On Veera’s left was a young, slender Thai who appeared to have just broken into his twenties. He wasn’t suited up in a luuk nong’s uniform and that set him apart as someone special, above the crowd. Boyish, more relaxed in the way he stood, casually chewing gum, and in much closer contact to the man behind the desk, he had an easy smile. He wore a baseball cap turned around with the bill facing back, and a New York Mets T-shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. No belt, no socks.
“You must be Vincent,” he said in a perfect American accent. “This is my dad. You want something to drink?”
“Water’s okay,” said Calvino.
“Sorry, but it looks like someone beat the shit out of you.” The young man had an open smile.
“Water on the rocks.” He liked the kid’s style. “A piece of advice, kid. Avoid the Harmony massage parlor. Unless you are into tough love.”
The kid laughed. “That place is crap. Low rent. I can take you to a much better place. . .”
The old man at the desk put up his hand and the kid stopped.
One of the luuk nong brought Calvino a tumbler filled with Johnny Walker Black. He knew that it was Black because the bottle was on the tray and the tumbler next to it. Calvino took the glass and looked around for a place to sit.
Veera had barely looked up from his paperwork—just to shut up the kid—and had looked at Calvino long enough to acknowledge that someone else had entered his presence. Cellphones on the desk constantly rang and one of the luuk nong answered in a whisper.
“My father’s English isn’t that great. He asked me to stick around and help translate. It’s no problem. I do it all the time.”
“Why all the heavy security?” asked Calvino.
Veera’s son shrugged. “Not everyone’s a happy camper. And we don’t want the unhappy ones pulling their trailer loaded with trouble inside our compound. So we have to be careful who comes inside. You have no idea how lucky you are to be here. My father is a very busy man. But he can spend some time answering your questions.”
Pratt had resources that never failed to impress Calvino. As they had walked along the beach, Pratt had promised that he would do what he could to arrange a meeting with Veera, but he couldn’t promise anything. Calvino understood and thought it wouldn’t happen. Then somehow Pratt had managed to get an appointment for him to meet the great man himself. No easy achievement, thought Calvino. Being a colonel helped. Veera distrusted foreigners ever since a foreign journalist had written an article about him in the International Herald Tribune describing him as an old-style godfather with blood on his hands and multiple sets of books for each of his businesses. Ever since, Veera had avoided farangs and kept a subscription to the Trib to see if there was a follow-up story. There never was.
The kid leaned over and whispered to his father, who put down his pen, folded his hands and studied Calvino. The Chinese-Thais had a technique for reading meaning into the structure of a man’s face—ngow-heng. A large forehead meant a man could be trusted. The face was scanned to determine whether it had balance. There were three parts of the face that required harmony—the forehead, the tip of the nose to the eyebrows, and the tip of the nose of the chin. Drooping eyes were a bad sign, while a fleshy nose suggested wealth. For a couple of minutes Veera said nothing, taking in every element, including the stitches alongside Calvino’s face. The bandages had been removed and the skin was blotchy, red and puffy with the seven stitches Fon had sewed visible to the old man. One of the luuk nong handed Veera a cellphone. His son translated as Veera spoke into the phone.
“If you can’t get the 1/4" then buy the 3/8" sheet metal. It has to be put in tomorrow.”
Veera handed the cellphone back as another luuk nong handed him another cellphone, “I don’t want to hear delay. The cupboards were supposed to be installed in all forty-seven rooms two weeks ago. And now you are telling me another week. Maybe. And why can’t you go ahead with the floors? We’ve already paid for the material.”
The phone on his desk rang and he had two phones, one to each ear. “Why can’t you fix the generator? Then get the part from Bangkok.”
He handed the phones back to waiting hands. “Five minutes, no more calls,” he ordered one of his luuk nong.
He folded his hands on his desk, his jeweled rings—diamonds and rubies and emeralds—glimmering. He switched to English. “I only go to school for six years. At eleven I worked on a fishing boat. I saved and saved until I could buy a boat of my own. Then I borrowed and bought a second boat, and a pickup truck to take the catch to market. I started to buy the catch from other boats. I invested in a truck company, and then in a hotel in Pattaya during the Vietnam War and you
American GIs came to Thailand for R&R. I built road, schools, hospitals, and a football field. I worked to help my people and my village. Soon everyone comes running to me. Help me do this, help me do that. They think, ah, Veera, you a rich man, you have an easy life. Everything you want, you have, everything comes easy to you. That’s what they think. But let me tell you, the more money you have, the more problem come to you. Every day is a headache.
“I have five mia nois. Number Three gets a BMW. Number Four gets a Volvo. Are they happy? Number Two says her car is a year older. It’s a Benz. Her car is older sure, but it is worth more money. Doesn’t matter. It’s a year older. She’s losing face. She cries that I don’t love her. And the mia luang, the major wife, she wants an eight-carat diamond. Do you have any idea how much an eight-carat diamond costs? Until she gets her way, she’s turned the kids against their father. You see this boy here? He thinks that I am mean to his mother. I don’t show her respect. His brother and sister the same. What is my reward for years of support of the family, all the gifts, holidays, moments of joy and happiness? I get the silent treatment from my wife. She has lobbied mia noi number three and four to support her side. How much has she bribed or threatened them? Not even I can find that out. You see all these men in this room? They can’t find out. Or if they do, they are afraid to tell me. You understand? My men are afraid to tell me. Of course, it doesn’t stop there. A second faction comes along against Number One, Number Two and Number Five. They have decided I should take each of them to France this year. They can’t find France on a map. They can’t even tell me why they want to go to France. It doesn’t matter. They’ve decided
I must take them. Tomorrow these alliances will shift. Like all politics, there is no loyalty, only shifting interest. Thai politics is clean compared to the politics of the family.
“See the white envelopes on the table? There are dozens of them and inside is my money. Every day there will be a dozen more. For anniversaries, for funerals and weddings, for someone’s birthday. This one is for a famous police officer, and this one, and this one. For the highway patrol. For the irrigation department. For the coast guard and fishery officials. For this councilman or that MP. For a customs officer. It is like living inside a nest alongside a hundred octopuses, and every day you wake up and find hundreds of tentacles swimming around your face. I have dreams about the suckers crawling on my skin. Not dreams, nightmares. Am I against corruption? Please may it end tomorrow. I want honesty. The bookkeeping of corruption is a nightmare. You don’t dare write anything down. You have to remember everything and keep the accounts in your head. It is like dealing with wives. One gets this, they ask the other how much did he give you? Oh, that much, they come back, you gave her more than me, what am I nang bam rer? You know that is the ultimate insult. It means that you only want a woman for sex. When a woman accuses you of that, you have no choice.
“So you dig deep and fork over more cash and the cycle starts again. I sometimes wonder how it is that I have enough money for a bowl of noodles. One kid is at San Diego State University, another at the University of Western Australia, another at university in Newcastle. I have kids in more countries than the UN. I can’t find half of these places on the map. But do I have their bank account numbers? Do I keep them? I have one son wanting to marry a loca
l girl. I have a daughter wanting to marry a low-ranking police officer What can I do? Kill everyone that I think they shouldn’t marry? Kill everyone who can’t get a part for a generator or doesn’t put in cupboards like he promised? Kill each person who lets me down? Kill everyone who comes in wanting a favor, a handout, or cheats me, or lies to me? I’d have blood flowing in rivers. Next life I come back as a Catholic. I want to be reborn as the pope. No women troubles and I get to be infallible.”
When Valentine stared into his mirror did he see Veera staring back?
Veera gave the impression that he’d agreed to a meeting because he wanted an outside audience to get a few things off his chest. He looked exhausted, slumping back in his chair behind the mini-mountains of white envelopes. His son sat on the edge of the desk waiting for his old man to catch his breath. He’d heard the same complaints a hundred times.
“Dad’s having a bad hair day,” said the kid. Calvino liked the kid even more.
This had been an easy translation duty for the kid. The old man had done most of the talking in near perfect English.
Being a translator for his father gave the kid face without having to open his mouth.
Only sheer will seemed to be keeping Veera going for another day, making another decision and resolving that somehow he was creating some greater good amongst a crowd of ungratefuls about to storm his compound.
The amulets around Veera’s neck broadcast his belief in the occult. Calvino pulled an amulet from his pocket. Fon had folded it into his hand, and said, “It was around my husband’s neck when he was found.” For a man to hang himself with an amulet was unthinkable. She had intended to be rid of an amulet that had no power to protect her husband. It represented bad fortune. Failure and death. Calvino placed it on Veera’s desk.
“Do you recognize this amulet?” asked Calvino.
Veera looked down and then up at Calvino. He picked it up and examined it closely. He turned over in the palm of his hand and closed his hand.
“It was owned by someone who once worked for you.”
“That amulet protects a man from bullets.”
“The owner is dead. Hanged. His brother had the identical amulet. He was shot.” Amulets didn’t always work.
“I have many people working for me.”
“The man I am interested in was named Prasit. He was a gardener. Before that he worked for you. Some say he killed himself. Others say he was killed.”
“How can I know every person who works for me or claims he works for me?”
“Do you give an amulet to all of your employees?” Calvino looked around the room at the luuk nong. By the time he turned around and faced Veera again, everyone was smiling.
Veera’s smile widened. This wasn’t a happy or pleased smile. It was one that seethed from being made to look stupid in front of his luuk nong. He handed the amulet back to Calvino. “I said I don’t remember Prasit. I gave this amulet out to many people.” He paused as Calvino slipped the amulet around his neck.
“You don’t remember Prasit,” said Calvino.
The old man thought for a moment. “I sent flowers to his funeral. I was sorry he died.”
“Prasit was close to Sawai,” said Calvino, dropping the formal, polite “khun” from the name of both men. It was time to get down to business. “I’d like to talk with Sawai. I know he is your good friend.”
“Ajarn Sawai, he’s a very good man. He knows many things. You talk to him ten minutes and you feel something special comes into your life. I’ll phone him and tell him that you want to talk to him,” said Veera, raising his arms. “I think no problem with that. Anything else I can do to help you? You let me know.”
Calvino rose from his chair, leaving his glass of Johnny Walker Black untouched. “The reporter who was killed. The one who was doing a story about the trafficking of Khmer women. I heard he came to the village asking questions.”
“This was a very sad story. I talked to the police about this case several times. I tell them true. No one in my village would hurt that man. They have no reason. We have no prostitutes from Cambodia in our village. That business is no good. I am against those people. You ask anyone, they will tell you Veera has no need to do the dirty business.”
The conversation was at an end. The kid took out his gum, balled it between his finger and thumb before sticking it onto a piece of tissue. Glancing at his watch, he said, “My father’s pretty busy. So if you will excuse him, he needs to get back to work.
He was a better as a time-keeper than as a translator. Veera rose from his desk. “Your friend said you are good on security. A professional security man, he said. What if I give you a contract to work as my personal security consultant? I can start you at 100,000 baht a month plus bonus. You give me advice on security matters. Tell me where I can improve. Many people try to harm me. You don’t know how jealous Thai people can be of each other. Id-cha taa-ron. You know this expression? It is like your English expression, ‘green with envy,’ only it translates what we see that others have and want so much that it makes our eyes hot. A good security man can keep those hot eyes from burning me. What do you say, Khun Vincent? Can you work for me?”
Calvino’s Law: If you don’t go for the bait, you have a better chance to avoid getting caught in the trap.
“Let me think about it. You will make that call to Sawai?” Veera picked up the phone and dialed. He spoke quickly and hung up.
“He meet you in one hour. You see how good you are? I hardly know you, and you have me working for you. You should say ‘yes’ to my offer.”
The real reason for the meeting became clear. Colonel Pratt had sold Calvino as a possible security expert. An experienced guru who might be persuaded to sign on. Only it hadn’t worked out that way. Calvino left the compound without saying whether he’d take the offer. The kid knew the answer to that one. The old man likely knew as well. When a man was desperate—Valentine being a case in point—then a rich man would pay anything to achieve one, modest goal: peace of mind. Leaving the compound Calvino thought about how one man like Veera could have been the poster boy for corruption, cronyism, and the absence of law or principle. Or from Veera’s point of view, he would have seen himself as the poster boy for generosity, friendship and protection. Whatever label was put on the threads, they formed the fabric of society. Pull one out, then rip out a second one and the whole carpet risked disintegration into the familiar pattern of a Singapore or Finland. No one could separate the relative positions of the threads; good and bad were woven together. As were right and wrong. Ditto, fair and unfair. Everyone wanted to preserve the flexibility, default expression of smiles, mai pen rai, and gracious wais. How was that accomplished? No one had the slightest idea. Veera and those around him had a certain way of seeing the world, of being in the world, and of accepting the meaning and value of life. Prasit would have understood that as his widow understood it. What Calvino wanted was more basic; he searched for a way to account for the death of one man. And in the case where accountability rules marched to their own drummer, that was a tall order.
TWENTY-SEVEN
SAWAI LIVED IN a rambling teak house sheltered behind a grove of coconut trees. It was impossible to see the house from the road. He had hidden himself away in a walled compound. The overgrown grounds had spawned a couple of inbred generations of feral cats and mangy dogs. During daylight hours, villagers often arrived asking the local guru to read their horoscope, palms, and cards. He predicted their future prospects, counseled them on how to best avoid bad omens, and claimed to cure their ills. Sawai was a faith healer and seer, and not above using hypnosis to seduce village girls. His house and activities would have provided hours of viewing on Valentine’s Savage Channel. The three other houses in the compound were left unoccupied. The last occupants had fled, having claimed that ghosts and the howling of wolves haunted the grounds. It was more likely dogs howling, and the shadows of cats hunting lizards in the tall grass. From the upper windows, Sawai had been seen sta
nding naked, his lips dripping with blood.
All of this information came from the kid. Veera’s son. The kid had walked alongside Calvino as they left the main
house. The old man had ended the interview by answering a cellphone and sighing deeply as one of his wives berated him. Outside, standing beside Calvino’s car, the son handed him a key. “You can use this key to open the gate. He’s not all that friendly. So he probably won’t come down and open it for you. Just let yourself into the compound. You’ll find him in the second house on the left. Knock on the door. He won’t necessarily answer. Feel free to let yourself in. You’ll find him upstairs. Father phoned him. He’s expecting you. And, hey, that story about Ajarn Sawai drinking blood and running around naked, it’s probably an urban legend.”
“Village legend,” said Calvino. He looked at the key. “How do I get this back to you?”
“Leave it with Ajarn Sawai. One more thing,” he said. Calvino had the feeling the young man had been waiting to get him alone. The kid seemed lonely, as if he didn’t have a lot of people to talk to inside the compound. And those who wanted to talk were scheming for something from the old man.
“What’s that?”
“At Boston University I took a course in Russian literature,” he said. “Did you ever hear the name Rasputin?”
“Wasn’t he a mystic?”
“Man, he had power over the tsars. He had them in the palm of his hand. And he had hordes of women followers. Today he’d have his own TV show, limos, private jet, the works.”
“Wasn’t he the one who claimed to see the future?” asked Calvino.
The young man pulled around his baseball cap and drew the bill down over his forehead. “Yeah, a clairvoyant.”
“Rasputin was a hard man to kill,” said Calvino.
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