22
The head of the senator’s bodyguard detail-the four men everyone assumed were soldiers-was a Filipino named Emiliano. He’d recently returned from a trip back to Manila where he’d killed Nino Sebastian, and a swing through Pattaya where he’d made Cueball Dave’s death look like a heart attack. He was very good at what he did which justified the money they paid him. He spoke only a little Lao and very few words of Thai, which explained why he’d not opened his mouth since their arrival. His team comprised two Thais and a Lao. Mercenaries all. They communicated with their employer in English. They were there not merely for the protection of the man who paid their substantial salaries, but to eradicate obstacles. For four days they’d been setting light to jungle and blowing up communication towers, so they all felt more comfortable back in a milieu for which they were better suited- murder. The killing on the agenda today would not be one for the squeamish. They had an entire dining room full of people to massacre. But they’d done worse.
To its credit, the marijuana tea took the edge off the menace. Although the hostages were supposed to be sitting cross-legged on the floor, three were now curled up and fast asleep. No amount of shouting would rouse them. Dr. Yamaguchi had a terrible case of the munchies and his crunching of sesame biscuits provided a constant soundtrack for the drama.
Peach, still stoned but coming down, had lost the ability to speak in any language at all and had become quite angry with herself. Secretary Gordon had found that he was now able to sit cross-legged on the floor. He crossed and uncrossed his legs and laughed with amazement whenever he didn’t fall onto his side. Everyone had been told to shut up but this was a talkative crowd and there were very few in its midst who really understood the gravity of the situation. Siri and Bpoo sat together at the back assessing the chances of getting out of there alive. Senator Vogal and Ethel Chin had left the room. There were guards at each point of the compass with their AK47s trained on the heads of the hostages. Only one of them, Emiliano, seemed unaffected by the tea. He had the look of a young man who was suspicious of everybody and everything. The other three were clearly in various states of euphoria. One appeared to be trigger-happy. His hand twitched on the trigger in time to a nervous tick in his left eye. Another smiled and moved in a sort of glide, gentle, calm. But there was no doubt from the look in his eyes that he’d enjoy a good killing. Far from rendering them harmless, the mercenaries looked even more villainous as a result of Madame Daeng’s tea. Perhaps the head of the Federal Bureau of Narcotics had been right after all. Marijuana could very well be the most violence-causing drug in the history of mankind.
“Did you see me mowed down in a hail of bullets?” Siri asked Bpoo in a whisper.
“Stop it.”
“Or that you’d be going with me?”
“I don’t want to discuss it. All right?”
“What? You’re the one who predicted all this. It’s brilliant.”
“Let’s focus all our attention on getting out of it, shall we?”
“You may have noticed the odds have swung against us. I think you and I might have overpowered Miss Chin-just-and her short-fingered boss. But now I’m tempted to say they have the upper hand. And, no offence intended here, but if I’m about to be massacred, I’d rather like to be with my wife.”
Siri stood and four gun muzzles swung in his direction. All the guards yelled.
“Siri, sit down,” said Bpoo.
“Sorry.”
Siri raised his hands as one does in such circumstances. The guards were now yelling in a frenzied version of their own languages. He ignored them and picked his way through the seated and sleeping bodies to where Madame Daeng resided. He smiled at her and, even though no Lao in any conditions under any circumstances would think of doing such a thing, he kissed her on the cheek as he sat. The hostages who noticed clapped and cheered. All the guards had assumed firing positions. They obviously wanted to kill someone. But, just as obviously, they were under orders to desist. Judge Haeng, who sat shuddering in front of Siri, was apparently unaware of this directive. There was a puddle beneath him which presumably did not originate from a burst water pipe under the flooring. Dr. Yamaguchi yelled something which caused the Americans to laugh, but Peach was deep in thought and didn’t translate it. The guards were clearly out of their depth in such company. The fact that none of the hostages seemed to appreciate the awesome power they wielded made them look a lot like little boys playing soldier. There was no fear to feed off.
Civilai, who probably didn’t need two and a half cups of marijuana tea to be cantankerous, called to the Thai- and Lao-speaking guards.
“Brothers,” he said, “doesn’t it concern you that you’re behaving like trained monkeys, dancing to the tune of the American dollar? We’re all of the same blood, you and us, yet you point your guns at your relatives. Would you do this to your own mother? Your-”
The shot exploded through the happy crowd like a split in the atmosphere. Civilai reached for his left ear just as the blood started to spurt. It was only a nick but there was no denying the fact that his brain was only a few centimeters from his earlobe.
“Ooh!” said someone in the audience. One of the sleepers awoke and asked what was happening. Emiliano, the Filipino, had fired his pistol left-handed from his hip. Whether he was related to Annie Oakley or merely couldn’t care less whether he hit the old man in the forehead, nobody would ever know. But it was an impressive shot. The young man, still holding his AK47 in his right hand, leaned back against the wooden beams and rolled his cigarette with his tongue. He had almost everybody’s attention which pleased him. Mr. Geung, holding his stomach, got to his feet and ran to the door. It appeared he was about to throw up. The smiling guard decided to let him go and laughed as he ran past. He was just another harmless moron.
“Now perhaps you’ll all shut up,” said Emiliano.
“Typical,” said Siri, glaring directly at the marksman but talking to Civilai. “I lose an earlobe so what do you do? Rush out to get your own earlobe shot off. When is this jealousy going to end?”
Civilai was apparently feeling no pain.
“Did it come out the other side?” he asked Cousin Vinai.
Emiliano had raised his pistol again, this time taking aim.
“Did somebody ask a question?” Civilai shouted. “You’ll have to speak up. This isn’t my good side any more.” He too smiled at the gunman.
It was just a question of discipline. Was the Filipino angry enough to override orders? Was he a soldier or a psychopath? Cool, cold-unable to take a joke. The pistol moved through the air from Civilai, to Siri, to Civilai.
“Please. After him.” Siri gestured to Civilai.
“No, I insist. After him,” Civilai replied.
Siri felt Daeng squeeze his hand just as Senator Vogal walked into the room. His hair was wet. He’d taken a shower, perhaps a few belts of coffee, and some downers or uppers or whatever it is that negates cannabis because he seemed more in control of himself than he had been.
“What’s going on?” he shouted.
“Just playing with the locals,” Emiliano smiled.
“Plenty of time for that,” said Vogal. He had hold of Ethel Chin’s wrist. He was squeezing and it was hurting. “Miss Chin here has decided to join the party.” He dragged her across the room and threw her to the ground.
“What? You can’t do this to me,” she screamed. “After all I’ve done for you. After all you said. Our plans.”
“Oh, do stop it,” said Vogal. “You never could hold your drugs. Did you honestly think this was all going to have a happy ending?”
“You bastard.”
“See? No control over your mouth. Never could keep it shut. Once a noisy chink, always a noisy chink.”
“I didn’t. I didn’t tell them anything.”
Vogal nodded to Emiliano.
“If anything else comes out of this mouth,” he said. “Shoot it off.”
“My pleasure,” said the marksman.
