The evening is another memorable one, but carries with it the biting feeling that this is too good to be true, and will end sooner or later in some conflict with a person who has probably taken the life of one human being already. Rita is unflappable and constantly assures me that everything is going to work out just fine between me and the doc. Denial is not a river in Egypt.
My flight to Thailand isn’t scheduled to take off until nine this evening. Rita has already left to catch her connecting flight to Los Angeles, so I decide to spend my remaining daylight hours on Maui sitting under the Banyan tree, reading some more Sherlock Holmes. If you’ve never been to Maui or India, you might not be familiar with the Banyan tree [real name ficus benghalensis]. The shady branches of this tree from India cover almost an acre, and its roots extend nearly fifty yards. This one was planted in 1873 to mark the 50th anniversary of Protestant missionary work in Lahaina and is now the largest tree in the United States. You can sit under it until four in the afternoon, at which time about a thousand squawking birds come flying in from somewhere and descend into the branches of the tree. From that moment until the sun goes down it’s too noisy to sit there, so once again, it’s Patrón margarita time.
This evening I bid farewell to the gang at the club and try to answer all the questions about where my good-looking girlfriend is. The taxi picks me up at seven sharp and I’m on my way to the airport, and then to Thailand. This leg of the journey will be more than twice as long as the one getting to Hawaii, so I prepare to finish the Adventures of the Five Orange Pips, the Musgrave Ritual, The Red-headed League, and the Six Napoleons, all of them classics in true Sherlockian fashion.
I seem to remember getting through the first three before the club’s last Margaritas kick in, and then sweet sleep comes. The stewardess, er, flight attendant wakes me and I discover that I’ve been out for several hours, and it’s now time for the usual stuff – seat up, tray up, and belt fastened. We’re going into the landing pattern.
This is my first trip to Thailand, and the farthest away I’ve ever been from the States. Being a strong believer in our wonderful American judicial system, notwithstanding many of the ignoramuses that inhabit it, I always feel better in an environment where I know what my rights are and how to handle myself in any kind of situation. That good feeling doesn’t exist outside of the U.S. of A., so left to my own choice I’d rather not be a world traveler.
Come to think of it, ignoramuses probably belong in the judicial system, because the very first ignoramus was a lawyer. George Ruggle wrote a play in 1615 entitled Ignoramus, named after its lead character - a lawyer.
Years ago, before I got married, some friends and I sailed about twelve hundred miles South one winter, from California to Puerto Vallarta, on the Mexican mainland. I remember feeling uneasy every time we went ashore. It’s probably due to bad memories from all those dramatic noir movies, in which completely innocent Americans always seem to get unjustly prosecuted by people like my ex-wife and her gang. Somehow I usually feel like Rick, the Humphrey Bogart character in Casablanca, fearful that there’s always a Claude Raines-type policeman ready to take me away on a politically motivated charge. Fortunately, it isn’t like that at all in Thailand.
I was told that a government official would be meeting me at the airport. He had been sent a picture of me, so I wasn’t to worry about being found. And I was. A short, well-dressed, pomaded government-type individual introduces himself to me. He must have seen me looking around at the surroundings like I’m some hick tourist. “Mister Sharp, why don’t you sit down for a minute until I return; we’ll be riding to my office soon. I’ll go and get my elephant.”
It isn’t until we’re sitting in the back seat of his air-conditioned government vehicle that he gives me one of those “gotcha” smiles, but I do actually see some elephants. They have them in several rural areas for people to ride and have their pictures taken with, but the Bangkok officials are getting tired of the mess they make with their droppings, so eleven new city bylaws are being strictly enforced to keep them out of the urban areas. In the past I’ve been irritated by seeing some dog droppings around where I live, but learning that an elephant can drop up to a hundred pounds a day now makes me realize how lucky I am that there aren’t any of these huge critters in Marina del Rey, California.
When the official sees me looking at the elephants he tells me the tragicomical story about what happened several years ago when a twenty-one year old elephant named Phlai Rungruang got mad at a tourist, after having been teased by a withdrawn offer of some sugar cane. The young elephant ran amok downtown for three hours until subdued by tranquilizer darts. Evidently his trainer never taught him to obey the command “Stay.” I’d hate to have been the tourists sitting in that little seat aboard Phlai during his temper tantrum. It was probably like John Travolta’s riding that mechanical bull in the motion picture Urban Cowboy. Fortunately, some very good lessons are learned at an early age: I remember a traumatic incident about thirty-six years ago when my father tried to have me sit still on a pony for a photo-op. After that I was forever convinced that guys raised in big urban cities like Chicago are not meant to be on top of animals.
During our trip to the official’s office I’m fascinated by the areas we’re passing by, and barely hear him as he keeps repeating how wonderful it is for me to come all this way on Mister Bradley’s account; how good a friend I must be to sacrifice my time and how grateful his government is that I could come to finalize this segment of their procedure. I keep thinking to myself “what the hell is this guy talking about?” I have only one question to ask him: “will I be seeing my associate soon?” He assures me that within the hour my anxiety will be completely removed.
Following the instructions given to me before leaving Los Angeles, I call the office to check in. Amazingly my cell phone works fine. All I have to do is use (310), my local California area code. The international code must be automatically programmed in. Our office answering machine picks up, so I leave a message. “Hi, this is Peter. I’m in Thailand now, and that government official who found me at the airport is taking me to see Melvin. I’ll check in again later. If there’s anything you want me to tell him or L. Martin, leave word for me at Bangkok’s Peninsula hotel. I should be checking in within the next hour.”
At the official’s office I’m led into a waiting room with a large picture window on one wall. I have no idea what purpose it serves, because all you can see through it is a hallway on the other side of the office, and another office door. The official pokes his head into the room and says that Mister Bradley is on the way. I’m sitting down looking at a magazine when I hear a knock on the glass of the picture window. On the other side is the official, beckoning me over to the window. When I get to the window, someone in the hallway rolls up a gurney with a sheet-covered cadaver on it, and pulls back the top part of the sheet. Lying on the gurney is a corpse. It’s Melvin!
*****
Chapter 8
When the official comes back into the room, I grab him by his lapels.
“Jesus W. Christ! Couldn’t you have told me what to expect?”
He’s caught completely off guard. “But Mister Sharp, I thought you knew I was the coroner. Oh, my Goodness.”
“No, I didn’t know that. All they told me was that you were a government official who’d be taking me to see Melvin. No one said he’d be dead! What the hell happened? Was he murdered, or what?” The coroner is not taking this well, so I release my grip on his jacket. It’s difficult for him to believe that someone would travel so far not knowing that the real purpose of the trip is only to make positive identification of a body.
“Mister Sharp, you really must calm down. There are others here who would be disturbed if you continue making a scene.”
“Scene? Scene? You want to see a scene? Wait’ll I get my hands on the person who sandbagged me into this trip. That’ll be a scene! What’re you worried about? Are you afraid I might wake up some of your other custom
ers? They should only be so lucky.”
I sit down with my head in my hands. I can’t remember ever having been this upset. Not even my separation from Myra or the State Bar suspension affected me like this. Maybe it’s because they weren’t unexpected surprises and I had some time to prepare. But this one is different, and I hope I don’t have to ever experience anything like it again. A quick appraisal of the situation doesn’t look too good: I’m in Thailand, Melvin is dead, my boat is gone, my job is probably gone, a killer’s girlfriend lusts after me and I have no idea what’s going to happen next in my life. This makes the divorce and suspension look like a walk in the park. Oh, I’ve got my license back all right, now all I have to do is get my life back together, find a job, find a place to live and make sure that Doctor Death doesn’t find me.
No matter what part of the world I’m in I seem to wind up with a Doctor Death, but at least this one in Thailand only gets involved after the fact. With his help, an hour’s time, and three or four Thai beers, I start to regain my composure. He tells me what he believed happened. “Mister L. Martin Unger owned and flew his own private plane here in Thailand. He filed a flight plan at the Chiang Mai International Airport, up in the hills North of Bangkok, giving his destination as James Bond Island. Mister Unger’s only passenger we later believed to be an American tourist named Marcel’ Bradley - a friend of his who he wanted to show the country to.
They must have had some mechanical problem, because the plane crashed during take-off. The local authorities were able to identify Mister Unger because they knew him, but we still needed someone to make a positive identification of his passenger. And because there was a good probability he was an American citizen, we wanted to avoid any problems with your local embassy. The body’s clothing contained a hotel key, so we checked his room and found a passport and business card for Mister Marcel’ Bradley. When his United States office was contacted they assured us that one of his close associates would fly here to make the identification.
At that time, there was still a remote chance that it was not Mister Bradley, so maybe your office was correct in not telling you he was dead. Your picture was e-mailed to us and you were met at the airport. You know the rest. We’re sorry for your loss and that you weren’t told in advance. Perhaps it was a terrible oversight on your office’s part to not let you know of the exact nature of your trip.”
I can’t be mad at the guy. He’s the ultimate professional, courteous and patient with me. I thank him and he offers to drive me to my hotel. As I’m getting out of his car, he hands me an envelope: “Mister Sharp, this is for you. We found it among Mister Bradley’s things. It is addressed to you.”
Once in my room, I sit down with some ice cubes wrapped in a towel around the top of my head and open the envelope. It’s a handwritten letter from Melvin:
Dear Peter:
If you’re reading this letter, it’s because something terrible has happened to me. I’m going up in a small plane with L. Martin today, so I thought that leaving this behind might be a good idea.
As you must know by now, my stepdaughter Suzi really runs the practice, so there’s really nothing for me to do there. If L. Martin’s brief worked, and I’m sure it did, you’ve probably been reinstated by now and can take my place in the practice, doing more than I did, because you can actually make appearances; the judges probably like you better than they did me.
My main concern is Suzi. My will, which a Century City attorney will probate, appoints you as her legal guardian. I know it’s a lot to ask, but please take care of her. She’s a good kid, and with me gone, you’re all she’s got in the world. And please tell her that even though I never said it, I really loved her.
Thanks, your law school bookstore partner, Melvin
Melvin and I were never close friends. Like most other people, I didn’t give him a lot of respect, but I have to admit that he went out with some class. The friendly local coroner tried to be as cooperative as he could, but he had his own problems getting the bodies ready for transport back to the States. Now that both bodies have been positively identified, he must deal with their final disposal. There’s no ‘Potter’s Field’ in Bangkok where unclaimed bodies are buried. They use them as ‘donors,’ for the country’s rapidly growing medical system, and then dispose of them some other way that I really don’t want to know about.
After several e-mails are exchanged between my hotel room and the office, I get authorization to bring the remains of both Melvin and L. Martin home with me for proper burial. The office must have wired some money to the coroner, because when I give him the request, he’s already done the paperwork, and the bodies have been packed in dry ice, crated, and ready to be loaded onto the plane.
It must be the lawyer in me. How does a thoroughly inspected plane suddenly develop a mechanical problem and crash during take-off? Not ever having flown a plane or been very interested in flying, I sent my thoughts about this question back to the office the first day I arrived here, and now two days later, some action has obviously been taken. The office knew about the incident before I did - they usually do. A package has been delivered to me at the hotel containing the personal affects of Melvin and L. Martin, and along with that package is another small box containing two pieces of what look like a broken airplane part, and several officially-stamped documents that establish the part’s purchase from a reputable aircraft supply company in the United States. There’s also an affidavit from the local aircraft inspector, identifying it as a counterfeit part, and officially states that there were several other parts all purchased from the same company that were all delivered in the same recent shipment.
Even though I have no knowledge of the law as it pertains to aircraft crashes and counterfeit parts, it looks to me like this case is a slam-dunk. My work is completed here, so it’s time to return to the States and make an attempt to locate the remaining family of both plane crash victims. I don’t know where I’ll be working from now, because with L. Martin gone, I’ll probably have to vacate the Grand Banks, but with my license to practice having been restored I should be able to make a decent living off of Melvin’s practice – if the little girl doesn’t fire me.
Before leaving Thailand I make one extra stop. I want to have my picture taken on top of an elephant. This will be a trophy photo to be sent to the remaining members of my family who may still remember that long-ago unfortunate incident at the pony ride park. This picture should prove once and for all that it was the pony’s fault, not mine. I am perfectly comfortable on top of an animal…. for very short periods of time.
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Both wooden body crates are now loaded onto the plane and I bid farewell to both the coroner and Thailand. He promises me that on my next visit he will introduce me to ‘alive people’ only - young, attractive, female alive people. I can’t help but think that I’d like to take him up on that invitation, as soon as they discover a vaccination for every sexually transmitted disease ever known to medical science.
There’ll be no reading of any Sherlock Holmes on the flight back. I have too many other things on my mind to concentrate on a detective who knew what he was doing. I’m too busy concentrating on my own tasks, and I certainly don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
There are just too many unanswered questions. Did Melvin have any family other than the little girl? Is she supposed to live with me now? What am I supposed to do with a little kid and a big dog? Where am I (or we) supposed to live? With Melvin gone, will he keep his main Marina client, or is the law practice gone too? And of course the never-ending concern that now I’m practicing law again, my ex-wife will be coming after me for her share of the profits. She’s probably been staying up nights trying to figure how to get even with me for the burned-out boat thing that happened. I’m sure she thinks that I had it burned just to spite her. And all that may be nothing, compared to what can happen to me if the doc finds out I’ve been sleeping with Rita. And, I’m sure I’ve made another enemy out of Koontz,
who definitely is not too happy with me for getting his license lifted because he conspired with Hansel to frame me. I’m sure he’ll be out for evens, so I’ll always be looking over my shoulder.
Thinking about all the junk I have to deal with is too much for me. Fortunately, out of guilt for not giving me a heads-up on the real reason for my trip, the office upgraded my return trip to first class, so I’m now relaxing in a comfortable seat and have my own private LCD television screen with a satellite hook-up to watch. I give CNN a try, figuring that no matter what’s going on in the rest of the world, it can’t be worse than what’s happening in mine. After Wolf Blitzer, Larry King and my nap, their “People in the News” segment covers some high-profile court cases taking place around the country. To my surprise, I see a familiar face. My ex-wife is on camera, doing an interview about how she’s spearheading the investigation into an Asian casino gang suspected of murdering a Chinese restaurant owner over some unpaid gambling debts. The newscaster expresses her doubts that a gambling gang would do such a thing in broad daylight while so many police were inside the restaurant, but Myra is adamant in her office’s belief that the gang is guilty. She promises that an arrest is imminent and stakes her reputation on a successful prosecution and conviction.
If she’s right, all the stuff I dug up on Robert Palmer has no meaning in the case. For her sake, I hope I’m wrong. The television drones on while I sleep the rest of the way to Los Angeles. First Class is the only way to fly.
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Coffins don’t get any priority treatment at the airport. They’re offloaded last. The office made arrangements for a funeral home to pick them up but I still have to hang around until they’re loaded, to sign the release forms. Dead bodies are picked up in what the funeral industry refers to as ‘first call’ vehicles. They’re not limos or hearses, but instead are black station wagons with dark tinted glass all around. Once the coffins are loaded into the vehicle, the driver offers to give me a ride to the Marina. I politely refuse and take a cab instead.
Single Jeopardy Page 9