Timmy said, “That was sleazy. Jeez.”
“Yes and no. People need to get by.”
“Oh. Okay.” For such a Peace Corps old boy, he was not big on cultural relativism.
The view from Griswold’s capacious living room was splendid, with an oasis of red tile roofs and green foliage below, along with a few turquoise-lighted swimming pools, and the office- and hotel-tower skyline beyond. The furnishings were a nice mixture of Scandinavian modernity and traditional Siamese wood and stone carvings of dancers, guardian spirits, and Buddha images. One wall was all shelves full of art and art history books. The graphic art on the wall was astrology related, signs of the zodiac and various astral and planetary configurations. One entire interior wall was covered with numbers in interlocking circular patterns. The numerical sequences seemed random, but this was not my area of expertise.
“What do you make of that?” I asked Timmy about the wall of numbers.
“I don’t know. I think there might be more nines than anything else.”
“Maybe they’re upside-down sixes.”
“Why would the sixes be upside down and not the other numbers?”
“You tell me.”
I took a picture of the wall with my cell phone. Griswold’s landline phone was dead when I lifted the receiver. He — or someone — was paying the condo fees and the electric bill, but not for a telephone. A desk in an alcove looked as if it had been where Griswold had set up a computer; a space that was now empty was just right for a laptop. There were no personal papers on the desk or in any of the drawers, just some art exhibition announcements and catalogs, none dated during the previous six months. Nothing in, on, or around the desk looked like an “investment” guide. I looked for a calendar, date book, or address book and found none. Nor was there any reference anywhere to Griswold’s bloodshed-forecasting seer.
I unlatched the sliding glass door to the terrace, and we stepped out of the fiercely air-conditioned room into the Bangkok night oven. Next to the rattan porch chairs was an array of elegantly glazed ceramic pots, some holding feathery young bamboo plants and some white azaleas. One pot overflowed with purple and white orchids. Only a few dead leaves lay around the plants — apparently sweeping up dead leaves was still a Thai national pastime — and a watering can sat in a corner.
I said, “Somebody’s been looking after the plants.”
“Who?”
“We should find out.”
Timmy peered down at the shadowy driveway far below.
“I’d hate to fall off one of these things. Like Geoff Pringle.”
“It’s not how anybody wants to die.”
Griswold’s dining room had a well-crafted teak dining table in the center and eight semicomfortable-looking teak chairs around it. The most interesting object in this room was not the dining table, however, but a carpeted two-foot-high platform off to the side, upon which rested an elaborate shrine. It was a Hindu temple-style spirit house like the ones found outside many Thai buildings, including modern office towers, where offerings were left to appease the natural spirits displaced by the 62 Richard Stevenson structures. Griswold’s building had one near the main entrance, as did Pringle’s, and our hotel.
Griswold’s personal spirit house had a seated Buddha statuette inside it, about a foot high, in the raised left palm mudra. This is the attitude of the Buddha’s hand that means you are in the presence of the Buddha; do not be afraid. Freshly burned incense lay in a dish in front of the spirit house and its pleasantly scratchy aroma still hung in the air. The garlands of marigolds, jasmine, and rose blossoms that lay in front of the shrine, brownish and wilting, appeared a day or two old.
I said, “Griswold is really into it. He’s sincere.”
“So is somebody else with a key to this apartment.”
“We need to talk to the super again.”
In the bedroom, a king-size bed with cream covers was pristinely un-slept-in. In the closet, there were plenty of designer label, warm-weather clothes, but empty spaces too, and no luggage. The bedroom art and decoration continued the astrological motif, with more stars, planets, and numbers flying around. There were no rich-gay-guy paintings or prints with muscular male nudes striking I’ve-been-waiting-for-YOU poses or clutching a rope.
Timmy and I did not have to seek out Mr. Thomsatai to find out who had been entering Griswold’s apartment, for now the manager reappeared. He had quietly let himself in, found us in the bedroom, and asked if we were finished with our visit.
I asked him, “Have other people been in the apartment besides us? Someone has watered the plants. And left offerings.
Or do you do that?”
“No, no. Kawee has a key. Kawee comes sometimes.”
“Who is Kawee?”
“Kawee is Mr. Gary’s friend.”
“Thai?”
“Of course.”
“When does Kawee come?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I see him. He has a key.”
“No one else comes?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Have others such as myself come looking for Mr. Gary?”
“Of course.”
“Who?”
“Thai man. I don’t know his name. He comes sometimes and asks where is Mr. Gary. He comes on a motorbike. He is unfriendly. I don’t like him. He asked me to phone his mobile if Mr. Gary comes.”
“How much did he pay you?”
“One thousand baht. Like you.”
I produced another note. “Have you got this man’s phone number?”
“Of course.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I’m confused,” I said to Rufus Pugh. “I thought you were probably American.”
“Yeah, ha-ha. This happens all the time. Some clients get up and walk out.”
“I find it reassuring that you’re Thai.”
“Yes, it helps to be Thai if you’re operating in Thailand.
You’ll see.”
Pugh, Timmy, and I were in the Topmost dining room for the breakfast buffet. Timmy had his papaya and yogurt, I my omelet, and Pugh four slices of pineapple and a side of bacon.
“So, is Rufus your real name?” Timmy asked. “It sounds so…I guess American.”
“No, the name my parents gave me was Panchalee Siripasaraporn.” Pugh spelled it out, letter by letter. “But we Thais are not so rigid about names as you foreigners are. It can be confusing, I know. Sometimes Thais change their names.
And we have different nicknames for different situations and relationships. Am I making myself unclear?” He laughed.
Pugh was a wiry little man who looked tough as old lemongrass. I could imagine somebody trying to fish bits of him out of their tom yam kung. He had the dark-faced, flat-nosed look of the North, meaning he was a man who got what he needed in Thai society with his wits and industry and not with his looks or his family history. What he had that was almost universally Thai was his humor.
“But why ‘Rufus Pugh’?” Timmy asked. “It doesn’t sound anything like your real name.”
“I picked the name up when I went to Duke,” Pugh said.
