Killing Plato

annoyed. I swore not to think about it anymore, picked up the Journal again, and kicked back to finish it while I waited for Darcy’s messenger.

I was never exactly sure how Darcy put people almost anywhere in Bangkok in such a short time since the local traffic was so awful it had attained legendary status. I had visions of dozens of nondescript-looking boys on motorcycles orbiting slowly in various parts of the city just waiting for Darcy to ask them to do something. Actually, maybe thaly, maybt was how it worked.

Less than fifteen minutes later there was a soft tapping on my office door. A polite young man in his early twenties wearing a dark and completely forgettable gray shirt and equally gray pants entered and waied deeply. I gave him the floppy disk in a padded envelope and he slipped it into a leather dispatch bag slung over his shoulder, waied again, and disappeared without having spoken a word.

TWENTY NINE

When the boy had gone I glanced at my watch. It was only twelve-fifteen, but I was hungry and figured I probably deserved an early lunch anyway. Some comfort food seemed very much in order, which to an American abroad generally meant a cheeseburger, so I headed out Sukhumvit to a local joint called Bourbon Street popular with American expats.

The origins of Bourbon Street have been lost in the mists of Bangkok expatriate history, meaning they go back more than five years. There is a rumor that the place was originally opened by a retiring CIA station chief who loved his hometown of New Orleans but wasn’t all that anxious to move back to it since his wife lived there and he had found far more congenial companionship in Bangkok. Regardless, if Bangkok had a cop bar, it wasn’t the smoky little go-go joint down in Nana Plaza most people would imagine, it was Bourbon Street. On any given night you could find enough heavily armed DEA, FBI, CIA, Secret Service, and Diplomatic Security Service guys there to strike fear into a small country.

I turned off Sukhumvit into Washington Square and circled around an old-time movie theater that had found new life hosting a transvestite review for Japanese tourists. A snappily uniformed parking guard whistled me into a vacant space and ushered me out of my car with a salute so crisp it would have brought tears to the eyes of General Patton.

Inside, Bourbon Street was a cool, dim haven from the midday sun. One of the girls behind the bar started making a glass of iced tea as soon as she saw me come through the door and I grabbed an International Herald Tribune off the rack at the door and made my way to a table in the back. When a waitress brought me the iced tea, I ordered my cheeseburger with a side of onion rings. I was just opening the IHT when Bourbon Street’s owner wandered over and plunked himself down across from me.

“Hey, man,” he said as we shook hands. “How yawl doin’?”

Doug’s southern accent had remained so strong during the couple of decades he had lived in Thailand that I half suspected he practiced with tapes just to keep it sharp.

“Doing fine, pal,” I answered. “How’s business?”

“Business is great. Real great. A lot of new Yanks in town for some reason.”

“Really?”

I wasn’t particularly interested, but Doug was a convivial fellow and shooting the breeze with him for a few minutes was one of the attractions of hanging around Bourbon Street.

“Come to think of it, one of them was asking about you the other day,” he said.

Now I was interested.

“Somebody was asking about me? Asking what?”

“Aw…nothing really. Just if I knew you. If you came in much. That kind of thing.”

“And that was it?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Doug nodded. “Well…actually he did ask one other thing that I thought was a little weird.”

“Weird?”

“Yeah, he asked if you came in alone or if you were with Anita most of the time.”

“Huh,” I said, not being able to think of anything else.

“He even asked if you ever came in with women. I mean other women. Other than Anita.”

“Who was this guy doing all this asking about me?’

“I don’t know,” Doug said. “Just a guy.”

“Did he know you?”

“No. Well…now that you mention it, I guess he did. He came over and shook my hand and said he really enjoyed the jambalaya. You know I’ve got my own crayfish farm now and-”

I interrupted Doug before he could get too far into his commercial.

“Did he tell you his name?” I asked

“He must have, Jack, but I just can’t remember. I hear so many names in this place.”

A woman who looked tired and didn’t smile much put a cheeseburger down in front of me along with a plate filled with onion rings. She took my nearly empty tea glass away and handed it over the bar where another woman refilled it.

“What did this guy look like?” I asked.

“Oh, hell…” Doug twisted his eyes toward the ceiling and seemed to think about it. “American, I guess. Average size. Wore glasses. Shoot, man, I don’t know how to describe people.”

The woman walked around from behind the bar and put the fresh glass of tea next to my cheeseburger. Then Doug stood up and stuck out his hand.

“Hey, enjoy your burger,” he said. “I gotta go. Playing golf this afternoon.”

“In this heat?” I asked as we shook hands again.

“Yeah, well, we got all them little girls to carry umbrellas and keep us in the shade while we’re walking around,” he winked. “Some of them’s not half bad.”

Doug took a couple of steps away and then stopped. He looked back over his shoulder and pointed his forefinger at me.

“There was one thing,” he said. “This guy who was asking about you was a black guy, and he was dressed all in black, too. Looked pretty weird if you ask me, man.”

“A black guy dressed all in black?”

“Yeah, I almost pissed myself laughing after he got out the door.” Doug gave me a little wave. “See you, man.”

I reached for the mustard, lifted the top of my burger bun, and shook out a generous dollop. I piled on some onions, a slice of tomato, a couple of pieces of lettuce, sprinkled salt and pepper over the whole mess, and closed it back up. I pushed down and crunched the burger together until it was about the right size for my hands, then I lifted it and paused as I always did to savor its profoundly American aroma.

Well, damn, I thought to myself as I took a big whiff. That sounds an awful lot like Marcus York, doesn’t it?

I wondered if it really had been York and, if it was, if he had been snooping around about me entirely on his own or if CW had put him up to it for some reason. And regardless of whose idea it was to start asking aroundasking a about me, what the hell was the reason for it?

I skimmed through the sports section of the IHT while I ate and I thought some more about what Marcus York might have been up to, but nothing obvious came to me. Then when my plate had been cleared away and I had a cup of coffee in front of me I turned to the front page to read the real news. The white ceramic mug was up to my lips and I was just about to take my first sip when I spotted the story.

Plato Karsarkis Associate Killed in Bangkok Shoot-Out, the headline read.

Just below the headline was a picture of Mike O’Connell.

The photo had obviously been taken when O’Connell was much younger, and he was ducking away from the