The Thai’s head rocked back in whiplash fashion as Regan brought up his knee into the gunman’s groin. At the same time Regan stabbed him in the back of his gun-toting hand with a fork that a few moments earlier had been symmetrically arranged with a spoon next to the chilli bowl. The silver coloured 9mm pistol clattered on the concrete floor as the Thai gunman sunk to his knees holding his balls. Regan kicked him hard in the groin. The attacker, still on his knees, fell forwards as if kissing the floor. Regan smashed another kick into the man’s teeth. “Fon! Grab the gun!”
She did as she was told, picking it up and passing it to Regan. He checked the magazine and saw the clip was loaded. He removed the magazine then checked the chamber. It was empty. Amateur, he thought. He checked the safety, flicking it from off toward on then off again as he whacked the barrel against the Thai man’s forehead.
“Sit there!” Regan pointed to a solitary bamboo chair. “Who the fuck are you?” Regan asked. It became clear the Thai gunman was not the talkative kind.
Regan decided to carry on the one-sided conversation somewhere more private. He gestured to the Thai man to stand. He obeyed.
“Fon, open the room. The second one down the corridor.” She did.
Regan prodded the Thai with the gun barrel and said, “Move, follow the woman.” As he moved towards Fon and the room, Regan picked up the bag containing the cash. They moved to one of the bedrooms. It was one of six in a row on the ground floor.
There were another eight on the first floor of the building above the bar. Most were hot rooms, used by the girls who worked the bar at the front of the building to entertain their customers either short time or long time. The rooms were basic but clean. Each one contained a bed and a shower. The shower cubicle always kept stocked with fresh soap and clean towels. There was also a free supply of condoms, one of the perks of working as a bar girl at Lucky’s. They did not have to buy their condoms.
Regan prodded him again and told him to sit on one of the two chairs in the room. He sat motionless. Regan had contacts with the local police. He threatened to hand the gunman over. The Thai smiled. That fazed Regan.
A voice boomed in an American accent, “Good to meet you!”
Regan turned around but just before he did he saw the flash of recognition in the Thai’s face. The Thai looked at a man standing in the door way. A huge man, about six feet five inches tall, weighing around two hundred and fifty pounds or one hundred and fourteen kilos, he filled the frame of the door to the room. There was a lot of flesh but none of it was spare. He had wide shoulders, a broad chest, and flat stomach. He was about fifty years old.
“And just who the fuck are you?”
The American laughed and said, “I’m not the U.S. Ambassador but I do live in Bangkok and I am American.”
“Okay, so what’s your name?” Regan had no need to ask. He knew who the American was.
“Les. Les Watkins.”
It had taken Regan four months of waiting, but now he had met face to face with his target - the number one drug smuggler in South East Asia in the early 1980s.
3
Mama-san
“Okay, my Brit friend. Who are you? And please point the gun somewheres else, huh?”
“Steve Ryan.”
“Irish, huh?”
“A Brit, but Irish too. I’m a mongrel.”
Regan was operating under the false identity of Steve Ryan. Steve was his real first name, but Regan and Ryan were false. He was now false twice over - double false. Same initials though. Not that he went in for monogrammed handkerchiefs or personalised luggage.
“I’ll point the gun ‘somewheres’ else, as you say, when I know more about this goon here.” Regan nodded towards the tall Thai man.
“Aww! Relax. He is one of mine. He’s carrying out my instructions, is all.”
“Did they include smacking women in the mouth?”
“No.” Watkins glanced at Fon and noticed the trickle of blood coming from the corner of her mouth.
“Your lady?” Watkins asked.
“Yes and no, she is Mama-san here. She works for me but is not my lady.”
Fon listened but her face gave away no emotion.
“So what did you tell him to do?” Regan said.
“See if you had any balls. Some Brit slinks into town here in Phuket and wants to buy fifty large worth of dope. I wanna know who he is and what he is. Dig?”
“I dig. So why not do the deal? Why try to steal the money?”
“See how you would react.”
“And? ”
“You reacted just swell. Like I would have done. Beat the shit out of the thief. You got balls.”
“Thanks.”
“I might be able to use you if you are interested.”
“I might, it depends what you want me to do. Correction, depends how much is in it for me.”
Watkins laughed. A deep belly laugh. “Son of a gun! I like you. You talk my language.”
“What language is that?”
“Texan, of course!”
Watkins spoke to his hired hand, part in Thai, part in English. Regan understood he was telling the guy to go back to Bangkok or BKK as he called it. The tall Thai man left.
“Okay, Irish, now what about I stay the night before I go back to BKK tomorrow? Might sample some of the local pussy you got here.” He leered at Fon and Regan experienced two emotions. Firstly, he detested men that used the word ‘pussy’ to label women, hookers or not. He also felt ridiculous because he sensed a tinge of jealousy.
Watkins noticed and said, “Too old for me,” then gave out that same deep belly laugh.
Regan, or Ryan as Watkins and all of Thailand knew him, made for the bar at the front of the building but not before he secured the fifty thousand dollars and the gun in a wall safe. The wall safe was in the manager’s room. The manager was Regan, aka Ryan.
His room was set at the end of the long ground floor corridor that also housed the six hot beds. It was bigger than the other rooms and accommodated a large double bed made of solid wood, a dining table and four chairs and an en suite bathroom with shower. There were cabinets and book shelves on one wall with a TV set and radio perched atop one of the cabinets. It also had a refrigerator and two fans. One was a large rotating circular fan and the other a floor standing fan.
An almost identical room was next to Regan’s room. It was slightly smaller. It was Fon’s room, set aside for the Mama-san. Regan’s room and Fon’s room had an adjoining wall. Regan had never set foot in Fon’s room, nor had Fon ventured into Regan’s room - yet.
Regan sauntered back to the bar. He was relieved when he saw Watkins sitting alone at a table with Fon nowhere to be seen. Watkins was drinking a bottle of Leo, a cold beer. Regan signalled to the bar with the result that both men were now chugging on two cold bottles of Leo.
“Look, Irish, let me spell something out. No business talk, right. I want you to come see me in BKK next week. At my place. I will tell you all you need to know then. Okay?”
“Okay by me. But two things.”
“Shoot!”
“Where is your place?”
“Soi 7 Sukhumvit. A bar called the American Steak Bar.”
“Why did you come to Phuket, all the way from Bangkok, to see me?”
“I figured, who the hell is this guy? No one in this country buys fifty grand of drugs without me knowing who. You dig?”
“I dig.”
Regan thought Watkins sounded ridiculous using hip words like “dig.” He seemed too old to be a hip cat. That was especially the case as he was dressed more like a Texan rancher than a hippie dude. He wore a checked Wrangler shirt with small pearl coloured buttons, khaki shorts, and a NY Giants baseball cap hiding what seemed to be wispy, lank, grey hair tied in a knot at the nape of his neck.
“There are three, maybe four centres of activity when it comes to big shipments of drugs in Thailand. BKK, Chiang Mai, here in Phuket and some in Pattaya, but that is ‘BKK On Sea’ any
ways. So I figure, who is this wise guy? Let me check him out.”
“Makes sense, I guess,” said Regan.
“Irish, like I said, no business talk today. Be patient. I will talk to you next week when you visit BKK. Let’s play.”
“Play what?”
“Shoot some pool for starters, huh?”
“Yeah, okay, why not.”
“You Brits crack me up. ‘Why not.’ What the hell is wrong with just okay?”
“I said okay, okay?” Both men smiled a wary smile.
“Rack ‘em up. I’ll go get two fresh beers.”
“Why not,” said Watkins, smirking.
Regan walked over to the bar and ordered two Leos.
He spied Fon sitting on a stool just inside the kitchen area and almost out of sight. She was rubbing her face with her hand, touching the bruises.
“Hey, Fon! How are you?”
“Fine, Steve. I’m fine.”
“Go take a rest in your room. Grab a paracetamol too.”
“Thank you, Steve. I think I will. I have a headache coming on.”
“Okay, see you later then.” Fon smiled. It was that enigmatic smile. Kind but enigmatic. She rose gracefully from her chair and said, “Steve.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“He could have shot you. You hit him after he hit me in the face.”
“Yeah, stupid really.” He shrugged because he didn’t understand why he had reacted in that way. Did he react because he had hit a woman? Or was it because he had hit her? He didn’t know the answer.
Fon walked away from the bar area towards the corridor and her room. Regan watched her from behind. Only five foot three but he was fascinated by her graceful pendulum movement shifting her weight from one finely curved hip to another. She walked with an easy, economical motion. Straight-backed, a proud walk.
“Here’s the beers,” said Regan as he returned to the pool table.
It was still early afternoon. A few customers had come in to order food, but the bar would not get busy until later that day and well into the evening when the bar girls arrived for work. Watkins and Regan talked about London and Europe. There was small talk about everything. They checked each other out - to a degree.
Regan gave his cover story. Watkins nodded in tune with Regan’s story. Watkins told Regan he used to be a United States Air Force sergeant, and first became involved in drug smuggling during the Vietnam War. Such revelations to strangers never ceased to amaze Regan. It wasn’t unusual. That’s why people like Regan existed. Watkins had served in Vietnam and enjoyed his R & R so much in Thailand he decided to stay. Regan knew all that was true from the intel they were in possession of.
They both relaxed, shot some pool and enjoyed the cold beer. Regan was losing two frames to one when he asked Watkins if they were playing best of five.
Watkins yawned. “I need some shuteye before I do anything else.” Regan knew what he meant by ‘anything else.’ It involved women.
“I’ll get you a room key for the first floor.”
“What’s wrong with one of those rooms on the first floor, or do you call it the ground floor?”
“Ground or first, no matter to me. I’m multi-lingual. Those rooms will be used by the girls later, so better I give you one up the stairs.”
Regan was lying. He didn’t want Watkins anywhere near his room, or more to the point - near Fon’s room. He did not like the guy.
“Please yourself.” Watkins said.
Regan gave him a key for Room 208. Watkins took it and didn’t say a word. He turned his great frame around and headed for the stairs. Regan watched him climb to the floor above and sighed with relief. He decided to grab some sleep himself but not before gently knocking on Fon’s door.
“Yes,” came her quiet reply before he heard the internal bolt slide.
Poking his head through the small opening she had made, Regan said, “You going to be okay to work later?”
“Steve, I’m fine. Really. But it is so kind of you to ask.”
Occasionally Regan had seen her smile. A real smile when he knew this woman had been delighted by something. Like the time the working girls surprised her with a bottle of strawberry-flavoured brandy on her birthday. She gave him that smile right now. Regan thought she looked beautiful. Then again, he thought, maybe I look like strawberry brandy.
Fon had shoulder length black hair that shimmered in the sun. The sun also highlighted a reddish hue to the black. Her hair was natural and so was the rest of her. Rarely did she wear makeup or lipstick and when she did it was applied sparingly, and mainly to emphasise her high cheekbones.
Regan saw a light in her eyes. In her smiling eyes. That light was for Regan, but he did not know that. He felt something. It caused him to blow her a kiss. It was only an air kiss, but he wondered why he had done it. Fon smiled again. Not the usual enigmatic smile but the one when her eyes filled with a vitality.
Regan said, “See you later. Have a sleep,” as he closed the door behind him.
Before he crashed on his own bed, Regan was thinking about her. How calm and serene she was. He knew he liked her. He fell asleep easily and had a dream. It was the only woman he had dreams about since his wife died. The woman’s face and smile floated in front of him. He felt himself smiling at the woman. The woman was Fon, and he felt at peace.
4
The Elephant
Regan woke with a start from his afternoon nap. He believed he had heard the trumpet of an elephant. A loud trumpet. He rubbed his eyes and stared at his clock on the cabinet at the side of the bed. Five-thirty in the afternoon. Better make a move. He was still dressed in shorts and a short sleeved lightweight denim shirt and started to deliberate about a shower before he hit the bar for the evening.
Then he heard it again. “It’s a fucking elephant!” Regan shouted in excitement to no one in particular.
He ran to his bedroom door then to the front of Lucky’s. There it was. An elephant. It sounds like an elephant. It looks like an elephant, therefore it must be an elephant, Regan told himself.
It was led along the street outside Lucky’s by a young boy no more than twelve years old. The boy held a long stick in his hand and marched in a proud way, leading the elephant to god knows where. Regan had been in Thailand for four months and this was the first elephant he had seen. He knew they existed in Thailand but never expected to see one close-up and outside the bar. The locals stood outside their stores and stared. They were not used to seeing elephants either. He was no expert on the species but could tell it was a juvenile elephant, not yet fully grown.
It wore a bright red harness with leads attached to it which the boy held in his other hand. It had a silly red and yellow hat stuck on top of its head secured with what seemed to be rope tied under its jaw. Regan spotted a little girl on the opposite side of the street. She was watching the procession in awe when she suddenly burst free from her mother’s hand and ran screaming in delight at the elephant.
This took the elephant by surprise. It reared on to its hind legs, trumpeted, then waved its forelegs in the air at the little girl. It seemed the elephant was going to trample the girl. Without waiting to find out, Regan ran at the elephant, under its forelegs and snatched hold of the little girl. He picked her up in his arms, taking her to her mother who appeared to be in shock.
Both mother and child started to cry. Regan shrugged and walked back to Lucky’s accompanied by a small but vociferous cheer from the small crowd that had gathered. The boy led the elephant away peacefully and it seemed nothing had happened at all.
As Regan walked towards the bar he looked up and saw Fon. She was doing that smile once more. Not the enigmatic one.
Fon hugged Regan and whispered in his ear, “Sleep with me tonight.”
Regan said nothing. He did return the smile and nodded.
* * *
A shower was always welcome in Thailand. Regan had acclimatised to the humid
ity but nevertheless was grateful for a cold shower. Now freshened up with clean shirt and shorts, almost always shorts - he could not recall the last time he wore jeans in Thailand - clean shaven too. Well, almost, as his beard was still intact but now a moustache and trimmed goatee instead of the full-grown bush that used to hide his face.
He ran a comb through his dark brown hair now also trimmed to barely shoulder length, looked in the mirror and smiled at himself. He liked his smile. Kind eyes. Many women liked it too. He knew it. But it wasn’t arrogance. It was a weapon in his arsenal of charm and calm self-confidence.
Before he left his room, he glanced at the solitary window. It was now six-thirty in the evening and dark. Regan checked the safe before he left his room and found it locked. He spun the combination one more time to make sure. His wallet, pack of cigarettes and lighter now stuffed into his shorts’ pockets, he collected his car keys before locking the room behind him.
* * *
Regan owned an old battered Toyota pick-up. He had bought it for a song in the first week he had arrived. It was black and had over one hundred thousand kilometres on the clock. It worked and that was all he needed. Regan walked some one hundred yards to where it was parked. It was impossible to park it closer to Lucky’s Bar. The soi, or street, was narrow, as were the pavements.
They were lined with stalls selling street food, sunglasses, and all kinds of paraphernalia. The stalls were set in front of various stores: laundry shops, beauty salons, massage parlours, convenience stores, and two travel agents. It was a busy street filled with people, motorbikes, tuk-tuks and Lucky’s Bar. The bar was on the periphery of what many would call the red-light area. Bars proliferated in the streets behind Lucky’s. They were all populated by bar girls, working girls, and their customers from about eight in the evening until the early hours of the next day.
* * *
Regan unlocked the driver’s door, managed to get his long legs comfortable then turned on the ignition. The car engine started first time and gave out the familiar diesel noise. He drove the five kilometres up Patong Hill with its scary hairpins and down the other side until he turned right off the main road. It led to the Dutch Consulate. There was no British Consulate in Phuket so arrangements had been made for him to use a telephone, secure of course, at the request of the British, to which the Dutch had readily agreed as, after all, drugs and their importation were a problem for all European countries.
Dilemma Page 2