Thai Horse

He never wrote anything down.

Kot watched as the truck climbed the dusty road. He spotted a momentary flash of sun on steel in a tree, saw movement in another.

‘His bing yahn are everywhere,’ he said.

‘Hai. Real monkeys,’ Fong answered with a nod.

When they reached the crest of the hill, the truck stopped in front of a small hooch, a box of a house with one door and one window, which sat apart from the rest of the village. An armed guard stood at the side of the door.

‘Just watch how it is done,’ Fong said.

The formalities dated back to the time of the Opium Wars in China, almost a hundred and fifty years ago. Fong posted Soon on the opposite side of the door and entered the hooch with the Fan and Billy Kot.

It was a small room with four mats on the floor in the center, two facing each other, two stretched between them, forming a square in the middle of the room. Dao stood in front of one of the mats with two of his troopers posted in each corner of the room behind him. Beside Dao stood the fai thaan, a man whose face was etched with the crevices of time and whose teeth were stained dark brown from chewing betel nuts. The fai thaan was the cook and chief refiner of the Hsong tribe. At his feet was a small package wrapped in flat green leaves.

Fong walked casually to the center of the room and, facing Dao, pressed the palms of his hands together and bowed in a wai to show his respect for the Hsong leader and the brewer of magic powder. Dao answered the wai and then the Fan took his place facing the old cook and put his black bag at his feet. Kot stood behind Fong.

‘I would like to introduce my bing yahn, Billy Kot, to the general,’ Fong said. ‘He will soon take my place as White Palm Red Pole.’

A look of concern crossed Dao’s face. ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.

‘No, no,’ Fong answered hurriedly. ‘I am to become san wong of the Chiu Chaos. From this day on, Billy Kot will be my eyes and ears and voice. He will speak for me and he will negotiate fairly with all the tribes that supply us with powder.’

Dao looked at Kot for several seconds, studying the young man’s smooth features. He had eyes like his boss’s, hard and glazed with abstract menace.

‘So he is learning?’ said Dao.

‘Hai,’ Fong answered.

The general appraised Kot once more and nodded curtly with a smile.

‘Ho,’ Dao answered, slapping his right fist into the palm of his left hand, a sign of acceptance. They did not shake hands, because to touch another in Thailand is considered an insult. He sat cross-legged on the mat in front of him. Fong did the same, followed by the Fan, the new Red Pole, and the fai thaan. It was only after they were seated that Dao acknowledged the Fan.

‘Are you well, Phat Lom?’ he asked. The old man nodded and smiled faintly as he opened his bag and took out an abacus. He placed it in front of him.

‘Hai, hai,’ Dao said, nodding briskly. Then he slapped his hands together and smiled broadly. ‘So, now it is time to deal,’ he said, arid nodded to the fai thaan, who carefully unfolded the leaves from the package. The white brick branded ‘999’ gleamed on the mat before them. He picked up the snow-white square with both hands and offered it to the White Fan, who took it, held it in one hand, and weighed it by feel, first holding it on its side in the palm of his hand, then turning it on end. He nodded once, curtly, indicating the weight was proper. He stood and walked to the window and held the brick in the sunlight and studied it for several minutes, blowing gently on the surface. He scraped up a fingernail full and, holding it to a nostril, slowly inhaled it. He waited for another minute or two for it to take effect, then he scraped up another fingernail full and put it in his mouth and tasted it. Finally he returned and placed the brick in front of General Dao.

He held up three fingers to Fong.

Khuna-phaap di thi soot. First quality.

‘Excellent as always,’ said Fong. ‘How much did you get this year?’

‘Ninety hundred and thirty-five joi,’ Dao answered, obviously proud of the yield. Fong, too, was delighted. Almost fifteen hundred kilos of gum, a hundred fifty kilos of heroin.

‘That is fifty kilos more than last year,’ he said.

‘A very good year,’ answered the general.

On the previous buy, Fong had paid nine hundred dollars per kilo. He looked over at the Fan, whose fingers were shooting the small colored balls of the abacus back and forth. The Fan held up two fingers, then three, then one, then a fist. It was a simple code, which only Fong and the Fan understood.

Although Kot did not understand the code, he made some quick calculations in his head. Not bad, he thought. A mere $135,000 for 15 keys of pure smack.

Fong turned to him and asked him what he thought the price should be. It was an unexpected test. Actually the price was immaterial. Considering the Chiu Chao profit margin, they could easily afford to pay Dao four or five times the normal price and hardly feel it. But this was business, and a dollar was a dollar.

Kot tried to think like the Red Pole. He had to weigh two things: first, whether to raise the price at all and, second, if so, how much to raise it without spoiling the general. Upping the price fifty dollars a joi would not hurt them that much. It would be significant enough to impress the hill chief and still not appear overly generous.

‘Fifty more a joi,’ Kot answered.