“I wasn’t,” I say. “Did you know the man you were just talking to is an active member of the Parthenon? He had an affair with Damrong. He’s the John in the other blackmail clip, the one that does not star Tanakan. He’s some kind of enforcer for a snuff movie gang—did you know that?”
Vikorn freezes for a telltale second. “We need to stay focused on our core industries,” he explains. “We don’t need to concern ourselves with minor distractions.”
“Just tell me one thing. Is Tanakan a member of the Parthenon? Is his name on the member list?”
He resorts to a serious tone, usually reserved for matters of life, death, and money. “If I were you, I wouldn’t go there, Sonchai. Let me handle Khun Tanakan.”
A tiger grin tells me the interview is over.
At about eleven o’clock that morning a document appears on my desk. It is a computer printout of about a hundred and fifty names. The name in question is Thomas Smith, and the only other detail on the Parthenon’s member list is his credit card number. I take out Smith’s business card. The firm’s name is Simpson, Sirakorn and Prassuman. When I check the Net, I see its webpage emphasizes private international law, corporate law, real estate, and trade. It is particularly skilled in facilitating import and export projects and can obtain letters of credit even in the most difficult circumstances. I’m on the point of picking up the phone to call Simpson, Sirakorn and Prassuman when my cell phone starts ringing. It is Tom Smith. In the friendliest, humblest, and most unctuous way, he more or less orders me to go see him at his law offices, where he has scheduled a videocon. The urgency is a function of a difference in time zones, he explains.
At reception I pick up a copy of Fortune and exchange it for House and Garden, then settle for the International Herald Tribune. There are a few Thai newspapers, but they are out of date. When Smith emerges from the secure area, he greets me warmly and shakes my hand again. His French cuffs with gold links slide back, revealing a handsome elephant-hair bracelet which I had not before noticed. He catches me admiring it. “You were not wearing it yesterday,” I observe.
He smiles. “You’re a real detective. That’s right. Weirdest thing, I was catching the Skytrain at Asok when a young monk bumped into me. He gave me this as a kind of apology.” He holds up the burnished hairs that have been twisted together. I do not wonder aloud why a monk would be handing out virility talismans at a Skytrain station. On the other hand, I think such a charm would be irresistible to a man who valued his erections as highly as Smith.
He takes me into the heart of his firm’s suite of offices: a window-less room with a small boardroom table, a desktop computer, and a large flat-screen monitor on a stand at one end of the table. Smith is an expert on the gadget; at least he knows how to switch it on and adjust the controls. Now he picks up a telephone. “I have a videocon scheduled with Mr. Gerry Yip for—exactly now… He’s on the line? How long has he been waiting, for chrissake? Okay, now make it happen.”
He barely has time to sit me and himself in front of a digital video camera on a miniature plinth on the boardroom table before the screen brightens to reveal a short, skinny Chinese fellow in his fifties with a potbelly, wearing only a pair of swimming shorts. He is standing on a beach with his legs apart looking bored. A strong Australian accent: “Am I on or not, for fuck’s sake? On? Well, why didn’t you say so? Tommy? You there, mate?”
“I’m here with Mr. Sonchai Jitpleecheep, as arranged, Mr. Yip.”
“Good on yah. Trouble is, I can’t fuckin‘ see yer.” Hitching the shorts. “Right, now I can. G’day, Mr. Jitpleecheep, thanks for coming.”
I say, “Not at all.”
“Good, right. Listen, ”cos there’s not a lot of time, I’ve got the fuckin‘ prime minister first thing tomorrow, and I ’aven’t prepared, so this is the deal. We’re very impressed with your product. Ain’t that right, Tommy?“
“Oh, wildly, massively impressed. World class.”
“Now, you’ve seen the contract, Mr. Jitpleecheep. What do you think of it?”
“My Colonel and I have not yet had time to go through it,” I reply.
“Your Colonel? This is the Emperor Vikorn, right? Too bad he couldn’t make it to the videocon. Listen, I might talk ocker ozzie, but I’m Asian to the bones, mate, Chinaman to me marrow, me, I speak fluent fucking Putonghua. I know why this Vikorn character didn’t want to come. I’ve checked him out—he’s a smart cookie, no way is he gonna expose himself. So he sends you, and anything you negotiate he can repudiate if he wants to. No, please, no need to deny—I’m talking with respect and admiration, as an Asian. I like it. So look, Asian to Asian, and not meaning any disrespect to Tommy there, who worked his balls off drafting it, but fuck the contract, right? You send us the product of the same quality as your trailer, and we wire the dough to whatever offshore bank you name. If we default, you stop supplying the product; if you default, you don’t get paid. If there’s a prob with any of the product, we’ll give you a chance to fix it, but if you miss a deadline, you’re penalized. How much a day, Tommy?”
“Ten thousand U.S.,” Smith replies.
“Right. That okay with you? Course it is. Your Colonel has no intention of ever paying a penalty to anyone, and there’s no way I can go after him in Thailand ‘cos he’ll just have me bumped off if I try to enforce, right? So it’s as well to know what our leverage really is here.” Hitching the shorts: “I represent a large consortium of interested parties worldwide, not only hotel chains but other outlets in every civilized nation on the planet, especially media. So if you do default, you may as well start looking for another business to be in. Clear? Good. Now Tommy, you had a problem with one of the member corporations?”
“A certain oil company that is closely connected to—?”
“Oh yeah, the kid in the White House. Just to fill you in, Mr. Jitpleecheep, the oil companies are interested in your product as a way of keeping the men entertained during the long boring days and nights °n the rigs. They’ve all had enough of the usual cock-and-pussy show, so they might be ready for your wacky stuff. But there is a whiff of S&M that’s got a few knickers in a twist. That right?”
“That too, but according to some secret protocol, and considering the senior members of government who are associated with this oil company, they have reservations about showing actual penetration.”
A groan from the little Chinaman. “Fuckin‘ wimps. See, Mr. Jitpleecheep, this is what we have to contend with. The rules change from corporation to corporation, government to government, and from one fuckin’ month to another. There’s no industry standard, as I pointed out in a meeting of the top producers of this type of product in Manila couple months ago. I said, ”This is crazy, mates. We’re going to be as big as oil in ten years, and there’s no bloody industry standard for anything. You can see the girl’s pubic hair but not her nipples, or depending on the time of day, you can see her nipples but not her pubic hair. You can see the couple rolling and humping, but you can’t see the actual pumpin‘ dick, or you can see the pumpin’ dick but the tart keeps her bra on‘—well, fuck it. Have someone tell the kid I might just start thinking about ordering a global return to reality-based journalism. That’ll put the wind up the fucker.“
“I’ll make it happen, Mr. Yip,” Smith says.
“On yer. Anyway, time’s up, thanks for the trailer, Mr. Jitpleecheep. Tommy, you and I need a private word about the other thing.”
“Certainly, Mr. Yip. If you don’t mind, I’ll just show Detective Jitpleecheep out.”
The Chinaman stares blankly out of the screen as Smith shows me to the door. In the corridor Smith turns to me. “Isn’t that a great guy? You ever meet a genius of that caliber before?” He is good at reading faces and sees it as part of his job to accommodate me. He raises his shoulders, points his palms at the ceiling. “What can you do? The pathologically greedy have inherited the earth.”
Once on the street I fish out my cell phone and the card the mamasan gave me at the Parthenon Club last night. She agrees to meet me at Starbucks at the Nana end of Sukhumvit. I have to go back to the police station before the meeting, but there’s not a lot of time, so I take a motorbike taxi. There are about fifty riders gathered at the mouth of the soi, slouching around, playing checkers with bottle tops, talking about money and women in their well-worn seua win, sleeveless orange jackets with their numbers on back in huge spiraling Thai digits. I want to choose number nine, which is everyone’s lucky number, but I have to take the next in rank, number four, considered the number of death by the Cantonese and everyone they ever influenced, including us. Well, I guess this guy has lived with the number for long enough and still seems to be breathing. By the end of the journey I’m revising that view, though. Every motorbike trip makes you fear for your kneecaps when they overtake into oncoming trucks and zoom down the corrida de la muerte with no margin for error, but this guy knows no fear at all. It shows that whereas the number four isn’t necessarily lethal in all circumstances, nevertheless it is not a number to be taken for granted. I’m quite shaken when I get off outside the station, pay him—then turn right into the Internet monk.
“Kawtot,” I say automatically at sight of the saffron, but as I step into the station, I’m thinking that it was his fault. He must have seen me getting off the bike and simply stood behind me so that I would bump into him. Strange, because monks are meticulous about how they present themselves to the world. The moment passes, I attend to a few chores and note that Lek and I are on “red spot” all afternoon, which means we have to respond to whatever comes in over the radio and our caseload is more or less suspended for the day.
I call Lek over to my desk for a quick brainstorm. In his honorable opinion we should concentrate on the bracelets. “That’s twice, and both from a young monk. And it just so happens that we have a young monk in the area who has started to bump into you. Could this be a clue, d’you think? Sorry if it’s difficult.”
“You don’t have to get sarcastic. Of course I’ve thought about the monk and the bracelets, but what am I supposed to do? You can’t just drag in a monk for questioning in this country without having the Sangha down on your neck, and this one hasn’t done anything wrong so far as we know.”
“How come he’s handing out elephant-hair bracelets to everyone who ever got involved with Damrong?”
“You’re exaggerating, and we don’t know it was him. I want to let the monk play his full hand first, I don’t want you to start nagging him.”
I watch as a new idea penetrates and blossoms in Lek’s mind. He is more intuitive than me —indeed, intuition dominates the whole of his mental organ, so that once he is convinced of something, it is very hard to dissuade him. Now he is staring at me in fear and awe. “You’re going to let him win, aren’t you?”
I should, of course, say Win what?, but I guess that would be to deny a subtle truth. I have no idea what the young monk is up to—I’m just sure it’s more honest than any work Vikorn may have for me. I refuse to engage Lek’s eyes and look away.
Now I’m on the back of another bike on my way to Starbucks. My cell starts ringing, and I have to answer it because it might be Nok calling to cancel the meeting. The traffic noise makes it hard to hear, and the signal is intermittent.
“Is it true you’re giving him the money for the surgery?” the FBI wants to know. I have to use both hands for a moment to grab the strut behind the seat because the driver is taking a bend at about forty-five degrees; the trick is to keep the cell between one’s central digits without pressing any buttons, while clinging to the strut with thumb and pinky. “Hello, hello?”
“Sonchai? You still there?”
A little breathless after a near-death experience, I say, “Lending. Did you two have lunch already?”
“He switched to a coffee break because he says you all are on call this afternoon. How could you do a thing like that?”
This is one of the worst drivers I’ve ever had, and he’s a number nine, would you believe? Sometimes you have to wonder if there’s been a paradigm shift equivalent to climate change, causing nine and four to switch in terms of luck distribution. I had to hug his back with my head down when he overtook a taxi just now. “What? Lend him the money? Because he practically went down on his knees and begged me. When I said yes, he made me the most important person in his life. Now we have gatdanyu.”
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll explain when you’ve got a week to spare.”
“I want to know. If you didn’t lend him the money, there’s no way he could go through with it, right? There’s no one else in the world going to put up that kind of dough for him.”
I sigh. “Kimberley, if I didn’t lend him the dough for a first-class operation, he’d go downmarket. Can you imagine what that means in Bangkok?”
“Sonchai, I just don’t understand you. That’s one of the most beautiful male specimens I’ve ever seen.” I have a disgusting feeling that the tough hide of the FBI is being corrupted by the worm of do-goodery. “You’re such a compassionate man. How can you do this? He’ll never be happy.”
“Hang on.” With all the optimism in the world, it is difficult to believe I am going to survive the oncoming cement truck. Well, I did. “Without a dick? I don’t know about that—you seem to manage. The male member doesn’t bestow any privileges anymore. A lot of us owners wonder if it’s not more nuisance than it’s worth.”