly from time to time. The whole of District 8 is here, it seems.

One by one Mu names the dogs. They are all well-known drug dealers. “That’s how I remember people. I think which of my dogs they most resemble. Unless they’re cops, then they have to be monkeys. The monkeys are smarter, but they’re not very happy. There’s always a problem with them, but the dogs are pretty content unless the monkeys start giving them a hard time.”

“Is there a dog named Denise?”

She flicks me a glance. “Denise?” Pointing to a female bulldog: “Yes, there she is. Is she the one you want to know about?”

“If you don’t mind.”

She hesitates. “Is this authorized? Vikorn is supposed to keep me alive.”

“We took precautions, came in a cab; I’m sure we were not followed.”

Agitated, she gets up to fetch a Chanel handbag and a large hand mirror in silver frame. Without a hint of self-consciousness she opens the bag, takes out a silver box that might have been designed for snuff, drizzles a line of the white contents onto the mirror, scrapes it all together with a razor blade, leans over, presses one nostril with her left index while sniffing through the right, switches nostrils, and rises again to replace handbag and mirror on a nearby table, all in a seamless movement. Catching Lek’s eye: “For my nerves.”

Flicking me another glance, she sighs. “There are more farang women in the business than there used to be. Denise has been around quite a while now. At first she was a minor player, quite scatty. The British intelligence people, MI6, were spying on her in Ko Samui and Phuket. She never carried herself but used men as mules-a variation on the usual method. The men were always clapped-out white men, mostly Brits and Australians with no brains, beach bums with habits to feed. More than half of them got caught, so her reputation suffered, and everyone who knew anything about the business was afraid to carry for her. Somehow she made contact with the army and reinvented herself. But she had to convince the mules that she was properly connected in Thailand. One of Zinna’s men introduced her to me.”

“You arrange her credibility sessions?”

A smile. “You could put it like that. She became very careful about the men she used. They were still stupid but much more experienced. They weren’t the usual bums, they were part of the industry in their own countries, usually they had done jail time, but at least they knew the ropes. The last one, Chaz Buckle, knew a lot about Thailand and how the system works. He knew that the best way to leave the country with a suitcase full of dope was to have one of the authorities on your side. Cops or army.”

“He was her lover?”

“Yes. They usually are. She uses sex like that-I think it’s the way she gets her kicks.”

“He has her name tattooed on his arm.”

She shrugs. “Tattoos-what do they mean? They’re like T-shirts. But maybe they had a real thing going. After all, she introduced him to Zinna himself.”

“Why would Zinna agree to that?”

Locking eyes with me. “Because he suddenly found himself with more than a hundred kilos of morphine that he needed to move in a hurry. I think you know where the M came from. It’s the same stuff Vikorn used to try to frame him in that court-martial. He wanted to get rid of it right away because he knew Vikorn would be on to him. He needed the carriers to take as much as twenty, thirty kilos at a time-you can’t do that with amateurs; you have to use people who know what they’re doing. And such people want security. In Thailand they want to know someone big is on their side to ensure a smooth passage out of the country. They tend to be wise to the scam that uses a small-time carrier as a sacrificial decoy while the big shipment goes undetected.”

“The meeting took place here?”

“Yes. I’m the neutral ground.”

“Zinna came with some of his men?”

“Of course. It was quite a show. The farang carrier Buckle was very impressed.” She glances out the window, then back to me.

“Thank you,” I say. “That’s what I needed to know.”

She smiles politely and gets up to lead us downstairs. Clearly this is as much risk as she can take. The interview is over. Outside, on the magnificent pillared porch, she rests her eyes on Lek. “Can you really take care of him? He’s too beautiful, too innocent.” Reaching out, she strokes his hair as if he were a dog. “Poor darling hasn’t been wounded yet. I do hope you survive.”

In the cab Lek controls himself for as long as he can, then blurts: “So when do I get to see Fatima?”

“I’ve got to prepare her. She may not want the responsibility. Give me a week or so.” Softening my words with a smile: “I’m quite busy, you know.”

22

I’m feeling pretty good, farang. In fact, I’m feeling like a farang. Truth be told, I cannot recall ever carefully preparing a watertight case and generally going the whole investigative nine yards. I must admit it’s not something I’d want to do more than once in a while, it’s so damned time-consuming (I mean, nine times out of ten you know whodunit so you grow the evidence accordingly-it’s one of those efficient Asian techniques you’ll have to adopt as global competition heats up-can’t have your law enforcement potting fewer perps per cop than us, can you-especially now you’ve dumped the rule of law in all cases where it proves inconvenient, right?), but Vikorn wants it done by the book this time. We’re going to leak the evidence to the media and run it on the Internet, so the judges will have to nail Zinna or risk impeachment themselves-there will be no funny business behind the scenes like last time. So I’m sitting at my desk making one of those lists cops like me never make:

Evidence

1. The dope. Well, it’s definitely morphine that Buckle was carrying, our forensic boys did all the tests, and Ruamsantiah called them on the telephone this morning: Of course it’s morphine-is the Dalai Lama a Buddhist? They’re happy to go into print, we’ll have the report by this evening.

2. Chaz Buckle, with a little chemical inducement, is ready to sign off on his increasingly detailed revelation of the Denise operation and her connection to Zinna.

3. Khun Mu, with a guarantee of security from Vikorn and a sum of money that he won’t discuss (but will have to be enough to buy Mu a new identity and a new life with no loss of amenities: I reckon well over a million dollars has changed hands), will testify that the meeting between Zinna, Denise, and Chaz Buckle did indeed take place on her land.

All I have to do is find Denise and bang her up for a week or so until she’s ready to confess all she knows about Zinna in return for a dramatic reduction in what would otherwise be a death sentence. It doesn’t get much neater and more satisfying than that, and I’m ready to concede there are times when your system has its merits, farang. (Promotion, here I come.)

Except that my mobile is ringing, and I’m having one of those gloomy glimpses into the immediate future. I see from the screen on the phone that the call is from Ruamsantiah.

In a depressed tone: “We had to let the farang Chaz Buckle go.”

“Huh?”

“Our forensic boys decided the stuff he was carrying was just icing sugar after all. They claimed the first tests used contaminated instruments that misled them.”

“Zinna paid them off?”

“Is there another explanation? The General sent some high-powered lawyer to explain to us that we have no legal right to hold Buckle. Then the Director of Police called Vikorn to tell him to let him go.”

“How’s Vikorn taking it?”

“He’s in his office waving his gun around.”

I close on Ruamsantiah and take a deep breath before I call Vikorn on his mobile.

Vikorn: “You’ve heard?”

“Yes. We had to let him go.”

“Have you any idea what this is doing to my face?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be a laughingstock.”

“Not necessarily. We can call for a second opinion on the dope, maybe send it to a farang agency overseas.”

“So then we end up with two conflicting forensic reports. That’s all the wriggle room he needs.”

“You can’t give up now.”

“Thais laugh at losers. I’m looking like the loser here. I frame him, he gets off. I grab one of his couriers, he springs him.”

What can I say? This is all true.

“Be careful-he hasn’t finished yet,” Vikorn says despondently, and closes the phone.

I’m back at the bar in the evening. It’s quite a slow night, and I’m thinking of closing early, when my mobile starts to ring. It is the colonel in charge of the Klong Toey district. It seems that a squat, muscular, unusually ugly, and tattooed farang has been found dumped in the river. Someone told him I might know something about it. I call Lek to tell him to pick me up in a cab.

23

At the junction of Ratchadaphisek and Rama IV, Lek says: “I’ve never been to Klong Toey before. Is it as bad as they say?”

“Pretty much.”

“You don’t mind about going there at night, just the two of us?”

“We’re cops, Lek.”

“I know. I wasn’t asking for myself. I feel so safe with you. You’re like a kind of Buddha for me-just being with you banishes fear.”

“You have to stop talking like that.”

“Because it’s not macho cop? But I love you for what you’re doing for me-I can’t deny my heart.” I sigh. “Would you mind telling me when we’re going to meet my Elder Sister?”

“When we’re ready. You and me.”

The truth is, I’ve still not found the stomach to introduce Lek to Fatima. Every time I pick up the phone to call her, I have a vision of her eating the kid alive. “Look, Lek, remember what you were telling me the other day, about the path of a katoey being the toughest, loneliest path a human being can choose?”

“I didn’t choose it. The spirit who saved my life chose it.”

“Right. And maybe that spirit has chosen Fatima -but I need to be sure. I feel like I’m holding your life in my hands here.”

Lek stretches out a hand to rest on my knee for a moment. “The Buddha will give you enlightenment for this. You’re so advanced, you’re almost there.”

“I don’t feel advanced. I feel like I’m corrupting youth.”

Lek smiles. “That only shows how holy you are. But I have to follow my path, don’t I? This is my destiny we’re talking about. My karma. My fate.”

“Right.”

“Will you lend me the money for the collagen implants in my buttocks and chest?”

I groan. “I guess so.”

Klong Toey: grave crime at its most poetic. The talat (market) is the emotional center, a square acre of green umbrellas and tarps beneath which chilies lie short and wicked on poor women’s shawls; chickens cram together dead or alive; ducks grumble in wooden cages; every kind of crab mimes death agonies in plastic bowls or gasps in the heat (both fresh- and saltwater, soft shell or hard); open-air butchers chop up whole buffalo; jackfruit, pineapple, orange, durian, grapefruit, bolts of cheap cotton, every kind of hand tool for the third-world handyman (generally of such inferior steel, they give out during the first hour-I have a personal vendetta against our screwdrivers, which bend like pewter-they would drive you totally nuts, farang); and so on. There are even some corrugated iron shacks nearby from the skulduggery school of architecture, joined clandestinely by precarious walkways that cry out for a chase scene, but most of the buildings surrounding the square are three-story shop-houses of the Chinese tradition. The sidewalks provide good clues as to the business of the shops: whole automobile engines pile up outside their ateliers dripping black oil; air-conditioning ducts of all dimensions stand proud outside another; CD rip-offs on stalls, the latest boom boxes block the way outside the stereo store. There are no farang here (either they don’t know, or knowing, they stay away), these slow-moving crowds of brown folk are as local as somtam salad, common as rice. The point: Klong Toey district includes the main port on the Chao Phraya river, where ships have unloaded since the beginning of time. (There are sepia pix of our forefathers in traditional three-quarter black pants, naked to the waist, their long black hair tied back from their fine foreheads in magnificent ponytails, unloading by hand in the impossible heat, many emaciated from your opium, farang.) A couple of streets away: a fine big customs shed and a complex of buildings belonging to the Port Authority of Thailand. The river itself is no more than a stone’s throw away, and many of the original inhabitants of this seething township have built their shacks on stilts on the other side of the water. Medieval riverboat men ferry the poor to and fro for twenty baht a trip in their modest hand-built canoes (with Yamaha outboards and millionaire bow-waves). In short, everyone knows the main industry is pharmaceuticals, for there is probably nowhere in Thailand where dealers, kingpins, addicts, cops, and customs are so conveniently massed together in one square mile of business-friendly riverfront real estate. Inevitably spin-off industries such as contract slaying, loan-sharking, and extortion have moved their headquarters here. I’m a little surprised that Colonel Bumgrad is troubling himself with a mere Trance 808. I was afraid of hostility on his part, for he is one of Vikorn’s many enemies, but he’s the incarnation of charm as he greets me when Lek and I get out of the cab.

They’ve laid Chaz Buckle out on the dockside under a blanket. The police launch is tied up to a capstan between two gigantic container vessels. The view is blocked in every direction by looming bows, rusting sterns, and iron gangplanks. Impenetrable marine shadows cast darkness over the poorly lit footpaths. Bumgrad nods to me, and I lift the blanket: a single shot in the back of the head, with exit wound that blew out his left eye. He is soggy from time spent in the river, but the assassination is recent. Even if I did not recognize the ruined face, the tattoos would have been identification enough.

“We haven’t checked his pockets yet,” Bumgrad murmurs. “We thought maybe you would want to do that.”

I lean over the body, then jump back as a small blind eel wriggles from out his mouth. His pockets are undulating. Lek, watching closely, puts a hand over his mouth. When I rip open his shirt, I see that his stomach, too, is in perpetual motion. There is a faint pop, and a blind white head with mouth full of tiny teeth emerges from his belly button. I snap my head around-is this some kind of joke?-but Bumgrad and his men are gone, disappeared into the black maze of the dock. Lek steps back, stifling a squeal. Eels are burrowing out of the corpse, desperate to find a way back to the river. I also take ten paces back.

A whoreshriek from the bows of the container boat-sailors are a specialized market that my mother and I don’t touch-then silence, save for the ring of iron-shod heels. A short stocky uniformed figure with ramrod back and voluminous chest emerges from the dark beyond and marches toward us until he is standing in a pool of light shed by a small lamp hanging from a ship’s cable. I slowly get to my feet, close my hands in a wai, and raise them to my lips.

“Good evening, General Zinna,” I say, carefully maintaining the wai.

Without replying, the General walks slowly toward me and stares down at the corpse. “Someone exercised compassion,” he says in a whispered baritone. “They killed him before they shoved the eels up his ass. That way he didn’t feel them eating his guts out. I doubt I would show such restraint toward someone who really irritated me. Know what I mean?” He raises a hand, and snaps his fingers once. There is a sound of running boots; now more than a dozen young men in black sweatshirts and army haircuts are emerging from the shadows at a jog. They stand behind him in military formation until he nods to two of them, who go over to Chaz to shine a flashlight on his belly, which is now quite eaten away with a tangle of white writhing worms. The General walks over, picks one of the eels out of Chaz’s guts, deftly kills it by whipping its head against the capstan, and returns to me.

As he slides the dead eel into my trouser pocket, in hardly more than a murmur: “Tell Colonel Vikorn he’s gone too far. He framed me, I got off, now the dope belongs to me. He doesn’t get a second shot. I’ll have his guts, one way or another.” Casting a contemptuous glance at Lek: “And I’ll have your bum boy, too.”

He and his men turn and leave. We are alone in marine darkness with a corpse full of hungry eels. As if sensing the coast is clear, the girl at the bow of the ship shrieks and laughs again with impressive professionalism calculated to make her sailor feel powerful, predatory, irresistible, charming, and horny. It seems a secret party is under way, for a couple more girls cry out, laugh, make vulgar jokes in Thai while their men shout in Chinese. Three female faces appear over the bows, then immediately disappear.

Sudden quiet, in which the soft padding of a large rat can be heard. Far off someone is crossing the river in a long-tail boat. I decide to save the man I once interrogated from further forensic indignity, but it is not easy. He’s heavy and elusive in the way of corpses. Grasping his wrists and signaling for Lek to help me, I drag him to the side of the dock, twist him around, then try to push him in. Lek leans over from the hips, elegantly failing to grasp the cadaver’s feet. I’m sweating in the night heat and experiencing an irrational reluctance to make contact with the eels, which are still feasting. With a foot on one shoulder, near the neck, I give a mighty shove. His arms still outstretched, the tattoos Mother and Denise are the last of him to slide over the edge and into the river with the most discreet of splashes.

I reach into my pocket and throw Zinna’s dead eel after him. Where’s Lek? Frantic for a second (I experience a vision of rape and degradation at the hands of Zinna’s men), I catch sight of him a little farther down the dock, in a pool of light.

The most classic of all our classical dance derives from the Hindu Ramayana, in which the god Vishnu incarnates as Rama and gets into a fight with evil over the life of his bride Sita. Lek is playing Sita on her knees pleading for her lord and master to believe in her eternal fidelity.

I put my arm around him as I lead him away. “He called me a bum boy.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not a bum boy, I’m a dancer.”

“I know you are.”

He turns his big hazel eyes onto me, merciless in his trust, love, and expectation.

When we pass the spot, we hear the ferocious churning of fish and eels that the T808 is feeding. For a tantalizing moment I see his life disperse into its many components, which spin away from one another into the night. The composite problem that was Chaz Buckle is now resolved.

24

It seems, though, that other composites are resolving into dust and spirit this violent night. Just after I’ve dropped Lek off at his project, Lieutenant Manhatsirikit calls me on my mobile.

“The Colonel’s at Khun Mu’s house. Better get over there.”

There’s nothing much to say, farang, that you have not already guessed. At Khun Mu’s house all the dogs and monkeys are dead (gutted), the guards executed, mostly by bullets to the skull. Khun Mu, naked, is wrapped around Joey’s embalmed corpse in an obscene position, her throat cut. And there is a fat dead farang woman in her mid-forties slit from gut to chest, lying on the king-size bed in the great bedroom, wearing only a huge pair of shorts.

“Denise?” I ask Vikorn.

He nods. “She lived in a million-dollar mansion overlooking the Andaman Sea in Phuket. He kidnapped her and brought her here just to show that he could.” A shaking of the head. “Just to make a point.” Looking at me: “All our witnesses are dead.”

Vikorn walks over to the sofa by the window and sits heavily. I’ve never seen him so despondent. “We’ve been going against him symmetrically,” he mutters, “that’s the problem. We can’t beat him on violence. He’s the army, for Buddha’s sake.” A quick glance at me. “I’m sorry, Sonchai. I’m taking the file away from you.”

“You have someone better?”

“It needs nuance, a woman’s touch.”

“Manny? She’s not exactly subtle.”

He shrugs: no comment. He is huddled on his seat, shrunken, the very image of defeat; there are even tears in his eyes. I feel a great wave of pity-but wait! Somehow his projection of despair, frustration, misery, near-senility is a little too pat.

“Someone’s come up with a Plan C, haven’t they?”

He looks at me blankly as if he has no idea what I’m talking about.

At the station the next day, it is revealed that Vikorn spent the morning watching international news on his TV, which is normally dedicated to Thai pool. (He runs the main gambling syndicate.) When I go in to see him, I find him fixated by the monitor. It seems there has been a terrorist bomb in some remote village in Java, Indonesia, five Indonesian Hindus dead, about twenty more hospitalized. No one doubts the culprits are from an extreme Muslim faction, particularly because one of them died in the blast. Bits of his skullcap and beard, some fingers, a leg, and other body parts have been recovered. It is anticipated that his identity and that of the particular splinter group to which he belonged will soon be known. Naturally, the Western intelligence agencies are interested and only too willing to lend assistance.

I have no idea why Vikorn, who is hardly a fully globalized world citizen (I’m not sure he could identify France on a map), should be so interested, but when I cough with a view to attracting his attention, he raises a hand. When the news program has exhausted its real-time coverage, he lifts his telephone and-to my amazement-tells Lieutenant Manhatsirikit to get him on the next flight to Jakarta. While he is on the way to the airport, she is to make arrangements for him to meet someone senior in the Indonesian police, with a view to “mutually beneficial information sharing.” I am staring open-mouthed while he rummages around. In all my time in District 8, my Colonel has never once left Thailand ’s sacred soil. Now Manny arrives and scowls at me before telling him that an interpreter has been located and this person, who is fluent in whatever language they speak down there (Vikorn keeps calling it Indonesian, but both Lieutenant Manhatsirikit and I have our doubts), will meet him at the airport tomorrow. When she has left, he checks his watch. Seven p.m. “We’re going to eat,” he tells me, and presses an autodial number on his mobile to call his driver.

In the back of his Bentley, with “The Ride of the Valkyries” screaming from the sound system, his driver with his usual supercilious expression plastered all over his mug, my Colonel places a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to forget last night. It never happened. You’re going to concentrate on the Mitch Turner case.”

“At least tell me what your Plan C is.”

“You might not want to know. Anyway, it’s classified.”

I can hardly believe my generosity of soul. I’m actually pleased he’s still fighting Zinna, even if I have missed my promotion (and the hundred thousand dollars). I don’t want to let him off too lightly, though; this is quite a letdown I’m dealing with. I look out the window of the Bentley as we speed along Rama IV. “For a moment I thought you were getting old.”

He spares me a contemptuous glance. “You think that’s all it is? A primitive vendetta between two old men?” Leaning toward me to prod me in the gut: “What I do to keep the brakes on Zinna isn’t just for Ravi. It’s for the country, too. Let the army run the drug trade, and you get rich generals. Rich generals get big ideas and stage coups-that was the whole problem with the opium trade. Before you know it, we’re back to military rule. And what do Thai army generals know about the global economy, human rights, the rule of law, the welfare of women, the twenty-first century in general? Next time you vote in a more or less straight democratic election, think about it. Thai police may not be the world’s finest, but we’re not military. Under us there are free elections. No farang would understand, but I expect better from you.”

He still hasn’t finished. In fact, he is digging me in the ribs. “Who knows, under democracy the country might flourish until it’s worthy of a refined fellow like you. But if that happens, it will be because badasses like me kept the army snout out of the feeding trough, not because some monk manqué rescued a few dumb dogs off the street.”

I shake my head in wonderment. He always has an answer. His dexterous use of the word manqué is particularly irritating; in Thai the word has exactly the same quality of supercilious pretension and is just the sort of thing I come out with when I want to irritate him. Who told him he could say manqué and get away with it?

I brood for a long moment. His driver stops at the beginning of Pat Pong, our most venerable-and famous-red-light district. There is no way the limo is going to squeeze down this crowded street at this time of night. Vikorn and I get out and walk while his chauffeur takes the car away. The Colonel is in plain clothes and looks like just another Thai man, somewhat on the short side by Western standards, indistinguishable from the other middle-aged Thai men who work this street, virtually all of whom are pimps. Vikorn seems to suffer no threat to his ego, though, when a young white tourist in cutaway singlet and walking shorts, regulation nose stud and eyebrow pin, asks him where the Ping-Pong show is. Vikorn stops in midstride and, with a smile expressive of deep greed and sympathetic lechery, points to a small sign on an upper terrace: Girls, dirty dancing, ping-pong, bananas… “Great,” says the young farang, mirroring Vikorn’s smile.

“Fuckee, fuckee,” says Vikorn with a dumb grin.

The street is crammed, not only with horny white men but with greedy white women too, for some of the best designer rip-offs in Asia are on sale at the stalls that fill the center of the street. Tear aside the veil of conventional morality-see with a meditator’s eyes-and the looks on the faces of the women are not so different from the men’s:

“Only two hundred baht for Tommy Bahama jeans-that’s just over three quid.” Eyes bulging: “You can’t get a gin and tonic for that in Stoke Newington.”

“See this fake Rolex? Look, the second hand goes around all smooth without jerking, just like the real thing. It’s only ten pounds.”

Examining it with wonder: “We could buy a few and sell them-even at a hundred quid it’s cheap.”

“Would we tell everybody they’re fakes?”

Thinking about it: “Have to, really, they’re all going to know we’ve been over here.”

“But they don’t know what they cost in Pat Pong, do they? I mean, we could be buying at ninety and only making a ten percent markup?”

Nodding thoughtfully: “For all they know.”

The Princess Club is in a side soi that is jam-packed with people. We have to squeeze past big Caucasian bodies, then into the bar, which is also packed. The mamasan recognizes Vikorn instantly, and a quite different expression appears on her face, in contrast to the tough/dumb look she wears for the customers. The Colonel is not merely immensely rich and the owner of the club, he is also her liege lord, the man who provides her, her aging mother, and her teenage son with food, lodging, and dignity. The relationship is complex and goes beyond money. (Even after her retirement he will keep her in food and pride-the bondage works both ways.) She wais him and makes a little curtsy; he nods at her and smiles; face has been exchanged across the sea of pink drunken mugs, most of whom are watching the girls on stage.

Whether the girls are allowed to dance topless (or naked) in a particular club depends entirely on the whim of whichever police colonel is running the street. This is not Vikorn’s street, but no one is going to interfere with his bar, so here the girls are all topless. They don’t bother to put their bras on when they come down to the floor to mix with customers, and yet they always seem in control. Strange how these wild-looking young farang men, who with their tattoos and body piercings and alcohol abuse might be barbarians on a break from sacking ancient Rome, don’t dare to grope any of those oh-so-tempting young mammary glands as they wobble and swing past their eyes-not without a franchise from the owners, anyway, which always costs a couple of drinks.

The mamasan points upstairs, and we manage to squeeze past the wild hordes to the far end of the bar, then up two flights to a reception room, where they have prepared Vikorn’s supper. We sit cross-legged on the floor, as we were both brought up to do, at a low benchlike table that is already laden with yam met ma-muang himaphaan (yam with cashews), naam phrik num (a northern dish consisting of a chile and eggplant dip), miang kham (ginger, shallot, peanuts, coconut flakes, lime, and dried shrimp), Mekong whiskey with chut (ice, halved limes, and mixers), and some phat phet (spicy stir-fry).

No sooner are we seated than two of the dancing girls appear, wearing T-shirts and bras now, to ask what we want to drink in addition to the Mekong. Vikorn orders a couple of beers, to be followed by a cold white wine from New Zealand. (This is all my fault. I started him on wine a few years ago, and now he cannot eat his kaeng khiaw-waan without it.) I ask between mouthfuls if he has any idea how exactly Mitch Turner died.

He looks at me as if I’m a particularly slow-witted fellow who needs help. “What does it matter how he died? We’re dealing with theater, not reality. Farang gave up on reality when they invented democracy, then added television. What matters is what we tell the world. Handle it right, and we all live happily ever after. Handle it wrong, and…” He opens his hands, indicating just how tragically unpredictable life can be for nonmanipulators. The girls arrive with his green curry with extra chili along with the wine in an aluminum ice bucket, stir-fried mixed vegetables, tom yam, Chinese kale, a spicy duck salad, mouse-shit peppers, and some shredded kai yaang (grilled chicken).

“So how do we handle it right?” I ask, humbled, irritated, and relishing the feast all at the same time.

He makes a gesture with his left hand that might appear obscene if one did not know its country origins. What he is actually doing is tickling a fish-fishing by hand was his favorite sport as a boy. It takes a quite incredible patience-merely getting close enough to the fish to tickle its belly is only the beginning-fools make a grab and lose the catch-only the cool stay the course long enough to mesmerize the fish, then grab it. All you need is a heart as cold as the fish’s.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Just concentrate. Our friends from the CIA will come calling very soon now. Follow the road signs and keep your mouth shut. Or do you want them to drag Chanya off to Guantánamo Bay?”

“They wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not? Turner was CIA checking out Muslims. He was murdered. She did it. They could leave her to rot over there for the rest of her life, or until she’s totally insane.”

He is using Piercing Eyes to stare at me. I know he’s playing three-dimensional chess and probably has me mated on every level; but he needs something, that’s why he’s taken me to dinner.

“If you’re a good boy and stick to the Mitch Turner case, I’ll tell you why my Indonesia trip will protect Chanya.” I gasp at his ruthlessness. He leans forward. “You think you’re so smart? You’ve been in love with that whore since the day she came to work for us. I know it, your mother knows it, she certainly knows it, and so do all the other girls.”

I fall strategically silent. Then with what I think is fine timing and a not-bad display of low cunning, I say: “So how’s the mia noi?”

Feigning indifference: “Which one?”

“The fourth one who lives in your mansion in Chiang Mai.”

“Oh, her.” Frowning. “She’s fine.” For a moment I’m foolish enough to believe I’ve hit a nerve, but this is Police Colonel Vikorn-he doesn’t seem to have any. Flashing me a grin, he launches into a brilliant parody of his paramour, mimicking perfectly her screechy voice when in the throes of a tantrum: “ ‘You shit, I’m giving you the best years of my life, and you don’t appreciate it, you keep me cooped up here in this hick town when I could be in Bangkok, what d’you want me for, some kind of trophy? You haven’t fucked me for a month, my body’s going to waste, I’d rather be on the Game than your personal property. What d’you think this is, the fucking Middle Ages? Why don’t you give me some decent money at least? Just because I don’t want your kids, you’re punishing me with exile from everyone and everything I love, as if you haven’t got plenty. You’ve got more dough than twenty Chinamen, you have. I’m going to have an affair with one of the security guards, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m a young woman, and you’re a miserable old fart who can’t get it up. I’m going to have the biggest tattoo on my ass and a silver ring in my pussy whatever you have to say about it. I could have men crawling at my feet, I could…’ “

What can I do? I’m doubled up and coughing from laughing too hard. It’s as if she were here sitting at the table with us.

In the Bentley on the way back to the station, Vikorn gives me an unusually tender tap on the shoulder. Reaching into the door pocket on his side, he brings out a small satchel and hands it to me. I peek inside. It is a Heckler and Koch machine pistol. I gulp.

“It’s just a precaution. Keep it with you when you can, especially at night. Take this too.” It is a piece of paper with a number on it. “Plug that into your autodial numbers, so you can call it just by pressing one button. There won’t be a reply, but I’ll bring some of the boys to find you, so make sure you’re either in your apartment or in the club. Nothing’s going to happen before I get back from Indonesia.”

“Zinna?”

“What you’re calling Plan C-I’m afraid he may not take it too well.” Vikorn has to concentrate to wipe the grin from his face. He catches his driver’s eye in the rearview mirror. The driver is stifling a guffaw.

25

Thus have I heard: the faithful Ananda one day asked the Finest of Men: Lord, how is it that in the animals we see all the gods represented-the ferocity of Kali in the tiger, the strength and endurance of Ganesh in the elephant, the cunning and strategy of Hanuman in the monkey-but nowhere do we see an animal that reflects the Buddha? With a nod the Tathagata gazed over the world with an omniscient eye, then described to Ananda an animal living on another continent that was the size of a monkey, owned only three toes on each foot, and was capable of hanging upside down from the treetops for weeks on end; that ate only the leaves rejected by other mammals; that had a metabolism so slow, it took a week to digest each meal; that put up with pain and indignity without complaint; and that was constitutionally incapable of haste.

Tell me, farang, can there be greater proof of enlightenment than that the man with the universe at his feet chose the three-toed sloth as role model? If he so completely extinguished ego, why cannot I?

In other words, all of a sudden I find myself quite cured of the defilement of ambition. I worked on it over the weekend, meditated my way into tranquillity, swam for as long as I could in the ocean without a shore-and smoked a couple of joints. It was a struggle, but I got there. No, I don’t want promotion anymore, I don’t want the hundred thousand dollars, let her have it (the bitch). If she wants to defile her soul by serving Vikorn’s sordid (and largely irrational) vengeance, so be it, but let her watch out for karma. Next time around Lieutenant Manhatsirikit will be my pet goldfish. (It still hurts that she’s closer to him-and smarter-than me: what could the Plan C consist of?)

Back at the club, with nothing better to do, I make that call to Fatima.

She drawls into the phone: “Darling, it’s been so long.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was beginning to think you were ashamed of me.”

“Never. You’re way out of my league these days. I’m intimidated.”

“Don’t lie, darling. Nothing intimidates you. But you must want something, no?”

I explain to her what I have in mind for Lek. I’m quite pleased with her momentary hesitation. “An Elder Sister? Me? You know, I’ve never done that for anyone. I’ve never wanted to. It’s a tough path.” A giggle: “I’ll do it if you beg me to. I want you on your knees in drag.”

“I can’t beg. I don’t know if it’s the right thing or not.”

“Darling, don’t start talking like a farang. There’s no right or wrong-either young Lek is a natural or he’s not. If he is, and he certainly sounds like it, then a whole army could not stop him. Bring him to me. I’ll know what to do the minute I set eyes on him.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“But it’s past midnight.”

“Can there be a better time?”

I call Lek, who gasps with awe, excitement, and fear. We take a cab to Soi 39, where Fatima owns a three-story penthouse apartment in one of the city’s most prestigious developments. On the way I’m seeing Lek the way Fatima will see him; he’s just too damn beautiful for his own good.

Bastard son of a Karen bar girl and a black American GI she’s never met, Fatima is tall and chocolate brown. Of course she is ravishing in her favorite kimono (crimson with a great white sash), her long tragic face, scrubbing-board stomach, long finely manicured hands, exaggerated mascara, and eyes that have seen the very depths of desolation. She stands at the door holding Lek at arm’s length. I’m already an irrelevant spectator. How to explain to the spiritually sightless the extraordinary event that takes place when Lek’s guardian spirit recognizes this ancient soul? Fatima leans against her doorjamb; behind her: a vista of rare art objects, mostly priceless jade items on pedestals, leading to a floor-to-ceiling panoramic window filled with city lights and a yellow moon.

“Oh Buddha,” she says, still holding Lek’s hand. I cough. “You can leave us now,” she whispers hoarsely, without taking her eyes off Lek.

When I get back to my hovel, I can’t sleep. I have lived and worked in the heterosexual division of the sex trade all my life, I have seen all the things that men and women do to each other-and none of it approaches the intensity of katoeys. I don’t want to worry about Lek anymore, or what Fatima might do to him. He’ll have to follow the complex rules of his new world. By contrast, the assassination of Mitch Turner seems a more penetrable mystery-almost mundane, but no less compelling for that. I take out the fat wad of A4 paper I collected in Songai Kolok and start to read Chanya’s diary all over again.