Thai Horse

‘It is over, Hatcher,’ Fong’s voice whispered into the machine. ‘Your friend is dead. And many other friends will die, you gwai-lo bastard. It is far from over.’

Hatcher sat for more than an hour, staring into the growing darkness, the tape recorder gripped tightly in his fist, his rage crashing and ebbing in his chest like the waves of the sea, his memories of Daphne Chien surging through his mind. Should he have predicted this would happen? he wondered. Could he have stopped it? He had a moment when he thought it might have been a cruel joke, a perverse play, acted out for his sake.

Finally he called Cohen. It took three tries to get through, and then he heard the familiar Boston accent.

‘China?’

‘Hi, buddy.’

‘I’m calling about Daphne —,

‘What can I tell you. I feel like a son of a bitch. I should have covered her—’

‘It’s true, then?’

‘How did you find out?’

Hatcher’s mouth went dry for a moment. He took a sip of water. ‘He left a tape . . . described every

every .

‘Jesus. Listen to me, Hatch. I‘ve already talked to the san wong. I told him Fong was a dishonor and a disgrace to the Chiu Chao, that he’s a woman killer and a rapist — shit, you wouldn’t believe what I said. I told him if any, any, member of the Chiu Chao sets foot in Hong Kong, he’s dead. He’s disgraced them all, Hatch, the whole damn bloody—’

‘China?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I can’t talk any more now, China.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m okay. I just can’t talk anymore.’

‘You watch yourself, Hatch. He’s a demon, this one.’

‘I know it — see you later.’

‘Listen, kiddo, I’ll come over there, bring some of my best guys. I can be there by morning and—’

‘China?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Stay home. Later, okay?’ He softly cradled the phone.

It had been difficult for Hatcher to accept the reality that for years he had killed with neither hate nor malice, that he had been conditioned and manipulated to the point where inflicting death had come as easily to him as going to the grocery store or voting. If the journey that had started in Los Boxes and ended on a tiger hunt in Thailand had achieved nothing else for Hatcher, it had forced him to deal with the lightless places in his soul, places he had ignored for many years. From 126 he had discovered himself; had learned about camaraderie and trust and love from Melinda and the regulars; about the meaning of friendship from Cirillo and Ginia and Daphne and China Cohen.

And he had learned the true meaning of hate from Tollie Fong.

Hatcher knew he could never shed light in some of the dark places that were part of his nature. He might have been able to set aside the hatred that curled in his gut like an asp, except that he knew Fong’s desecration of Daphne had nothing to do with the Chiu Chaos or China Cohen or Harry Sloan or Cody; it was between him and Tollie Fong. Hatcher had started it and Fong was justified in his hatred. Hatcher knew he would continue to wreak his vengeance against everyone close to Hatcher until the ch’u-tiao was satisfied.

And Cody and Earp also were right. Eventually the regulars, too, would feel Fong’s deadly sting. It had to be ended once and for all. Hatcher knew he could not bury the past without purging it first. Hatcher knew now that he had come to Bangkok because he valued Cody’s life. In a savage turn of irony, he had tried to do something decent, and Sloan, who had created the monster within him, had summoned him back to use it again.

There could be no end to the killing yet. Either Hatcher or Fong must die before the blood feud would end.

The little metal cars were replicas of one of the earliest Mercedes racing machines, a single-seater with giant wheels made of real rubber and small plastic windshields. They were made in Germany by the Schuco Company and, when wound up, could reach a speed of thirty miles an hour for about two seconds.

Riker, who had found them in a toy store in the International Bazaar and brought four of them back, was on his knees, blowing dirt from around the axles and dropping single drops of oil into the moving parts. The jukebox was thundering and Corkscrew and Johnny Prophett were servicing their cars. The regulars were lined up along the wall in the small room behind the glass-beaded curtain, and they had moved the tables back and put several heavy strips of Styrofoam against the back wall and around the legs of the pool table to protect the racing cars when they reached the end of the room. The Honorable, as stern-looking and inscrutable as always, was sitting behind his desk, taking bets, marking the tabs and passing them.

‘Okay, c’mon, Corkscrew, get ready. I’m about to make dog meat out of you.’

‘That’ll be the fuckin’ day,’ the burly black man answered. He lifted his finger off the back wheels of the small toy car and they wheezed as they spun around. ‘Looka there, man. I may be goin’ for a record here.’

‘Sure,’ snapped Riker, winding his car up with a toy key and keeping a thumb on the back wheels.

‘Are you ready?’ Wonderboy yelled. He was holding a piece of yellow silk that had been checkered with a Magic Marker.

‘Drivers ready . . .‘ he called out, waving the flag over his head. And then he dropped it. Corkscrew and Riker