inevitable election.”
“Not only that, your only serious competitor gets himself snuffed by his own man. Nothing can stop you now. Either you’re some kind of world-class genius, or lucky as hell.”
Vikorn turns his head to look at me. “Isn’t that what I told you when I gave you the case? That I wanted the sacred soil of Thailand to be free forever from this evil curse?”
“Something like that, Colonel,” I agree.
Vikorn sniffs. Then, right in the face of these three resolute nonsmokers, he takes a long, fat cigar out of his desk drawer and lights up. He prowls over to the window to gaze out onto the cooked-food stalls. After a couple of minutes he turns back. “Well, if you all will excuse me, I have the BBC in half an hour and CNN this afternoon-”
“Sure thing, Colonel,” Jack says, standing. He walks up to Vikorn’s desk. “By the way, I’ve recently started my own corporation-time to strike out on my own. After all, with my experience and contacts, I don’t really need partners. You’ll see on the card a list of affiliates, which enables me to cover most of the world. The affiliates are all run by the highest-caliber professionals, mostly ex-CIA or World Bank. I would be proud if you were to consider me one of your friends whom you can call on any time of the day or night.”
Vikorn looks up at him, shrugs, and accepts the card. Linda and Ben seem to be hanging back. As soon as Jack closes the door behind him, they both stand with obscene deference.
“Ah, Ben and I talked things over, Colonel, and we decided we were both just the right age to start our own corporation and use our extensive contacts and knowledge while we still have the youth and vigor to represent our clients no matter how tough and demanding the assignment,” Linda says.
“Damned right,” Ben says.
Linda hands Vikorn her new embossed card (high-quality stiff vellum in cream and gray; very tasteful and discreet), then she and Ben back out of the room waiing.
Now there is only me left. With some ceremony I fish the black Amex out of my wallet and place it on the desk in front of him. He gives a nod and smile of recognition, clearly expecting me to leave the room immediately. Instead, I sit down again. Now the Colonel cannot understand why I don’t just make myself scarce so he can prepare for the BBC. I will do so in a minute, but I have one last question. He stares at me, with perhaps just a touch of nervousness. Finally he says, “So?”
“There is only one thing, sir. That you answer the question you know I’m going to ask before I ask it.” I smile.
I suppose if what I’m looking for is proof of life, I’m in luck. I’ve not seen him erupt for years now, so it’s quite a treat, in a way, to watch the blood rise to his face and a furious sweat break out on his forehead. He is quite capable of grabbing his pistol and shooting me, so I stand up and make for the door. He is too quick and jams it with his foot. Iron hands grasp the lapels of my jacket: he crosses his wrists, and twists until I’m choking. “No, this whole case was not an elaborate revenge on Lilly Yip for humiliating me in a squalid little bet we had half a decade ago. Got it?”
“Sure, Colonel,” I manage, half throttled. He throws me against the wall and jerks his chin at the door.
I leave the station and cross the road to sit at one of the stalls and order some somtam. Chanya and I are still working on our battered relationship, so I fish out my cell phone. “Hi, did you know it’s Saturday? Doing anything tonight?”
She gives a token laugh. “Actually, we’ve been invited to a grand opening. Want to go?”
32
Vikorn’s victory at the polls tomorrow seems assured. Tonight, though, Chanya and I have quite a different matter in which to invest our shock and awe. We received an elaborately embossed invitation to the opening party of a new bar on Soi Cowboy, just a hundred yards or so from my mother’s. The name of the bar is Dorothy’s, and the embossed invitation pictures her in a low-cut evening gown, sticking out her butt and baring enormous new mammary glands almost to the nipples. The invitations are signed “Dorothy and Jimmy.”
The famous soi is exceptionally crowded. This is the first time a farang woman has opened a bar on the street, and everyone is curious, particularly the police and the mafia. When we have flashed our invitation cards at the first line of goons, a red velvet curtain is thrust back, and we find our two hosts on either side of the entrance. Jimmy is dazzling in a white tuxedo with plum cummerbund and bow tie-the knot genuine, the moustache immaculate, the smile Cary Grant. Chanya and I are fascinated to check out Dorothy’s new tits: did she really have enhancements, or were they the device of the artist who produced the invitation cards?
She really had enhancements. I wait while Chanya embraces her; to do so, she has to lean over them. When it’s my turn, I hug her close so I can tell if they’re cheap silicone or upmarket saline pouches. They are saline pouches (about a gallon each would be my guess), skillfully sculpted to the contours of her body with plenty of wobble (but not too much). Dorothy smiles proudly and invites us to test them. I’m prepared to swear an oath that I wouldn’t know the difference.
Jimmy Clipp smiles benevolently upon us. “Did you know they’ll soon be able to do transplants?” Chanya and I share a paranoid glance.
Dorothy looks at Clipp in a fond but disdainful way, as a former slave might look at a master whom she has overthrown and bent to her use. “I’ve come out,” she says. “This is the first day of the rest of my life.” Clipp leads us to our seats.
The format is much like any go-go bar, with a central oblong stage and seats on either side. A switched-on young Thai man with dreadlocks, shades, and tats sits imperiously behind glass in the deejay’s seat, right of the stage. On an elevated platform another switched-on young Thai works the spotlights. We are in the front row, and I watch while a great mass of farang men, mostly over fifty, slowly fill the bar. I have to wonder if Dorothy did not overinvite in her enthusiasm, for by the time they close the door, all the seats are full, and about fifty men have to stand in the spaces between the rows.
The lights dim. Dorothy appears on stage in a spotlight, which envelops and follows her. When I see she is holding a microphone, I whisper to Chanya that I hope she’s not going to sing. Chanya nods in horrified agreement. Now Dorothy begins to sing.
“Ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas…” It’s a sweet, low voice with perfect pitch. Krung Thep is not especially endowed with good cabaret, and she finishes to thunderous applause. We all stand up for an ovation. Dorothy bows humbly, then, when we’ve settled down, gives her speech.
“Thailand is the best and most mysterious thing that ever happened to me. I came here to teach, but I’ve not stopped learning since I arrived. Some of the lessons have been hard, some very hard. But this is a country that generously rewards those who put in the time and effort. When I first visited the red-light districts, I was horrified and disgusted. I started to change my attitude when I discovered that my brightest student was a former prostitute and proud of it. I want especially to thank Chanya and her partner, Sonchai, for being such an important part of my learning curve. I’ve grown and grown since then, and I will forever hold my brightest student as an example of female courage and resilience I cannot hope to emulate. I understand the empowerment of women in a different way, a subtler way, an Asian way, and I see that Thai women knew how to get what they wanted all along. They didn’t need me. I needed them though-”
Dorothy stops, overwhelmed. Chanya stands up, all alone in the spotlight, gives Dorothy the highest of high wais, and bursts into tears in solidarity. I jump to my feet and find myself waiing Dorothy without thinking about it. Now every Thai in the room has felt the jolt and stood up in homage. The girls in bikinis, who have been watching from the dressing room, troop on stage, also waiing. Led by Jimmy Clipp, all the farang stand and make fumbled wais. Tonight everyone loves Dorothy, and Dorothy is very happy.
In the cab on the way home Chanya and I sit close without touching. We’re hoping for something to trigger an emotional event while waiting for the lights to change. When the cab pulls away to make a right, it happens: Chanya claps one hand over mine, squeezes in a way that declares the channels of communication are now officially open, then removes her hand to indicate that no further intimacy shall occur until we’ve talked.
Many beats pass. “Look, let’s get this out of the way once and for all. We’ll tell each other the truth, then if either or both of us can’t take it, we’ll call it a day and separate. Okay?”
“Okay. You first.”
