The Bangkok Asset

27

It is a busy night at the Old Man’s Club and I am on my own: Mama Nong complains that I’ve managed to avoid my bar-minding duties for over a week already and she did not see why a couple of days in Cambodia should excuse me from my obligations as junior shareholder, which, she pointed out, pays better than my cop’s salary. When I’ve finally kicked out the last drunk and locked up and am looking forward to going home to my wife, my phone vibrates in my pocket:

Darling, I’m so incredibly f##**g bored and Krom just called to ask if I wanted to go see a show-so that’s what I’m doing. C.

The message hits me in a place that suffered collateral damage during the war of adolescence: nobody loves me and I feel lonely. My jealousy is of the self-pitying kind: I was looking forward to telling her all about my adventures in the jungle; but she is with Krom and our contract of intimacy has been compromised. I don’t want to go home to an empty hovel, so I decide to stroll instead while suppressing a voice of rage against Chanya for leaving me all alone late at night. And she’s with that dyke Krom!

Sukhumvit has changed. Most of the bars have closed after the one a.m. curfew; those that have remained open have locked their doors and will only allow entrance to farang or those Thais with the correct password. The luckier girls found customers and are either in a hotel bed somewhere if the deal was for “all night” or snug in their own beds if it was merely chuakrao or short time. The rest are hanging out at a long line of collapsible tables and chairs placed around makeshift bars on the sidewalk that have suddenly appeared and stretch, with intermissions, for over a mile. Fortune-tellers also have emerged from whatever underworld they inhabit during the day: a square of dark cloth on the ground, some Hindu diagrams of the body, some Buddhist diagrams of the mind, a couple of packs of well-worn tarot cards, a guide to palm reading, and you’re set up as a clairvoyant, or mordu, of the night. It’s a clever piece of targeting: almost every girl who is still around at this time is feeling down on her luck and needs reassurance. Generally, though, the ladies of the night resort to the more reliable relief of a bottle of rice whiskey shared among friends. At the same time I’m wondering in some dark alley of the heart, Are they having sex together right now, Chanya and Krom, this minute, while I’m walking along?

Nothing like self-regard to strip you of your street smarts: I do not hear the car roll up, or the door open and close, or quick steps behind me. I do not even realize I am no longer alone until a feline caress begins at the base of my spine. Even then I assume it is a girl risking all on the last chance of the night; I turn with a Sorry, darling smile on my face. It is him.

–

He is taller than me by about four inches with a proportionate advantage in body mass. It is his superhuman fitness, though, that intimidates. I do not feel threatened-I do not think he is about to kill me-but I am unmanned. He walks beside me with effortlessness grace, while I immediately begin to sweat and my pulse rate increases. When he takes my arm I’m unsure how to react: to pull away might be offensive; on the other hand, that gentle but firm hold on my right forearm is freaking me out. Now he leans over to me to whisper a sweet nothing in my ear:

“ ‘Twice or thrice had I loved thee before I knew thy face or name, so angels affect us oft.’ ”

He smiles into my shock. It is important, though, to keep walking. “I know you’re a compulsive, like me,” he whispers. “You’ve read everything in your search for self, haven’t you? But it’s time you realized something very important.”

“What?”

He wants me to look him in the face again, but I am unable to. That pale skin, slightly tanned, those cornflower-blue eyes, that short hair so blond it is almost white: the eerie beauty that came over in the video clip is tripled in real life. A trillion dollars of farang brainwashing from Hollywood is telling me how perfect he is, theoretically. I need to keep walking with my eyes focused on the pavement, like a woman propositioned by a strange man late at night.

“That old man in the hospital, our biological father, he can’t tell you anything about yourself,” he whispers in my ear. “He is the past. He has no relevance anymore. We are on our own in the world, you and I. We need to bond.” He speaks gently, as if to a child. “Don’t be frightened of me. I wouldn’t hurt you for anything. You’re all I have, my love. All I have on this great wide earth.” He hesitates. “This sterile promontory, as the poet said.” He leans around as we walk to produce a caring, loving smile right in my face. I cannot do other than to give a half smile back. Fear aside, the sense of being trapped in a submissive female role is profoundly irritating, but even if I had not seen what that superbody can do, his superior training and strength are too obvious, too much a part of his reality to ignore.

He sighs. “It’s okay, I understand, this is all very new to you. How did you like the camp, though? What a dump, huh?” He makes a face that I suppose is intended to be nonchalant. “Oh, how I wish you could have seen it at its height, with us kids running around, everything shipshape, spick and span, every day a holiday. Football, baseball, fencing, athletics, classical music, poetry-we were all so smart, you see, junk culture could not seduce us, for the Doc had inculcated us with his own tastes in the arts-cries of joy, our little souls overwhelmed by our great good fortune all the livelong day. It was our holiday camp long, long ago. That’s where I met our daddy for the first time…I wanted so much to be there with you when you visited, but they told me, ‘No, it’s too soon, the poor love has to catch up with things you’ve known all your life.’ ”

He stops to hold my shoulders and turns me to face him full frontal, smiles again with tolerance and patience, like a lover who does not doubt his wooing will win out in the end. “Don’t you want to thank me for setting it all up for you? You do know it was me all along, don’t you?”

“Ah, yes, I think I worked that out. The iPhone was yours, there was only one entry in Contacts, I called it. Yes, you set it all up brilliantly.”

He smiles and looks as if he is about to pinch my cheek, so pleased is he with me. “I can wait, oh yes I can wait, but you have to let me share my little treats with you. One by one, not all at once, naturally. The last thing I want is to freak you out.”

I am focused on his voice now; light, silky, freshly washed, not a trace of blue-collar masculinity; not a soldier’s voice at all. It sings a song of vacancy. Is that a howl I hear behind it all? Is this really my brother? I feel his antiseptic need like a steel band around my head, tightening. This must be the demonic motivation Dr. Bride spoke of: the vacuum from which all life flees.

Only now I become aware of the car that has been following us. It is exceptionally quiet because it is a sky-blue Rolls-Royce. Now it slides up to stop with the rear near-side door perfectly aligned with us. The door opens. “Please, my dearest brother,” he says and jerks his chin.

I enter a HiSo world of aromatic leather, discreet perfume, air-conditioning at a pleasant twenty-three centigrade, and the famous barrister Lord Sakagorn dressed in a dinner jacket with plum bow tie, his long hair held back in a new silver clip, sitting in the front passenger seat, his liveried driver at the wheel.

“Are you excited?” the Asset asks me. “You’re going to see your kid brother strut his stuff-not all of it, just a little exhibition to help with sales, isn’t that right, Lord Sakagorn?”

Sakagorn is almost dumb with embarrassment. “Yes,” he manages and sags. “Yes, that’s right.”

Next to me in the backseat the Asset stretches out. He flashes me a smile. “Forgive me, my brother, I need to go into a different space now. I have to prepare. I might not have time for you until it’s over.” He closes his eyes and psychically disappears, leaving only that extraordinary body.

–

Silence as the limousine rolls through Chinatown. Normally there are gold shops with glittering lights and Sikh guards in turbans with pump-action shotguns on just about every corner, and hundreds of small clothes stalls that take up the sidewalks and narrow the road; now, though, it is too late even for gold traders. We pass a couple of Chinese Christian churches that were founded before Constantine converted, a huge gaudy Taoist shrine, the Temple of the Gold Buddha, then a glimpse of the river. Fangton, the other bank, is the downmarket side where murders are more common and less expensive: I take comfort from the fact that this is Sakagorn’s Rolls-Royce and all the people we pass give it a second glance. A kidnap is unlikely. Now we take the bridge to cross the river.

“It’s a fight?” I ask Sakagorn. It is the obvious conclusion, after all. The Asset is quite still and appears not to have heard the question.

“Yes.”

“A kind of exhibition match?”

“You could say that.”

“Who-” I stop myself because I almost said we. “Who’s he fighting?”

“Rungkom.”

I gasp. “Oh no.”

Sakagorn doesn’t say anything, merely stares ahead into the night.

–

Rungkom retired as unbeaten Muay Thai national and international champion about five years ago. People wondered why he didn’t keep fighting for another few seasons, considering the amount of money he was making; there was a hint of moral weakness, whether women, drugs, or alcohol is unclear, although most gossips cited all three as probable causes. Everybody knew that Rungkom, a great bashful hulk from Isaan when he first started on his career, just loved to party with Krung Thep’s fashionable elite. The usual dark stories abounded, implying a dependency on cocaine and indebtedness to loan sharks. What I remembered of him in the ring was an incredible high kick with speed and feints that seemed to come out of nowhere. It was so fast and so hard, no one could figure out a response. Most of his fights ended in the first or second round. His face, rocky with scars, appears vividly in my mind as we drive to the fight. I recall that his path has taken a certain predictable turn since his retirement and drug dependency. He is by far and away our most popular and expensive private boxer: the kind rich men hire to fight bare-knuckle in secret locations where the betting starts at a million baht.

Sakagorn’s driver slows the car when we reach a ragged area where not much has been done to separate the land from the river, which flooded a few days ago, leaving a lot of mud and uninhabitable dirt between building projects that were ruined by the water. The driver knows where to stop thanks to two large halogen lamps that have been set up on the wasteland where a single white Lexus people mover is waiting with the lights on.

The barrister Sakagorn shakes his head. “Such a shame, such a sacrifice-but what can you do?” Suddenly he loses control. “Fuck you, Jitpleecheep, fuck you to hell.” I stare at him. “It didn’t have to be Rungkom, any bunch of hoodlums would have done. He could take out ten no problem. This is to impress you.” The Asset remains in deep meditation, oblivious.

We stop about a hundred feet from the Lexus and Sakagorn gets out of the Rolls. At the same time the sliding door of the Lexus opens and Goldman emerges. The halogen lamps catch the catastrophe that seven decades have wrought on the agent’s fat face. Unlike Sakagorn, though, he seems in fine fettle: a man in a rare mood eager to rock and roll. He waits for the aristocrat to approach him. I watch Sakagorn cross the waste ground. Lord Sakagorn seems to diminish in stature with each step. The two men do not wai or shake hands. Goldman sneers down at him while they speak.

Now I become aware of another vehicle, a huge Toyota Carryboy at the opposite end of the clearing, which I had not noticed because it sits in darkness. The internal lights flash on as doors open on either side. The mighty Rungkom and his trainer emerge, with two bodyguards. The athletic figure of the former Muay Thai star stands out, a superior being in his own right. When the doors shut and the light goes out, the fighter and his entourage of about six or seven are almost invisible. They stand near the truck and wait. Rungkom folds his arms and stands with his legs apart, steady as a rock in the shadows.

It becomes clear we are waiting for someone else. Lights of another vehicle arriving at the edge of the wasteland light up bits of ground, then pick out bits of the night sky as it bounces over debris. The new vehicle is a people mover, a Toyota that looks hired. Music and laughter burst from it when someone opens the sliding door at the back. The music is a mixture of Thai and Cantopop, the laughter both raucous and effeminate at the same time. Now Professor Chu emerges; both Goldman and Sakagorn rush to welcome him. While they are doing so, three exquisite katoeys also emerge, giggling and rasping simultaneously. They recognize Rungkom across the clearing lit up from the lights of their vehicle and wai him like a hero. Then they spot his opponent, the silent Asset who has emerged from Sakagorn’s Rolls to lean against it negligently. Who will die tonight? The katoeys give way to frivolity, as if the tense mood is something to be tasted like wine, then spat out again. But they follow the discipline of the bordello: their job is to take care of Chu; that is what he is paying for and those are seasoned professionals behind the baby-doll faces. They gather around him, searching his body language for clues as to how he wants to play this very exciting game.

Chu handles the social challenge by switching between personalities, one for the trannies, the other for Goldman and Sakagorn. I don’t think either of them were expecting the katoeys, but the Professor is a rep with enough spending power to buy an infinity of patience, assuming his anonymous client is the PRC; or, to be precise, one of its ministries. Sakagorn gives him the full wai that he normally only reserves for very HiSo locals; even Goldman is able to control himself enough to demonstrate a degree of charm. He bows to the Prof at the same time as taking one of his hands in both of his, as if making some kind of betrothal, then welcomes him in Mandarin. Chu accepts the homage without reciprocating. On the other hand, he responds to jokes, prods, and caresses by the katoeys like a teen on a first date. It is like watching a light go on and off, depending on whether he is addressing the katoeys or the two high-powered salesmen. The party pauses, though, when more headlights precede another visitor. The vehicle is a police van. As soon as it comes to a halt, the rear door slides open.

Krom is in her black tailored boiler suit. I’m not sure if it represents the latest in tomwear, or a signal that she is on some kind of special duty. The emergence of two Chinese with a high-tech video camera does nothing to dispel the ambiguity. Her van has stopped about fifty yards away from what must be the arena and sits in darkness once the driver has switched the lights off. Chu, the katoeys, Goldman, and Sakagorn fall silent and strain their eyes in Krom’s direction. Chu blinks at the two Chinese cameramen. I am not sure if it is the same two who were at the Heaven’s Gate Tower, nor if they are the same as the team at the river that day. Do we have a total of six, four, or two video specialists in the plot? Three ministries, or two or one? Chu, his face flat as a mahjong tile, watches the team silently carry their camera and tripod across the waste ground and focus it. There can be no doubt, now, where the fight will take place. Goldman’s van, Rungkom’s four-by-four, and Sakagorn’s Rolls mark three points on the circumference of a circle. Krom and I have seen each other, but she didn’t wave and neither did I. Right now I have no idea what side she’s on. These are fast-moving times. Two days ago we were close, now we are alienated. I’m already feeling strange enough when the door to the police van slides open again and a woman emerges. I recognize the striped red-and-gold leggings, the white Spanish leather belt, the pearl blouse, and the long earrings, because I paid for them. Chanya doesn’t acknowledge me either. When Krom and I finally make eye contact, hers are cold as ice. No time or opportunity to make a scene, though. Something heavier than a troubled heart is at issue this night.

Now Goldman has switched his attention from Chu to the cameramen. It seems he was waiting for something that hasn’t happened, so he strides over to them. He speaks to them in Mandarin; one nods, the other shakes his head. Both of them return to the police van to bring back a second camera and tripod that they plant at the opposite end of the arena to the first one. Now the team is split between the two machines, one man each. Goldman wants a professional two-camera video, not a functional evidence-gathering exercise. Once the cameras are in place the show can go on. He nods at Sakagorn, his sidekick. The Senior Counsel nods back.

“Okay,” the giant says in English, facing one of the cameras. “These are the rules. Rounds will last one minute. To compensate for unfair advantage, my Asset will not respond aggressively in any way during the first round. That means he will conduct a purely defensive fight for that round. He will not punch or kick. During all subsequent rounds, he will have right of reply with fists only, while Khun Rungkom can use fists, feet, shins, head-what the hell he likes. Breaks last thirty seconds. Okay?”

The question seems directed at me. I deflect it by looking at Rungkom, who nods. Goldman doesn’t ask the Asset if he’s happy to be a punch ball for sixty seconds at the mercy of a world-champion kickboxer. The Asset rouses himself, though, and begins a few warm-up exercises that include stretching his arms laterally and making small circles with his hands while he runs gently on the spot. I try to decipher the body language between these two men. There isn’t any. My impression is of a marriage on the rocks.

Sakagorn takes a whistle and a stopwatch out of a pocket of his dinner jacket while Goldman guides the two fighters to the circle of open ground between the three vehicles. Sakagorn is about to blow his whistle, but someone yells stop, first in Thai, then in English. It is Krom, holding her smart phone. She strides over to Goldman and looks up at him. “Someone else is expected.”

Goldman stares down at her. “Listen, lady, if that’s what you are, this is my party, okay? No one else is expected.”

“It’s classified, that’s why it’s last-minute. I received a message.” She holds up her phone. So far she has spoken in Thai. Now she adds in English, “You will wait.”

Goldman looks as if he is about to explode, then calms down. Perhaps he has guessed who the mysterious guest may be. He shrugs. “Whoever it is gets five minutes, no more. We don’t need unnecessary exposure.”

A minute later the lights of another vehicle appear from the road, then bounce around as the car hits the uneven ground. I seem to recognize the old battered red Mitsubishi. It stops near the imaginary circle of the boxing ring, the lights die, and Sergeant Ruamsantiah emerges from the driver’s side, Colonel Vikorn from the other. I might have guessed. Both of those Isaan boys are fanatical Muay Thai fans and were passionate about Rungkom in his day. The Sergeant earned himself a lot of street cred at the station by claiming he was a personal friend of the famous fighter. Both men are dressed in the same outfits they have worn to boxing tournaments since they were kids: worn T-shirts and jeans. The Colonel also sports a cloth cap. He scans the scene, absorbing its essence in a blink, while the Sergeant walks over to Rungkom and wais him with deep humility. I cannot make out the words, but by the gestures and the expression of extreme concern on the Sergeant’s face, it is not difficult to guess. Rungkom responds also with a wai and a gracious smile. He is expressing compassion for Sergeant Ruamsantiah, who is reduced almost to tears. Don’t worry, the fighter seems to be saying, this is my choice, my karma, thank you for your kind concern.

The Sergeant leaves him, shaking his head. Meanwhile the Colonel has summoned Krom and spoken to her. Whatever he said seems to have impressed her. She walks back to Goldman. “The Colonel bets ten million baht on Khun Rungkom.”

“This isn’t-” Goldman stops himself in midsentence. Perhaps he has remembered how important Vikorn’s agency is to his project. He starts again. “We’re not taking bets. We’re not set up for it.”

“In that case, if Khun Rungkom loses, the ten million will go to his family.” She has spoken loudly enough for the fighter to hear. Rungkom walks over to Vikorn, gives him the high wai, and thanks him. He returns to his corner. Goldman nods at Sakagorn again, who blows his whistle.

Now the fight has officially begun. In Muay Thai, however, there are protocols to be observed. Rungkom first kneels and wais to make homage to the master who taught him to box and the spirits who have helped him so far in his career. Now he nods at Sakagorn, who has returned to his Rolls-Royce and wound all the windows down. The unmistakable notes of a Thai oboe, called a pi chawa, emerge from the limo’s first-class sound system and Rungkom begins his warrior’s dance, which lasts only a few minutes. The Asset continues his mild limbering-up exercises.

The open area of ground is quite small and the fighters have to remain under the lamps in order to work. A second blow on the whistle means they can start the action. Now they face off.

The Asset hardly pays any attention to Rungkom, who begins to dance around him, feinting with both fists and feet in order to make a full professional inventory of his opponent’s strengths and weaknesses. Rungkom is puzzled because the American makes no effort to evade kicks that come within a millimeter of his face. It is as if he can measure distance down to nano level and guess the feints by some kind of telepathy. Then when the Thai finally lets loose with a head kick from an unexpected direction, the Asset simply isn’t there. He dodged at exactly the right moment, leaving only a split-second margin to avoid a blow that would have broken his cheekbone.

–

So it went on and I began to feel despondent. It’s true there were two strikes from the champion that left the Asset shaking his head and bleeding from cuts above and below his eyes, but those were blows that should have ended the fight, and the Asset merely staggered. Sergeant Ruamsantiah has covered his face with his hands. I want to yell, Run, Rungkom, run for your life. But I see from his face that he has reached a very personal conclusion. Perhaps he isn’t so fond of his HiSo lifestyle as the media claims. Perhaps he is somewhat disillusioned with success and feels a certain nostalgia for the early days when he was the hottest kid in Muay Thai and every fight was a personal statement of his quest for freedom and glory. He really is a champion, for already he has understood that he cannot win, that he might not leave this wasteland alive, but Sakagorn will have to give his family the agreed price and pay off the loan sharks, or someone will come for Sakagorn one fine night when he is least expecting it. And of course, there will be ten million from Vikorn, who always honors his debts. As for the fight, the best he can hope for is to damage the Asset so badly that he will be crippled for the next round.

The Asset is tiring, too, though, there’s no doubt about that. Rungkom sees it and delivers a full power kick that was designed for the Asset’s jaw but-even better-lands on his Adam’s apple. Even a fully trained CIA zombie needs air, and for a moment the Asset doubles over coughing violently, as if he is about to fall. Rungkom sees it and comes in for the kill. But this is where training tells. The Asset not only manages to recover with astonishing speed; he has also prepared his posture so that when Rungkom delivers what he had every right to believe would be the killer kick, the Asset is able to twist around so that the force of the blow is lost on the muscles of his shoulder, and Rungkom now is close to exhaustion. A blow as heavy as that drains the fighter who lands it. I cannot describe the brief look that came over the Asset’s face when Rungkom hurt him; a snippet of conversation with Dr. Bride flashed across my mind:

You’re talking about the devil?

Aren’t you?

Sakagorn blows his whistle. That was a very long minute. Now I am muttering out loud, “Run, Rungkom, run for your life.”

–

Thirty seconds have passed and Sakagorn blows the whistle again. Rungkom doesn’t care so much for his life, that much is clear now. I think he has decided that a damp and desolate piece of wasteland by the river would make an appropriate place to die and he is looking forward to fighting all the way to the end. He is especially clever at dodging the Asset’s punches-at first. It only takes one body blow under the heart to hurt him, though. I cannot doubt that a few ribs broke when that elegant fist landed with sickening force. Now the Thai moves awkwardly, favoring his right side, all too obviously trying to protect the left. Then, crunch: the Asset lands another punch in exactly the same spot under the heart and Rungkom can hardly believe the pain. It is only twenty seconds into the second round, but it’s all over for the Thai. Now I can’t help it. I yell at the top of my voice, “Get the hell out, Khun Rungkom, for Buddha’s sake, it’s not worth dying for.”

Rungkom is a warrior, though, and knows different. He must have considered many times how it might be to die at the top of his game, under blazing lamps, in the ring of honor. Sakagorn must have promised a fortune to his family or he would never have accepted the challenge.

The Asset stops fighting, turns to Goldman with a sneer on his face, as if he, too, thinks it bad form to have set him against a mere human. Goldman, with an ugly look, gives the thumbs-down. The Asset turns from Goldman to Rungkom with a kind of curiosity. He is like a tiger making a decision as to the most elegant way to destroy his prey. He walks up to Rungkom in a casual way, easily dodges the champion’s last sad kick, and puts the full force of his extraordinary body behind an open-palm blow to the center of the fighter’s forehead. Rungkom collapses like a sack of cement. As he lies stretched out in the dirt, it is obvious to me that he is dead. I feel only disgust and sickness. Of course, it is impossible not to hate Goldman and his Asset. That was just a tiny little taste of what we can do, the expression on the agent’s face says.

I watch, stunned, while Rungkom’s people carry him to their truck. Two have to enter the vehicle and pull while the others hold him up. Not a chore that can be done with elegance, but they try.

I am sad as hell and pretty much obsessed with what I have just witnessed when I feel a gentle hand on my arm. “Let’s go home,” Chanya says.

Startled for a moment, I stare at her. “Did you have sex with Krom?” I ask. She takes out her phone to call for a taxi.