“I ran into one of your old friends from Saigon the other day. We had a drink together,” Carl told him. “Anthony Inman I think his name was.”
“No you didn’t. Inman died years ago,” Art replied, full of confidence.
“No?” Carl asked quizzically. The game was on.
“No!” he said as he got off the barstool. He was standing at the bar, bouncing from one foot to the other boxer style and leaning forward in Carl’s direction. “I’ll tell you what you are up to.” He was playing to the audience now, feet still and waiting for all eyes to be on him before continuing. “Carl is playing amateur detective. Over the last twenty years Victor Boyle has refused to accept that Inman’s dead and has hired every private detective in Asia to find him. None of them could find him and Carl is the last detective to get the job, bottom of the list. Even an old friend of mine who spent twenty years with the FBI before going private was given this case and didn’t find him so what chance does Carl have?”
Carl didn’t want to ruin his morning by telling him that Inman had an office at the other end of Silom Road and had probably driven past the Wild Orchid Bar hundreds of times. Carl was planning to let Art have his fun for a while longer.
“How’re you getting on with your client?” he asked Carl with a grin.
“Fine.”
“Funny that, I heard he was shot dead on Thursday evening in front of his hotel.” Art began laughing loudly.
Carl decided to take a gamble, he had a hunch. “Guess I won’t get paid then.”
“There’s nobody left alive to pay you is there? Tony Inman probably died years ago and some Swiss bank will inherit all of the money. Let me tell you about this case of yours Carl. The two scumbags took their money to America where Inman was in charge of investing it. But he ran off with it instead, being the disloyal piece of shit that he is. His heartbroken sidekick Victor Boyle found himself without money or leadership. The moron spends the rest of his sordid life chasing after it, even hires you as a last resort. Then with you on the case he dies on the street like a dog. Maybe you should come with a health warning.”
“Guess so.”
“Why are you here fishing for information? Your client is dead on a slab at the morgue. Don’t you have anybody’s wandering wife to follow?”
Carl pretended to be reluctant to speak. Made it appear that he was not sure what to do. Art was from the agency and was trained to spot a lie. Lies typically flow so Carl knew that his one couldn’t. After appearing to wrestle with his better judgment Carl made his move.
“I spoke to Victor Boyle last week shortly before he was shot and he told me that you were the third man.” Carl was dragging Graham Greene into the game now. It seemed apt.
“Third man? What’s a motherfucking third man mean?”
“He said that you were their partner in Saigon. That you were in the Phoenix Program together, that and a few extortion rackets on the side and all that kind of stuff. He said that you recommended him to hire me. Would have liked to do it yourself but you told him you couldn’t because we didn’t get on.”
He was bright red, beyond angry. In spite of all his training he was about to fall into Carl’s trap with a little help from his own arrogance.
“Me their fucking partner? Me? I fucking hated them! They had a partner, Colonel Bao from Vietnamese intelligence. He had a share of their money until his car blew up a few weeks before Saigon fell. My best friend investigated their activities in Nam and pointed out that they arrested an unusual number of young girls they claimed were working for the communists. None of these girls were ever seen again after Inman and Boyle had their fun with them. A day after he showed his superiors the math was off the scale and didn’t add up, his car blew up with him in it. This was just days before the fall of Saigon when he would have gone home to his wife and children in Houston alive instead of in pieces in a motherfucking body bag. Fucking Inman and Boyle were the biggest scumbags in the whole of South Vietnam. They were into every racket that they could find. They made millions before they left the agency. Inman supposedly ran off with at least twenty million dollars and the idiot Boyle spent the rest of his life looking for him. Fucking good thing Boyle is dead or I would kill him myself! Me? Their motherfucking partner? Fucking scumbags!” He was contorting his face and spitting saliva as he spoke the last words.
Carl smiled to let him know that he had got what he wanted from him. Art realized what had happened and that Carl had made him lose his temper on purpose. Instead of continuing to be angry he became calm and smiled at Carl.
“What are you really up to Carl? You are not writing a history book on Vietnam I assume?”
“Working on staying alive Art. Mostly I’m just working on staying alive. Your friend was a good investigator. Focus on the young girls Art. You’ll be able to work out the rest from there.”
Carl paid his bill and was getting up to leave. Carl was the centre of attention and all the barflies were interested in the man who had taken on their hero and was still standing.
“If Inman is really out there and knows you are after him staying alive won’t be easy. Take care of yourself Carl and don’t start your car without looking under the hood first.”
“Thanks Art,” Carl said as he stood up and paid his bill.
As he passed Art on his way out he heard him speak into his drink so quietly that only Carl could hear.
“Get that scumbag for me Carl. If he is still alive somebody better nail him. Like permanently, for all the widows and orphans.”
“Don’t forget the grieving parents Art. There are a lot of them too,” Carl said with his back to the audience passing Art at the bar as he pushed through the door into the morning sunlight.
Carl had got what he wanted. He had found out where Victor Boyle fitted into the story and, maybe more importantly, that Boyle had probably been Inman’s sidekick in his murder games. He assumed that Boyle had needed a leader and couldn’t pursue his sport without the senior partner. It begged the question as to what Boyle had missed the most. Had he spent twenty years chasing the money or had he wanted back into Inman’s murder games? Things had started to get interesting. The case was not only about a serial killer; it was also about money, lots and lots of money. Carl would stick with it no matter what. Just because he sometimes believed in good old- fashioned justice didn’t mean that he was above the money.
Chapter 14
It was time for another drink and he needed a safe place where he could sit and think. There was another bar he had used to drink at a little further along Suriwongse Road called Candy’s and it was usually open. Carl briskly walked the hundred meters there. Candy’s didn’t look open to the people passing by and only the handful of people who knew the place well would bother to try the door. As usual the door was unlocked so Carl opened it and went inside.
There were seven members of staff in the bar looking half asleep, and Bob the Australian owner was sitting at the end of the bar on his own. On his left shoulder, as always, was a large white bird that walked backwards and forwards staring angrily around the bar with dark beady eyes. The bird was called Ned Kelly and was famous for his ability to say ‘suck my dick’ in several languages.
Two of the youngest girls were still wearing their pink pyjamas and had faces smeared with talcum powder. These two teenagers were sitting at the sofa furthest inside the bar and near the door to the toilet. This was also the door to the upper floors where the girls slept on mats on the floor. They were eating rice and an assortment of spicy strong smelling things from several plastic plates, picking the food up with rice they had pressed into balls with their hands. The bar was also where they lived.
Two of the older girls in their day clothes got up from the nearest sofa and walked to the bar where Carl was sitting himself down. These would be the two that hadn’t made any money the night before. The girls liked to spread money around so everybody got a chance when they were hungry. There was less fighting that way. Catfights between bar girls were not a pleasant spectacle.
“About time you put in an appearance,” Bob, the owner, said to Carl.
Bob was a thin man from some angles. He had a long face and skinny arms and legs. His belly had betrayed
