That doesn’t sound so bad.
Not really.
‘And you’ll do that for me?’ I asked.
Doctor Wanlop smiled and shook his head. ‘I used to, but I’m too old these days,’ he said apologetically. ‘You need nimble fingers, and a lot of practice. I do so few these days that it takes me forever. But I can recommend a colleague who is an expert in the technique. She can do the entire procedure in less than thirty minutes.’
She?
A woman was going to run a camera through my intestines?
Interesting.
CHAPTER 23
There are all sorts of rumours about Big Ron. One is that he once lost more than two hundred pounds on a crash diet. Grapefruit and tomato, or something like that. He lost weight so quickly that his skin hung around his waist and down to his knees like a deflated Zeppelin. A local surgeon cut out three square feet of skin that Big Ron had made into lampshades that now stood either side of his specially-reinforced bed. Then he started eating again and the weight was back on within a year. I don’t know if that’s true or not but sometimes when he’s drunk and the Fatso’s Fools are in full mad mode, he’ll lift up his enormous t-shirt and show off the scars across his stomach and hips. They look as if a great white shark had bitten out huge chunks of his skin. That’s what he says happened, scuba diving near the Great Barrier Reef. I’m not sure I believe that any more than I believe about the lampshades. Big Ron’s more of a floater than a swimmer.
The other big rumour about Big Ron was that he was almost taken hostage by Saddam Hussein during the Gulf War. The first one, with George Bush Senior running the show. The one that didn’t end in an absolute disaster. Big Ron, so the story goes, hid out in a disused water tank on the top of his apartment building in Kuwait City, only leaving at night to go downstairs for food. Three months he was there, and he only left when the Americans moved in. Big Ron was chief accountant with one of the big Arab banks. The Iraqis had looted the main branch before running home, but when Big Ron gets there he finds that the Iraqis hadn’t been able to open one of the vaults. Big Ron still had the key on his key chain and he opens the vault to find ten million dollars. The story is that Big Ron filled two suitcases, drove to the airport and flew straight to Bangkok. True or not? Only the Shadow knows. But Big Ron bought Fatso’s from a former British publican who wanted to swap the bright lights of Bangkok for the seedy underbelly of Pattaya and he did it with cash, by all accounts. And he bought himself a nice two-bedroom condo, again with cash. True story or not, Big Ron has never been short of money and he has one of the best financial brains I’ve ever come across.
There were only a handful of tourists sitting around the bar when I pushed open the glass door. Young guys with shaved heads and tattoos and t-shirts with wittily amusing slogans like ‘I FCUK FOR ENGLAND’ and ‘SOD OFF, I DON’T NEED ANYMORE FRIENDS’ and ‘MY MOTHER LOVES ME, LET’S HOPE MY DAD DOESN’T FIND OUT’ and half-drunk pints of lager in front of them.
I smiled at Bee and she pointed upstairs as if she’d read my mind. She hadn’t, of course, she was just being typically Thai, anticipating my needs and meeting them without having to be asked. She knew I wasn’t a daytime drinker and it wasn’t lunchtime so the fact I was there meant I wanted to see Big Ron, and Big Ron was where he usually was on a Thursday afternoon, in the upstairs restaurant sitting at a back table, going through the Fatso accounts.
I went up the spiral staircase. I heard the tap, tap, tap of ebony balls before I reached the upper landing. Big Ron doesn’t use a computer. Won’t even touch a calculator. Doesn’t believe in them. He does all his calculations on a hundred-year-old abacus that he claims he won in a Mah Jong game in a Kowloon brothel. I’m not sure I believe that. Sure, I can picture Big Ron in a Kowloon brothel, but his hands are way too big to hold the tiny Mah Jong tiles. But the abacus is the real thing, polished rosewood frame with gleaming brass dragons at either end and black ebony balls on thin brass rods and Big Ron uses it effortlessly. And he’s fast. Fast and accurate.
Big Ron’s argument goes like this. Computers make mistakes. Not the people who use them. They make mistakes, of course. Everyone knows that. Human error. But computers make mistakes all on their lonesome. Not very often. Maybe once in a trillion trillion calculations. An electron doesn’t do exactly what it should. There’s a slight fluctuation, a flicker in the atomic structure, and a decimal point is misplaced or a three becomes an eight. Ninety nine point nine nine nine nine per cent of the time the mistake doesn’t matter. It’s a computer in a coffee maker or a washing machine or a cash register in a short-time hotel, and the error goes unnoticed. But sometimes the mistake does matter and when it does an aeroplane crashes into a hillside or New York loses all its electricity or a pacemaker goes into overdrive and a middle-aged man with three kids and a mistress keels over and dies. Computers make mistakes so Big Ron won’t use them.
I think he’s making it up. I think the real reason he hates computers and calculators is because his massive fingers keep on hitting the wrong keys. But whatever the reason, he’s fast on the abacus. Seriously fast. And accurate.
I was in Fatso’s once when Relentless challenged him to a duel. Relentless is a real estate broker for one of the big Thai-Chinese property developers. He had his BlackBerry with him and bet Big Ron a month’s bar bill that he could add up a list of figures faster using new technology than Big Ron could do with the abacus. Big Ron had been drinking for most of the day and the Fatso’s girls tried to talk him out of it, but the bet was on. Relentless had brought two sheets of numbers with him, but Big Ron wasn’t having any of that. He got the business section of the Bangkok Post and turned to the stock market listings. The challenge, he told Relentless, was to add up all the individual prices of the shares that were listed on the Bangkok exchange. There were hundreds. Thousands, maybe. Relentless looked a lot less confident then, but a bet was a bet and the Fatso’s Fools were baying for blood. They sat at the bar with the stock market page in between them.
Bruce had one of those fancy digital watches with a stopwatch so he was appointed timekeeper. He gave them a quick ready, steady, go, and then Big Ron and Relentless were off. Relentless bashed away on his BlackBerry, his head down close to the paper, eyes flicking from the prices to the keypad. Click, click, click. Then stabbing at the ‘+’ key.
Big Ron sat back in his specially-reinforced chair, totally relaxed, his eyes scanning down the columns of figures, barely looking at the abacus as his fingers played across the balls. Tap, tap, tap, tap. The sound of a pool game played at breakneck speed.
Half an hour into it and Relentless was soaked in sweat and he had a manic look in his eyes. He was having trouble focussing and his index finger was hurting so he tried using his middle finger. Every now and again he’d hit the wrong key and curse vehemently. Big Ron just smiled contentedly and carrying on manipulating the ebony balls. Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap tap tap.
Sweat poured off Relentless. It dripped around his chair. It splattered onto the newspaper. It ran into his eyes and Bee passed him a cold towel with a sympathetic smile. She’d bet fifty baht with one of the new waitresses that Big Ron would win. He did, too. By a full five minutes. He sat back with a smile of contentment and waited for Relentless to finish. Eventually Relentless sagged on his stool and ordered a Tiger beer.
Big Ron had written a number on a Fatso’s chit. He compared it to the number on the BlackBerry. It was the same. Big Ron held up the chit and the BlackBerry for all to see. ‘Who’s the daddy?’ he shouted.
‘You are, Big Ron!’ we chorused.
He leaned over and rang the bell, twice. It was the last time that anyone challenged Big Ron over the use of the abacus.
He looked up as I got to the top of the stairs.
‘How’s it going, Bob?’ he said.
‘I’ll know better tomorrow,’ I said. ‘They’re shoving a camera up my bum.’
‘Hope it’s not one of those digital video jobbies with the big screens,’ he said. Then he looked suddenly serious. ‘Hey, everything okay?’
I shrugged as if the possibility of a slow and painful death by colon cancer was nothing to write home about. ‘Had a medical at the Bumrungrad. One of the cancer markers was a bit high so they want to go in for a look- see.’
