over his forehead. What was bizarre was a thin, red line that ran from his forehead down across the bridge of his nose to the point of his chin. His face was painted black on one side of the line and white on the other.
‘That’s Wonderboy, our resident minstrel,’ Prophett said.
Wonderboy walked to the bar and held his hand out toward Sweets Wilkie.
‘My luck’s on vacation,’ he said. ‘The box, Maestro.’ Wilkie handed him a four-string guitar, polished and well worn, an instrument obviously cared for with great affection. The strange-looking man walked over to the Wurlitzer, pulled the plug with a booted foot, and sat down next to it.
He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the wall and started singing: “Hey Jude, don’t let her go. . .
It was a beautiful voice. Clear, deep, a touch of whiskey in its high tones, and he gave the song such a plaintive plea that one wanted to grab Jude and shake some sense into his head.
Prophett leaned over and whispered, ‘Five feet from a flame-thrower when it took a mortar. Nobody really wants to see what’s under that paint.’
As the afternoon wore on, the bar began to ff1 up. Wilkie commandeered Benny Potter to help as the bar began to stack up two deep. His eyes watering, Prophett began hunching his shoulders and absently scratching his arms. A man entered the Longhorn walking with a funny little jump step, as if he had just fallen off a two-story building and landed flat on his feet. He had the trunk and arms of a weight lifter but skinny spindles for legs. He skipped straight to Earp and whispered something to him. Earp got up and went behind the bar and through a door into the rear of the building somewhere. The man with the funny walk went up the steps and through the beads into the small alcove.
‘That’s Gallagher,’ said Prophett. ‘Gerald Gallagher from Hobart, Indiana, owns a club called Langtry’s across the street. Naked girls. Not ladies, girls. Gallagher doesn’t hire them if they’re over twelve. In Gallagher’s book, any woman over twelve is menopausal. In the United States, he’d be stoned to death in the public square.’
‘How come he walks so funny?’ Hatcher asked.
‘His jeep hit a land mine. The floorboard almost put him in orbit,’ said Prophett. ‘His feet never woke up.’
‘I assume you were in Nam,’ Hatcher said to Prophett. Prophett stared back into his glass. ‘Hell, I was with Gallagher the day he blew up. I left a leg in that jeep.’
He held out his right leg and tapped on it with a knuckle. It made a metallic sound,
Earp came back into the bar and went up through the beads into the Hole in the Wall. He sat down beside the Honorable, who was watching two men play eight ball.
‘That’s Hatcher down there talking to Johnny,’ he said.
‘Ah, you followed my advice, then.’
‘Sy didn’t steer him here, he turned upon his own.’
‘As I predicted.’
‘Don’t get smug on me. I’m not so sure it’s a good idea, playing along with this guy.’
‘I knew he would end up here sooner or later,’ the Honorable said, proud that his intuition had paid off. Earp took a long cheroot from his vest pocket and lit it, twisting it slowly between his fingers so it would burn evenly.
‘He’s flashing around a picture of Wol Pot. Also Cody. And he works for Sloan.’
The Honorable made a temple of his fingers and rested his mouth against its peak.
‘He told Sweets he was here on vacation, but Sy connected with him after he had breakfast with Sloan,’ Earp went on. ‘He’s not here by accident.’
‘Chance perhaps. They both are here, they both —,
‘Let’s be serious. He’s tracking, and I say if he’s here this quickly, he’s too close.’
‘Don’t let your paranoia cloud good judgment.’
‘I say he’s on to something.’
‘A fair call. Maybe you can find out what.’
‘I say Thai Horse takes him out.’
‘Don’t you understand, this is a very dangerous man. I know him by reputation. He was a sanctioned assassin in Nam. They sent him out with a list. When he scratched off the last name, he came in and got another list. He’s not some dumb gumshoe from San Francisco.’
‘All the more reason to be cautious. I gave you my suggestion. Get next to him. Befriend him. Find out what he’s doing here. You can’t go around just recklessly knocking people off, Mr Earp. Regardless of what we call it, this is not the O.K. Corral.’
Earp glanced down at the bar. Hatcher and Prophett were chatting. The whispering man seemed to show no interest in what was going on behind the beads.
‘I will also remind you that Porter was killed here.’
‘So?’
‘So even if you decide to do something rash, don’t do it in Bangkok. Lure him out in the countryside somewhere.
