they walk out.
Most of the other people who had sat down at already occupied tables get up to leave as well. The maitre d’ tries stopping them at the door, but no one’s listening to him. Finally he gives up and retreats down the hallway toward the office guarded by the big man.
The waiters aren’t even bothering to come around anymore. They know no one’s going to order anything. Once in a while someone will take a very small sip of the drink in front of them, but that’s all any of us are having for lunch.
The big guy and the maitre d’ come back out of the hallway and look the place over. The big guy says something to him, and their eyes focus on our table. The maitre d’ gestures for one of the head waiters to come over and has him take his place by the door as the muscle and he go outside.
The maitre d’ is back in about ten minutes with an impressive looking cop. He’s in a crisp, ironed uniform with polished gold buttons and military insignia. They head down the hallway to the office.
The restaurant is silent. No one is talking at their tables. The staff look on with their mouths firmly shut. There’s no clatter from the kitchen.
In short order the cop, the bruiser and the maitre d’ stream out of the hallway and make a beeline for our table. I stand up, preparing to take the brunt of whatever it is they’ve decided to do with us.
Something moves in the far periphery of my vision. I look over, and it’s the Thai magazine editor and his bulldog reporter getting up from their table and also making quickly toward ours. This is going to be interesting.
Both groups reach us at the same time. Maybe the small cassette recorder in the outstretched arm of the reporter beats out the maitre d’ by a hair. They all stop and look at each other.
The reporter and editor look expectant, enthusiastic. This could be exactly the sort of story that their readers really eat up.
The maitre d’ looks like he’s about to start stomping his feet and spitting. The heavy looks like he just wants to stomp somebody, anybody, bad.
The cop looks nervous. He’s supposed to be there on the side of Big Shrimp, but he’s got higher-ups to answer to and they don’t like publicity. He throws me a look, like maybe I can help him out of this jam.
Plaa and Cho are sitting quietly. They’ve moved their drinks in a little closer and bent their heads over them. Their eyes flick up and back down to look at the six of us standing around the table. Everyone else in the restaurant is looking, too, and not being discreet about it.
There’s a flash of light and then another. We all look around, and there’s the correspondent of my magazine with a camera. I turn back to face the maitre d’ and his posse and paste a big grin on my face.
“Smile, fellas.”
The big guy starts moving in the direction of my correspondent, but he’s by the front door and scurries out. He gives up, steps back and makes a move to snatch the tape recorder from the reporter, but the maitre d’ puts out a hand to stop him.
No one’s got guns out, but it’s beginning to feel like a Mexican standoff.
The maitre d’ steps around the table up to me and speaks low so that no one else can hear.
“You want order lunch now, mister?” Despite the words, it isn’t really a question.
“We might after a while. My friends and I are thirsty. We want to enjoy our drinks first.” I don’t shout, but I make sure I’m loud enough to be heard by the people at nearby tables.
He looks down at Plaa and Cho and then around the whole dining room. He looks back at me with an unhappy smile. He wishes I could help him out, too. It was a mistake speaking to me. If it had been Cho or Plaa, or most of the other Thai people in the restaurant, he could simply have insisted that they leave.
The maitre d’ turns and talks to the cop. I think he’s asking if there’s anything he can do.
But the cop wants no part of it. He raises his hands in what appears to be some form of surrender, smiles, shrugs his shoulders, turns on his heels and walks out as quickly as he can without looking like he’s running.
The big guy’s had enough. He starts toward me, his hands out. Taking apart a
The maitre d’ looks horrified. He knows this is not good. But he’s not about to get between me and anybody’s fists or feet.
It’s fight or flight. I don’t have much time to make up my mind.
The pager on the bruiser’s belt makes it up for me. It buzzes, freezing him in his tracks. He takes a look at the display and unclips it to show the maitre d’, and the both of them head back to the office pronto.
I sit back down, wishing I could gulp my beer even if it is warm and flat. Instead, I take a small, awful sip.
In about a minute the maitre d’ has returned by himself. He leans down to whisper in my ear.
“Khunying Preeya ask to have the pleasure of your company in the office.”
It seems unlikely that she’d have the big guy work me over anywhere on the premises, but I’m not sure.
“Please thank Khunying Preeya for me, but I am enjoying the company of my friends and the hospitality of her restaurant. If she would like to come to our table, I will be happy to buy her a drink and make her welcome.”
Once again he looks like he doesn’t know what to do. I almost feel bad for him as he quick-steps back to the office.
The reporter and editor are still standing by the table, and I gesture to them to sit down. The reporter puts her cassette recorder down between us. I cover it with a hand.
“I’m not the one you want to interview.”
“Yeah, but the interview I’m after won’t talk to me.” She’s been to school in the U.S. I can hear it in her voice.
“Who’s that?”
“Who do you think? The General, Khunying’s husband. He’s the real story in this place.”
I’m sure he is. There’ve been rumors swirling around him for weeks, but there’s no way she’s going to get to him.
“Okay, but what’s going on at the moment is about my friend here, Khun Plaa. It’s her you should be talking to.” I explain the situation.
From the look on her face, I can almost see the wheels and cogs begin to spin in her brain. She smiles at me, gets up and moves to sit next to Plaa. They bend their heads together to talk.
The editor looks at me and smiles. Then he says something to Cho, who translates. The editor’s apologized for not speaking English. I apologize in return for not speaking Thai. He and Cho bend their heads together in conversation.
It’s getting late enough that I’ll probably have to cancel my next appointment as well. I’m willing to do that, but I’m not sure how long I can sit here taking the occasional small sip of a beer gone bad.
My notebook sits in front of me like an accusation. I’d got it out thinking I’d at least make some notes about something, anything that I could write an article on for the magazine. My editor makes me crazy, but I don’t want to give him any cause to fire me. How can I relate what’s going on here now to the Thai economy, which is, after all, what I’m supposed to be covering?
I haven’t got anywhere with that train of thought when the maitre d’ reappears with the boss lady herself. The big guy stands back at the entrance to the office hall. I get up as they approach the table. She holds out a surprisingly indelicate, rough hand with three of its fingers bulging on either side of garish, expensive rings. She’s wearing a severe gray silk suit, and her hair is done up in a coif I associate more with Texas than Thailand. She does not look happy.
“I am Khunying Preeya, and you are… ?”
“Ray Sharp.”
“Why do you disturb my restaurant’s lunch business, Mister Sharp?”
I invite her to sit down at the table, but she ignores me. I guess she left the standard social graces in her office.
“I have eaten, Mister Sharp. You and your associates have not. I insist that you order meals or that you leave the premises. This is a restaurant, Mister Sharp. It is not a waiting room.”
“I am here, Khunying Preeya, to help my friend, Khun Plaa, recover the money and cooler that were stolen
