Thai Horse

‘A jeep?’ Sy said excitedly.

‘No, something better.’

‘Jeep is good. Take bumps good.’

‘Too hard on the ass,’ Hatcher whispered. ‘And too hot.’

‘Merkedes?’ Sy said, coming down hard on the c.

‘How about a chevy?’

‘Chevy? Ah, Chevrolet?’

‘Chai,’ Hatcher answered.

‘Okay,’ Sy answered with a shrug.

‘Okay, here’s what we do. We’re going to the police station. Then we’re going back to my hotel, rent a car and then I’m going to study some reports for an hour or two. You can practice. There’s a small park across from the hotel. Then you and me, we’ll check out Bangkok.’

Major Tan Ngy stood behind the desk, his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask, staring at the memorandum that lay in front of him. He was annoyed, annoyed that the chief had ordered him to cooperate with the Americans, annoyed that the Americans had even asked to interfere with the business of the Bangkok police. And that’s what the American was coming for, to interfere.

Why was it that the Americans always felt they could step in and take over? No matter where they were in the world, they expected reports — and authority — to be handed over to them, just like that. The death of the American intelligence officer, Porter, was a local police matter, a homicide on the streets f Bangkok. It was not the business of the United States Army or military intelligence or this Hatcher. It was his business. Ngy was head of the homicide division of the Bangkok police and he had nothing against Americans in general, but he did not like their interfering in his business.

Ngy was an excellent police officer, tough, resilient, uncompromising and honest, all of which had earned him the nickname the Mongoose. The Mongoose did not need Americans snooping around, implying that his investigative abilities were inferior or inadequate.

That was the worst part about it — he had nothing to report. His investigation was stymied. The trail was growing colder by the day, and Ngy knew that with each passing hour the killers moved a little farther out of reach. Now the Yankee would come in and offer to solve the matter, just like that. He had dealt with Americans before. Arrogant. Presumptuous. Conceited. Superior. And yet he would have to be almost obsequious. The chief’s memo was quite clear about that. Be friendly, it said. Not just courteous, friendly!

It was not going to be a good day.

He looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes. In fifteen minutes the American would arrive. Oh, he would be prompt. My God, were these people never late? He would make the usual salutatory comments. He would be patronizing. He would smile a lot. Then he would offer to assist the local police. It was always assist.

At two minutes before the hour, Ngy’s assistant tapped on his door and almost reverently announced the arrival of Hatcher.

Ngy walked over very close to the police sergeant. ‘He is an American Army officer, not the president of the United States,’ he hissed under his breath.

‘Y-y-yes, sir,’ the sergeant stammered, surprised at the major’s subdued but vehement outburst.

‘Show him in,’ Ngy said, marching back to his desk.

Hatcher approached the meeting with the same anxieties as Ngy. He didn’t want to stir up anything. He wanted the Americans to stay off the case, but he wanted copies of the police reports and a sense of their progress. He wasn’t sure just how to pull that off without raising Ngy’s suspicions. But he was sure that he would not mention Wol Pot, Cody, Thai Horse or any other aspect of the case.

Hatcher was surprised at how big the office was. This was, after all, the office of a homicide cop, not the prime minister. It was a high room, hollow-sounding, with spotless tiled floors, its sparse furniture polished and free of dust and blemishes. Papers fluttered listlessly on desks, stirred by the ceiling fan. The sounds of traffic and bells ringing and people moving were a murmur from behind closed shutters.

The major was short and trim, neatly dressed in a khaki business suit, a pale blue shirt and a yellow tie. His mustache and hair were trimmed with infinite care, his nails were manicured, his black boots buffed to a blinding shine. His face was a mask, revealing neither pleasure nor pain, surprise nor ennui, friendliness nor antagonism.

Murder at a poker table, thought Hatcher.

Hatcher knew all about him. He had worked his way up through the ranks, attended the American FBI training academy, spent six months working with police in New York City, had once been part of a team that had tracked heroin movements from the Golden Triangle into Malaysia, a team comprised mostly of U.S. Drug Enforcement agents. His arrest record was the envy of most department heads.

Ngy was a precise man, it wasn’t hard to tell. Everything about him was precise. The way he was dressed. His office. His desk! Everything on it was arranged in perfect geometric patterns, letters, pens, blotters, phone, all in tight little squares.

Precise, precise, precise. A man with a big ego and one easily bruised. Hatcher would have to be very careful dealing with this cop whose underlings, behind his back, called him the Mongoose.

‘Major,’ Hatcher said in his most sincere tone, ‘I’m Hatcher. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate your time.’

Ngy’s smile struggled not to be a sneer. 1t is my pleasure, Colonel,’ he said earnestly. ‘I am embarrassed that such a thing could happen here. I had hoped Bangkok was more civilized.’

Uh-oh, thought Hatcher, he’s having trouble with it.

‘These things happen,’ Hatcher said. ‘Do you think robbery was the motive?’