Bangkok 8 Part 22

"Before she flips completely you mean? There's no way of knowing that. Profiling is like predicting share prices. You know what the market will do eventually, but you never know when. A day, a month, a year-who knows? Why is it suddenly so important?"

"Surichai," I say, and hang up.

There was something else too-something to which only a Thai cop would have attached significance. A couple of tables removed from Vikorn's group: five well-dressed Chinese men in business suits. Vikorn must have been aware of them. Likewise Warren.

47.

Professor Beckendorf, in volume 3 of his masterwork Thai Culture Explained, Thai Culture Explained, turns almost Thai himself in the final paragraph of chapter 29 ("Fate and Fatality in Modern Siam") in the way he lurches without warning into metaphysics: turns almost Thai himself in the final paragraph of chapter 29 ("Fate and Fatality in Modern Siam") in the way he lurches without warning into metaphysics: Whereas your average Westerner does all he can to direct and control his fate, the latter-day Thai is no closer to adopting this att.i.tude to life than were his ancestors a hundred or two hundred years ago. If there is any aspect of modern Thai psychology which continues to accept in toto in toto the Buddhist doctrine of karma (so close to that Islamic fatalism often expressed by the phrase: the Buddhist doctrine of karma (so close to that Islamic fatalism often expressed by the phrase: It is written It is written) it is surely in the conviction that que sera, sera. que sera, sera. At first glance such fatalism may seem backward, even perverse given the dazzling spectrum of weapons Westerners now have in their a.r.s.enal against the vicissitudes of life; but anyone who spends much time in the kingdom quickly finds themselves questioning the wisdom, and even the sincerity, of Western att.i.tudes. When he has paid up his taxes, his life insurance, his medical insurance, accident insurance, retrained himself in the latest marketable skills, saved for his kids' education, paid alimony, bought the house and car which his status absolutely requires he buy within the rules of his particular tribe, given up alcohol abuse, nicotine, extramarital s.e.x and recreational drugs, spent his two-week vacation on some self-improving (but safe) adventure holiday, learned to be hypercareful of what he says to or does with members of the opposite s.e.x, the average Westerner may-and often does-wonder where his life went. He may also-and invariably does-feel cheated when he discovers existentially that all the worrying and all the insurance payments have availed him not a jot or t.i.ttle in protecting him against fire, burglary, flood, earthquake, tornado, the sack, terrorist activity, or his spouse's precipitate desertion with the kids, the car and all the spare cash in the joint bank account. True enough, in a kingdom without safety nets a citizen may well be brutally flattened by accident or illness, where a Westerner might have bought himself a measure of protection, but in between the b.u.mps a Thai still lives his life in a state of sublime insouciance. The standard Western observation is that the Thai is living in a fool's paradise. Perhaps, but might the Thai not reply that the Westerner has built himself a fool's h.e.l.l? At first glance such fatalism may seem backward, even perverse given the dazzling spectrum of weapons Westerners now have in their a.r.s.enal against the vicissitudes of life; but anyone who spends much time in the kingdom quickly finds themselves questioning the wisdom, and even the sincerity, of Western att.i.tudes. When he has paid up his taxes, his life insurance, his medical insurance, accident insurance, retrained himself in the latest marketable skills, saved for his kids' education, paid alimony, bought the house and car which his status absolutely requires he buy within the rules of his particular tribe, given up alcohol abuse, nicotine, extramarital s.e.x and recreational drugs, spent his two-week vacation on some self-improving (but safe) adventure holiday, learned to be hypercareful of what he says to or does with members of the opposite s.e.x, the average Westerner may-and often does-wonder where his life went. He may also-and invariably does-feel cheated when he discovers existentially that all the worrying and all the insurance payments have availed him not a jot or t.i.ttle in protecting him against fire, burglary, flood, earthquake, tornado, the sack, terrorist activity, or his spouse's precipitate desertion with the kids, the car and all the spare cash in the joint bank account. True enough, in a kingdom without safety nets a citizen may well be brutally flattened by accident or illness, where a Westerner might have bought himself a measure of protection, but in between the b.u.mps a Thai still lives his life in a state of sublime insouciance. The standard Western observation is that the Thai is living in a fool's paradise. Perhaps, but might the Thai not reply that the Westerner has built himself a fool's h.e.l.l?

One cannot help but feel sorry for Beckendorf, peeping out at us from between his books, wis.h.i.+ng to G.o.d (or Buddha) he had the guts to drop out, take some yaa baa, yaa baa, go to a disco, pick up a girl and get laid. I don't know why he has popped into my mind as I ride a motorcycle taxi on my way back to Warren Fine Art in River City. As far as I know, Warren and Beckendorf have nothing in common; indeed, you might say they represent opposite ends of the go to a disco, pick up a girl and get laid. I don't know why he has popped into my mind as I ride a motorcycle taxi on my way back to Warren Fine Art in River City. As far as I know, Warren and Beckendorf have nothing in common; indeed, you might say they represent opposite ends of the farang farang spectrum, with Beckendorf the eternal student, naive and credulous despite all his fine long words, and Warren the ultimate cynic. But they do both spectrum, with Beckendorf the eternal student, naive and credulous despite all his fine long words, and Warren the ultimate cynic. But they do both belong belong to the to the farang farang spectrum, both spend their lives looking over the wall a little wistfully, although wistful is not the first word that comes to mind when I think of Warren. Perhaps I'm trying to make sense of a telephone conversation last night at around midnight in which Warren invited me to come "check out my wares" this Sunday morning. There was something just a shade, well, spectrum, both spend their lives looking over the wall a little wistfully, although wistful is not the first word that comes to mind when I think of Warren. Perhaps I'm trying to make sense of a telephone conversation last night at around midnight in which Warren invited me to come "check out my wares" this Sunday morning. There was something just a shade, well, wistful wistful in the voice, almost shy, as if he had something personal to share which he had trouble putting into words. He even seemed on the point of blurting something out-again, not a word I would have expected to think of in his case-when Fatima came to his rescue and asked me in Thai, in her soft, husky tones, if I could make it for around 11 a.m. She made it clear that Kimberley Jones was not invited. in the voice, almost shy, as if he had something personal to share which he had trouble putting into words. He even seemed on the point of blurting something out-again, not a word I would have expected to think of in his case-when Fatima came to his rescue and asked me in Thai, in her soft, husky tones, if I could make it for around 11 a.m. She made it clear that Kimberley Jones was not invited.

I called the FBI after I put the phone down on Fatima, and Kimberley made the same point she's been making for days: Why is Fatima working for Warren, after she killed Bradley? It simply doesn't fit with our hypothesis or Fatima's mind-set when I went to see her in her apartment. In fact, it's so out of whack with our suspicions that we've discussed twenty different theories which make Fatima a hit woman for Warren, but for the life of us we cannot come up with a reason why Warren would want to rub out Bradley. It doesn't fit with the FBI profiling exercise, it doesn't fit with Fatima's declared intention to kill Warren-it doesn't fit with anything. I'm not expecting a confession when I ride the escalator up to Warren Fine Art.

The shop is shut with the chain-link curtain down, but Fatima is in there dusting the six-foot wood sculpture of the Walking Buddha. She is wearing a pearl blouse, open at the neck, her large pearl necklace and Vietnamese black three-quarter-length silk pants. I stare at her between the links. She senses my eyes behind the gla.s.s, gives me a warm smile as if I'm an old friend, and presses a b.u.t.ton to raise the chain-link. After I enter the shop she presses another b.u.t.ton and the chain curtain descends again. She slips me a grin, which almost seems to say: Now we're all cozy.

"I thought you were fantastic the other night," I say with total sincerity. "I've never heard that song sung so well." She laughs modestly and makes a comic little flutter with her eyelashes.

While this has been going on the Khmer who owns the Uzi appeared from a side door. He is not wearing his gun at this moment but might as well be from his att.i.tude. He leers at me and slouches against the back wall. Fatima picks up a telephone, dials a number. "Mr. Warren, Detective Jitpleecheep is here to see you," she says with the smile of a competent P.A. "He's in the warehouse," she tells me in Thai. "He'll be along in a minute. Can I get you something to drink? Green tea? c.o.ke, whisky, beer?"

I shake my head. We keep locking eyes, for long seconds, then breaking the contact. I am uneasy and cannot understand the nature of this meeting, this morning, this day. When I get the chance I furtively try to meditate for a second to try to plumb the depths of what is going on, but I simply cannot read her or the Khmer. Everything is wrong, unnatural. I think that perhaps the Khmer is her jailer, that Warren has proof she killed Bradley and is using this and his Khmer bodyguards to control her and ultimately to use her as he intended from the start. I know this is Kimberley's favorite theory and it certainly seems to fit the facts, if not the atmosphere. The FBI has no patience for atmosphere, of course, and Kimberley is certain I'm being set up, perhaps Warren will have me killed with Vikorn's permission? I managed to enrage Kimberley with my indifference to this possibility. After I put the phone down on her I meditated with a joint and went to bed. Pichai was there, in my dreams, glowing and smiling.

Warren enters from the door at the end of the shop, followed by the second Khmer, who is wearing the Uzi. The American is wearing a gold paisley cravat, sleeveless cream cashmere sweater, navy superfine wool sports jacket, Zegna gray-green pants and Baker-Benje slip-ons which I find too beautiful to look at. He transfers his cigarette and jade holder to his left hand in order to shake mine with his right. His gray eyes search my own. As usual I cannot read him, his protective coating is impenetrable to my Third World sorcery. His face is just a little haggard, though, and his shaving this morning has been imperfect, leaving a line of stubble under the right side of his jaw. Close up I become convinced that his fragrance is from Joel Rosenthal, the jeweler at 14 Rue de Castiglione in Paris who launched his own perfumes, and I wonder if this is not perhaps some kind of reference: jeweler turned perfumer?

"Glad you could make it," Warren says with his usual charm, and actually makes me feel as if he is pleased to see me. I do no more than nod, however, and wait. Of course he understands perfectly, and with a facial expression which is almost a wink, if a weary one, he beckons for me to follow him across the shop to where the horse and rider is sitting on a shelf. He takes the piece down, holds it up to the light, then hands it to me. As with all jade, hefting it is a sensual experience, its weight belies the lightness of the artist's design. I know very little about precious stone, but an inner voice compels me to come out with an inspired observation, which I transform into somewhat stilted English: "The piece is so transfused with light it seems as if it might fly away at any moment, then when you hold it you realize it originates in the earth after all, that the weight, coldness and darkness of the earth are still somehow locked inside it, but that a magical power has caused it also to express the airiness of the spiritual world."

This is not at all the sort of thing I normally come out with, and for a moment I wonder if I have taken too much of a chance and gone too far. Warren is in an unusual mood, though, and my outrageously pretentious words, because inspired by the Buddha, have finally penetrated his s.h.i.+eld. I've unbalanced him for a moment, during which he stares at me with the hostility of someone who has been found out, then he recovers, touches my arm with the tenderest of gestures (I believe I feel a slight s.h.i.+ver on his part as he does so) and takes the piece away from me.

"Bradley was having it copied for me," he explains. "I sent someone to get it back as I had a right to do-it's mine after all. I guess I sent the wrong guy, but you have to bear in mind that Bill had very recently been murdered. I had no idea what to expect at the house, so I sent someone who knew how to be rough. I'm sorry about your injury. If the scarring is bad, I'll have someone in the States take care of it." He is gazing into my eyes as he speaks and I experience a deep need coming from him. If I didn't know better I would think it a cry for help. His eyes are watery. Fatima and the two Khmer are watching us closely.

"Fatima told me that you and the FBI woman came here last week," he says, now fully recovered, while he replaces the piece on the shelf. "So I thought you and I should talk before the Bureau gets out of control again. You probably have no idea what price you pay for success in the land of the free. You become a sitting duck for every second-guessing bureaucrat who sees you as a vehicle for promotion. I've already got some people in Was.h.i.+ngton onto it, I don't expect that Special Agent Jones will be in the kingdom for very much longer."

While he is speaking he is leading me inexorably to the front of the shop and the window display, which is protected by a second, inner chain-mail curtain. At a pad on a wall he punches in a code, presses a b.u.t.ton and this hardened steel curtain rises. It is exactly like watching a beautiful woman undress, only to be overwhelmed by the power of her nakedness. The ancient jade glows under the lights, and now for the first time, no doubt influenced by Warren's presence, I can see the genius which underlies many of the modern settings in silver and gold.

"These are all your ideas," I say. Now that I have glimpsed his spirit I can understand his art.

" 'Ideas' is right. I hardly do any detailed design anymore, I have people who are better at it than I am. But a craftsman is not necessarily an artist. He needs that something extra that only comes from the cold heart of the universe." A faint smile and he picks up a heavy jade necklace on a gold chain. The jade is worked into large b.a.l.l.s about three-quarters of an inch in diameter. "It was Hutton's," he says matter-of-factly. "Actually it went round the whole circuit. Henry took it with him when he fled the Forbidden City, then sold it to Koo, who sold it to her best friend Edda Ciano. Edda sold it to poor Barbara, who sold it to me the year before she died. She was so doped up by then I could have had it for a dollar, but I gave her the market price."

Fatima has crossed the room to join us, apparently drawn by the necklace. He c.o.c.ks an eyebrow at her, then reaches out to remove her pearls. I see great professionalism here, the suave hands which have adorned the bodies of queens and princesses with his creations. He handles the pearls as if he is handling her body-with infinite tenderness-places them on the velvet of the window display, then-with an unexpected gesture-gives me the jade necklace. It is heavy like a collection of miniature cannonb.a.l.l.s as I place it around Fatima's neck. An electric chaos of glances, eye-locks and turned cheeks as I step back to admire it: s.e.x, money, paranoia and a thousand double bluffs crackle under the lights.

"Actually jade isn't really your color, my dear," Warren says, taking out his cigarette case, selecting one, tapping it gently, fitting it to his cigarette holder, lighting and inhaling and taking one pace back, as he must have with a thousand women. He has become impenetrable again and Fatima seems to experience a moment of fear. "Oh, it looks spectacular around your neck, because anything would, but nothing becomes you so well as pearl. What d'you think, Detective?"

I have to agree. The jade looks fine to me, but cannot deliver the shock of the pearls on her chocolate skin. When I replace them, I realize how I missed them, even for that brief moment. The effect is almost unique in that you never quite get used to it. Take your eyes away for a moment, then let them return to the object of contemplation, and it is as if you were experiencing the effect for the first time. Fatima smiles brilliantly, fondles the jade necklace for a moment, looks into Warren's eyes.

The hand which removes the jade holder from his lips trembles slightly. "Okay," he says gruffly. "It's yours. Keep it. The detective will be my witness."

I allow my mouth to drop open, but Fatima seems not in the least surprised. She nods as if at a commonplace sort of homage, carries the necklace to the end of the store. I'm watching in disbelief as she pours it into a black Chanel handbag. Warren is watching me. "Surprised? Actually, she can have anything she wants. What would you like from the window, my dear? Something priceless? My whole Aladdin's cave is yours. I'll be the genie."

Fatima is holding the Chanel handbag close to her stomach. A dark look comes over her face and she merely shrugs. Warren stares at her across the room for a moment, grunts, then reaches into the window to pick up the white tiger. He holds it up for me to look at and I have the uncanny feeling that he heard Kimberley when she admired it and explained it to me. To anyone who knows anything, it's as intimidating as h.e.l.l. To anyone who knows anything, it's as intimidating as h.e.l.l.

"I want to take you downstairs to the warehouse," he says, handing me the tiger. I almost drop it in my astonishment that he should entrust such an icon to my hands and I believe I flashed him a look of fear. He smiles, I think in appreciation of my reverence. Immediately, I begin to wonder . . . "Oh, it's real all right," he says, reading my thoughts.

Holding the tiger in both arms like a mother, I follow him to the back of the shop, and under the eyes of the two Khmer and Fatima we walk out the back door, which I now see leads nowhere except to a single elevator which appears to have the hardened steel adornments of a bank vault. Only the hum of the Mitsubis.h.i.+ electric motor breaks the silence. Now Warren and I are alone in the lift, ignoring each other's eyes as people do in such close quarters, unless they are conspirators or lovers. Warren and I are neither, of course, which makes me wonder why I sense a frustrated longing on his part, a yearning, a silent pleading, even. We seem to descend to the bowels of the earth. The journey takes longer than I expected; his warehouse must lie under the lowest of the car park levels.

"This is it-the real shopwindow, you might say. Professional buyers don't bother too much with what I have upstairs. I wouldn't put it there if I didn't know I could sell it to some fool sooner or later for an inflated price. Down here, though, is where a real connoisseur might find a bargain or two. Beauty is a great mountain, Detective, and fas.h.i.+on only illuminates one face at a time. Sooner or later another side starts to get the attention and, bingo, the h.o.a.rder makes his killing. h.o.a.rders are the toughest people to sell to, but also the most fun." An intense penetration of my brain by those gray eyes. "The greatest pleasure in life is to be understood, is it not? But who in the world does an artist like you or me find to understand us?"

I am about to protest, but decide instead to give the great vaulted cellar my full attention. It is far larger than anything I would have imagined from the shop, and charmingly chaotic. I calculate it must be perhaps half the size of the car parking area, with aisles running longitudinally from front to back.

"The mind cannot take in such treasures," I say in Thai, the proper language of reverence.

"Let me help," he says with a smile. I cannot understand why he should be flattered at what pathetic homage a Third World detective can render such a collection, but why would he wish to deceive me? I start when I hear the lift doors shut and the motor hum. He rests a hand on my forearm for a moment to rea.s.sure me, but this has the opposite effect. Here in his den I am able to see his strange spirit so much more clearly, experience its agony.

"You understand me, don't you, Detective?"

"I think so."

"And what is your answer to my anguish?"

"Possession in great measure requires great sacrifice, if the possession is not to destroy the possessor," the Buddha makes me reply. Warren grunts and the moment pa.s.ses as he launches into a kind of sales pitch, beginning with five great stone Buddha heads standing on pallets, clearly stolen from Angkor and bearing tags, which presented themselves to us like prehistoric giants as we turned into one of the aisles.

"Special Agent Jones is bright enough," Warren says, pausing to light a cigarette, "but she's an American cop-she doesn't have your range or depth. I started buying as much stuff from Angkor as I could soon after the civil war started. As an American I felt responsible. The Pentagon bombed the s.h.i.+t out of the country and destabilized it, then the CIA backed the Khmer Rouge because they were the enemies of the Vietcong and we Americans are very sore losers. So, we destroy a country. Well, not quite, these ancient kingdoms don't really die, they reincarnate. But I wanted to save Khmer art, especially from Angkor, and the only way to do that was to keep buying it until things settled down. I'm sending it all back now, at my own expense." A sigh. "To be frank, nothing has changed since The Quiet American The Quiet American-when we finally destroy the whole world it will be with the very best of intentions. Meanwhile, as an American who has been deprogrammed by Asia, I'm trying to make amends. You believe me, don't you?"

"Yes."

"See, that's the difference. Jones wouldn't understand, wouldn't want to believe I can be a good guy. American cops have zero tolerance for moral ambiguity, otherwise they couldn't be American cops, could they? Not that I give a G.o.dd.a.m.n."

Step by step he takes me down the long corridor chockablock with gold Buddhas, spirit houses, ceramics, wood carvings from Ayutthaya, thirty feet of shelving from floor to ceiling dedicated to alms bowls, another section bearing hundreds of ceramic figurines-it is all amazing, priceless, wonderful. And I am still carrying the white tiger.

When we reach the end of the aisle, Warren takes it from me and sets it on a shelf. "It is the best thing I have. The phrase 'worth its weight in gold' is a cliche which really needs revision. I wouldn't sell it for ten times its weight in gold. Now explain to me, Detective, how I knew it was perfectly safe in your hands?"

I shrug modestly, then search his eyes when I hear the lift doors open at the distant end of the warehouse. Footsteps, and Fatima appears with the two Khmer. Now both are toting Uzis and Fatima looks haggard. Warren gives her a cruel, agonized glance as she approaches.

"Because you do me the honor of recognizing my integrity, so I repay the compliment." He is clearly distracted as he utters these words and beckons Fatima to approach. The two Khmer stiffen and remain where they are. Now I see it. Somehow he picked it up when my attention was distracted: a rawhide handle and yards of leather disappearing into the gloom under a shelf.

When Fatima reaches us he turns her to face the wall and places her hands gently on a shelf about two feet above her head.

I say: "Please don't."

Ignoring me, he reaches around her to undo the b.u.t.tons of her blouse, which he then pulls up to tuck over her shoulders, revealing the length of her perfect back and her bra strap. He undoes the strap; now there is no impediment to the eye traveling up and down those miraculous vertebrae. "Please don't."

Taking my hand, he brushes it up and down her back, then makes me reach round to cup a breast. "To learn love, all a man need do is touch her perfect flesh, no? But to keep loving, that's a very different skill. Which of us isn't seeking that love which is as yielding as Fatima's flesh, and as resilient as stone? Which of us doesn't test love till it breaks? Am I really so weird?"

His face is quite twisted in agony now. It does not require clairvoyance to see his demon in all its black glory. I whisper hoa.r.s.ely: "Whip me instead."

A leer from Warren. "Don't disappoint me, Detective. You know it's not as easy as that." He hands me the whip.

"No."

"But you'll be so much gentler than I. If you do it I promise not to lay a finger on her."

"No."

"Not for your life?"

"I don't care about my life."

A long silence during which I think the Khmer are about to execute me, then: "Okay, you win." I feel these last words are intended for Fatima. I glimpse Fatima's hands doing up her bra strap. Her s.h.i.+rt is still undone when she turns to take the whip from him. With a leer of extraordinary cruelty, she tells him: "I told you he's an arhat arhat. You lose. Pick up the tiger and put it on your head."

I watch while Warren does as he is told. He is trembling with the priceless artifact balancing on the top of his head while she takes ten paces toward the back of the shop. I am thinking that perhaps she does not have a lot of practice when she snaps the whip to make it snake out behind her. There is a crash from the alms bowls section of the warehouse, which makes me search Warren's face. He is literally chewing his lips. Suddenly the rawhide is whistling toward us and I instinctively duck as it pa.s.ses overhead. I don't think Fatima has made any attempt at accuracy, the leather comes cras.h.i.+ng down toward Warren's face, forcing him to grab the tiger while he hunches over. The leather tears out a great swath of his jacket and sweater and the s.h.i.+rt underneath, and tears his flesh. Still, he does not let go of the tiger.

"You cheated," Fatima hisses. "Who told you to move?" The whip comes cras.h.i.+ng down again, this time on the hands holding the tiger. Still he does not let go, but the leather curls around the plate and she pulls it out of his hands. It smashes to the floor in a thousand pieces. I am standing with my jaw hanging open, my eyes jerking from her to Warren to the fragments on the floor. "He cheated," she hisses at me. "You saw it?" Warren and I both duck as she whirls the whip over her head, then swings it toward us. She hits the shelf full of ceramic figurines, clearing it in a stroke. Warren is hunched, sobbing. He goes down on all fours to try to pick up the smashed plate and mutilated human figures on the floor.

I am given no time to make sense of this bizarre event. The Khmer are beside me shepherding me back to the lift, leaving Fatima and Warren in the warehouse. I am marched out of the shop into the muggy Sunday by the river, where tourists browse and droop and the longtail boats roar up and down. Jones is in the back of her hired car in the open-air car park and does not disguise her relief when she sees me.

48.

We drove around aimlessly, Jones and I, while we tried to make sense of my adventure in Warren's shop. We thrashed it around in a hundred traffic jams, drove to Pattaya, lunched at a fish restaurant by the sea where Jones punished me for not sleeping with her by getting into a rant against Thai cuisine (chili in the fish: How can you ever taste anything properly with your whole frigging mouth on fire? How can you ever taste anything properly with your whole frigging mouth on fire?), and returned to Bangkok with no explanation of the puzzle beyond a perceptive remark from the FBI: "One thing's for sure, somehow Fatima got hold of that tape Iamskoy was talking about. Take it from an American, no way Warren puts up with that kind of s.h.i.+t if she hasn't got the means to ruin his life."

"And the Khmer, his bodyguards?"

"Over to you, you're our tame Asian."

Night has already fallen as I close the car door on Jones and stroll across the forecourt. The common parts are poorly lit, only the illegal shop with the illegal tarpaulin is bright with lamps which illuminate the motorcycle chauffeurs who are still lolling in their beds and look stoned out of their minds. I climb the steps to my room and see that someone has busted the padlock. Burglars do not normally flatter me with their attentions, because everyone knows I have nothing, even though I'm a cop. It has happened only once before, when a neighbor's TV packed up in the middle of a soap and he broke into my room in the absolute, but false, certainty that I would have a television of my own. Standing in front of the busted lock, I wonder if someone else's TV has broken down, or should I be worrying about something more sinister? I decide that my enemies are too sophisticated to bust the lock and wait inside my room to a.s.sa.s.sinate me in my own home, but I lack the nerve to act on this comfortable conclusion until I hear a prolonged trombone fart from inside. I open the door cautiously. I cannot see him but an animal sense makes me aware of his vast bulk and I can hear his gigantic breathing. He grunts and rubs his eyes as I turn on the light. Torn cardboard six-packs are strewn around the futon, which is far too narrow for him even though he has dragged it into the center of the room. He overflows on either side, but manages to push himself up into a sitting position with some agility.

"I lied to you," he says in that throaty Harlem drawl.

"I know you did. Leave me any beer?"

He turns around and I notice a new addition to my menage: an ice cooler. He dips his fingers in what has already turned to water and hands me a dripping can of Singha.

"That's the last one. Want me to get some more from the shop? I kinda made friends with the owner and those kids on the beds. It ain't so far from Harlem. I said: What are you on, fellas, meth or ganja? But I already knew it had to be ganja, no way they was so lethargic on meth. They offered me some meth, but I told them I don't do drugs. So they offered me some women instead, like how many did I want? Kids were ready to get on their bikes and bring me half a dozen. A n.i.g.g.e.r could feel at home in this country in no time. Poor Billy had a point after all. How'd you know I was lying and what was I lying about?"

"Your reason for being here. The FBI told me you changed planes and airlines in Paris, so you were trying to be incognito. You could have done the journey much more economically if you'd stayed with one airline all the way, and I don't think you stopped off to admire the Eiffel Tower."

A grunt. "So you figure I'm here 'cos I was involved in Billy's meth business?"

"No."

Silence. "I better go get some more beer."

By the time he's on his feet he fills my hovel. I'm reminded of a Buddha statue in a cave that's too small. I have to stand aside to let him out the door. When he returns he is with a couple of the motorcycle kids, who are weighed down with stacks of six-packs and bags full of ice. Elijah reaches into his pocket and takes out a new padlock with keys dangling from it. "Sorry about the other one. There wasn't any comfortable lobby or anyplace I could wait."

"Never mind. How'd you break it so cleanly? I didn't see any marks on the door."

He snorts. "That little thing? I did it with my fingers. Muscle power, my friend, still opens doors from time to time."

"What did you say?" I ask, suddenly transfixed by the ice cooler.

"I adored Billy," Elijah says. "Probably because he adored me. We hardly knew our father, so I was the only role model he had. We were inseparable until I got my a.s.s sent to reform school, just a little smack deal that went wrong. I was fifteen years old. When I came out they gave me a good probation officer, a black who understood where I was coming from and knew my mother. He says to me: 'You might have the smarts and the speed, but what you gonna do to your kid brother? You gonna destroy him? No way young Billy can take the kind of s.h.i.+t you're gonna take. You're dragging him down to h.e.l.l without a ladder.' I didn't need to think about that because I knew he was right. I started to put some distance between me and the kid, even though it broke my heart. I can't say I was thrilled when he joined the Marines, but it was a load off my mind. It hurt when he started acting so superior and looked down on me and my wicked ways, it hurt a lot, but it was still a load off my mind. Even when he stopped calling me or talking to me, it was still a load off my mind. I felt like a father who has done better for his son than he ever could do for himself. I was so thrilled when he started calling me again, it was like ten years didn't count for nothing. We was pals again. Since he died I wake up with the sweats thinking about breaking the people who did that to him. Breaking them across my knee, one by one."

It is 2:34 a.m. and we've drunk most of the beer. Elijah has told me how to cook meth, how to set up a network, how to find cops to bribe in New York. In particular I am now an authority on gla.s.sine bags (they have to be the right size-too big and the price is too high for the average crackhead; too small and you're giving yourself too much work-above all, don't get fancy and put your own proprietorial stamp on the outside, like gold stars or something, because the courts will a.s.sume organized crime). He's told me everything I need to know if I ever want to deal in drugs in the United States, and now he has finally told me why he is in my country. He has come to tell me because he has realized his quest for vengeance is impossible. With greater speed than the FBI he has understood that crucial thing about Asia: we play by different rules and we are two-thirds of the world. He has come to say goodbye.

When he heaves himself to his feet I need help from the wall to do likewise. I have felt great love for this gigantic man with his gigantic heart, and this love has compelled me to match him beer for beer. I've never been so astonis.h.i.+ngly drunk in my life. I am also grateful that he has helped me solve one detail of the case which has been nagging at us for weeks, the FBI and me. On rubber knees I follow him to the shop and we hug each other goodbye near the motorcycle taxis. Only the largest of their bikes, a 500 cc Honda, is strong enough to sustain him, and there is much grinning and wonderment when he sits on the back, crus.h.i.+ng the suspension. I watch him and the driver wobble off into what is left of the night, then I stumble back to my cave, where, with superhuman concentration, I press the FBI's number into the keypad of my mobile. I wake her from a deep sleep and it takes some moments to convince her I'm not some Thai variant of a dirty phone call. She is fully awake by the time she has made sense of my drunken mumblings.

"Saw it when Elijah busted my padlock," I explain with sloppy pride.

"The cobras were in a steamer trunk? Bradley thought he was doing a standard pickup from the airport? The python was there to bust open the trunk?"

" 'Xactly."

"But what about the whole problem with injecting the snakes with yaa baa yaa baa?"

"Weren't injected. Packed in straw between ice. Snakes hibernated. Ice smelted. Snakes woke up thirsty. Drank water from smelted ice. Water had yaa baa yaa baa in it. in it. Yaa baa Yaa baa drove python crazy. Bust the locks no prob." I cackle. "Must have been f.u.c.king terrifying." drove python crazy. Bust the locks no prob." I cackle. "Must have been f.u.c.king terrifying."

"What about those two dead snakes you found-the ones that were beaten to death?"

"Squatters had to s.n.a.t.c.h trunk before we arrived. Some snakes left in back of car. Rest all over Bradley. Killed ones in back with stick or something. Steamer trunks was the way they brought in the yaa baa yaa baa every few months-that's why Old Tou had enough to build his hut." every few months-that's why Old Tou had enough to build his hut."

"Some trusted squatters s.n.a.t.c.hed the trunk out the back door despite the snakes, because it would have blown their whole operation if you'd found it? Yes, I can see that. But that drunk never mentioned anything like that?"

"Maybe he wasn't so dumb. Maybe they schooled him. Who knows, he's a drunk."

A pause which I think must express wonder at my forensic brilliance, or my advanced toxicity-I'm not sure which I'm most impressed with myself.

"No kidding. Well, nice work, partner. We'll talk when you've slept it off. Maybe in a week or so?"

49.

A knock on my flimsy door. Someone calls my name, trying out Sonchai, Sonchai, then then Detective Jitpleecheep Detective Jitpleecheep. I must have fallen asleep fully dressed on my futon. My head is killing me. It takes twenty minutes to emerge crumpled from my cave. Without windows I tend to lose all sense of time, especially when I've been p.i.s.sed out of my brain. I'm traumatized by the bright sunlight. Out in the forecourt just in front of the shop and the motorbike kids I see that the Colonel has sent a car with motorcycle escort. It is the same Lexus as the one in which he recently abducted me, with a different driver at the wheel.

There are four motorbikes this time and the traffic cops have been warned to make way for us. I am surprised to find we are heading for the domestic airport, but there is nothing I can do about that. I wish they wouldn't be so gung ho with their d.a.m.ned sirens.