Thai Horse

by William Diehl

  Hatcher looked around at the Hole in the Wall. Vaguely, behind the veil of beads, he could make out a woman among the seven players at the table.

  The woman playing poker got up and left the game, standing just behind the curtains for a moment while she counted a handful of bahts, then proceeding into the main room. She was a handsome woman, big-boned and broad-shouldered, with hardly any waist at all. Her blond hair was turning white, belying her features, which placed her under forty. She was wearing a loose-fitting white cotton blouse and a skirt of turquoise Thai silk and thong sandals.

  Hatcher remembered her from pictures as being smaller, more delicate, a woman dwarfed by the camera equipment and canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Saigon, toward the end. Melinda Prewett had won a Pulitzer Prize for her pictures of destruction, fear, hatred and pain. When the war ended, she had left a lucrative job with Life magazine and vanished. ‘My camera has nothing else to say,’ was her swan song.

  She walked directly toward him, stuffing the fistful of bahts in her skirt pocket and stopped when she got to Johnny Prophett. She put her arm around his shoulder and whispered, ‘Hi,’ in his ear. His face lit up and he laid his cheek against the back of her hand.

  ‘Howdja do?’ he asked.

  ‘Made midgets of ‘em all,’ she said softly in his ear. ‘Time for your medicine.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, his speech beginning to get worse. ‘Meet Hatch. He’s on vacation from the world.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said. She stared hard at Hatcher for several moments, then smiled and said, ‘Welcome to Tombstone, Mr Hatch. Enjoy your stay.’

  LEG WORK

  Taisung!

  The mention of the prison camp commandant by Prophett was definitely a break, but how did it fit in? Obviously Prophett had known the commandant of the Huie-kui prison camp before he had changed his name to Wol Pot. That could mean only one thing to Hatcher

  — Prophett had been in the camp or knew people who were.

  Several questions troubled Hatcher. Did Prophett know where Taisung/Wol Pot was now? Did any of the other regulars know him? Did any of them know Cody? And who or what was Thai Horse and did he — or it — fit into this picture anywhere?

  Hatcher took an ice-cold shower to kill the effects of the afternoon of beer drinking. He thought about Ron Pelletier. They had worked in the brigade together many times. Sloan had told him Pelletier was working immigration out of Chuang Mai, which was in the hill country 430 miles to the north of Bangkok. Pelletier had been in Thailand for two years. Perhaps he knew something, anything, that would help unravel the riddle of Murphy Cody. Pelletier was an old friend and a man he could trust. He made a call to the night number of the Immigration Service and left a message for Pelletier, knowing it was a long shot.

  He stretched out on the floor, naked under the ceiling fan, watching the shadows whirling above him as images galloped through his brain: the painted face of Wonderboy as he sat in the corner singing; one-legged Johnny Prophett, reeling around the bar; Gallagher hot-footing it across the room; the Honorable sitting in the corner dipping his finger in wine and turning the pages of his book while Earp with his cannon watched over everyone.

  His thoughts kept going back to Prophett and he opened his ch’uang tzu-chi, picturing the emaciated writer as he tried to remember where he had heard that name. All he really knew about him was that he was a writer and had lost a leg in a jeep accident.

  Then suddenly he sat up.

  Paget!

  It wasn’t the name that was familiar, it was the face. But it didn’t fit the name Johnny Prophett. His name was James Paget. He had seen Paget’s byline and picture many times during the war.

  Why had he changed his name to Prophett? And if he had changed his name, had others among the regulars changed theirs? And why? Hatcher decided to take another long shot. It was 9 P.M., 9A.M. in Washington. Flitcraft would be in the office by now. He put in the call and went through the security drill.

  ‘I’ve got some names I’d like you to check on,’ he told his Washington contact. ‘I don’t have much else, but let’s see just how good you really are. One of them is a civilian. James Paget. A journalist . .

  He dictated the other names of the regulars he had committed to memory: Max Early, who had been attacked in a tunnel by bats and now lived on a farm because he couldn’t stand closed-in places; Potter, who, with Corkscrew, had held off a whole company of Vietnamese but lost Corkscrew’s brother while they were at it; Eddie Riker, who was the best damn slick pilot in Nam; Gerald Gallagher, who walked like a man on hot coals; and Wyatt Earp, a great-grandson of the real Wyatt Earp, who had been a full colonel in CRIP and had done four tours back to back. Bits and pieces.

  ‘I’ve also got two nicknames — real long shots,’ Hatcher said, giving Flitcraft Wonderboy and Corkscrew.

  ‘I’ll get back to you,’ said Flitcraft, unfazed by the skimpy information Hatcher provided on these men.

  Hatcher ordered a salad and coffee to the room. As he was eating, the phone rang. He snatched it up, thinking perhaps it was Flitcraft.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hatch?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Pelletier . .

  The big man sat hunched over the corner of the bar. He was well over six five, with the beefy shoulders and chest of a professional football player. His right sleeve was tucked in the pocket of his field jacket. His remaining hand was enormous and his wrist was the size of a hawser. Time and duty had ravaged and scarred his face. His gray-flecked mustache was trimmed below the corners of his mouth, and his black hair was balding at the temples and turning white around the edges. Dark brown eyes glared unflinchingly from behind slightly tinted, gold-rimmed glasses. A mean- and dangerous-looking man, he did not smile easily, nor was he prone to casual conversation. When he did have something to say, he said it in a deep, flat, clipped monotone.

  Hatcher had worked with Pelletier many times and in many places through the years arid knew him to be a staunch and loyal ally and a relentless enemy. Before joining the brigade, Pelletier had been a career marine and had once carried two wounded men at the same time for a mile through the South Asian jungle. Big men. Pelletier looked up as Hatcher entered the bar, and what might have passed for a smile crossed his lips. He offered the enormous hand.

  ‘Original bad penny,’ he said, ‘Good t’see you, mate.’

  ‘And you,’ Hatcher’s ruined voice answered sincerely.

  ‘Glad you’re alive. Heard all kinds of rumors,’ Pelletier said, his eyes boring in from behind the glasses.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You were dead,’ said Pelletier. ‘Knew that was shit.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Sloan dumped on you. Did a bad stretch in Los Boxes. He sprang you. You did a Judge Crater.’

  ‘That’s pretty accurate.’ Hatcher nodded.

  ‘That son of a bitch. ‘N’you’re still in bed with him?’

  ‘Not really, I’m doing a little free lance involving an old friend.’

  ‘Anybody I know?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Hatcher answered, and the big man dropped the subject immediately. Years in the brigade had taught both men not to ask too much about any mission unless they were personally involved. ‘You look pretty rough yourself, Ron. What happened to the arm?’ Hatcher asked.

  ‘Gangrene. Crunched it in the field, couldn’t find a saw-bones.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Afgo. . . ‘Bout you?’ he nodded toward Hatcher’s throat.

  ‘They don’t permit talking in the Boxes. I cleared my throat at the wrong time.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Whatever you’ve heard about that place, it wasn’t bad enough.’

  Pelletier drained his glass and held the empty up to the waitress.

  ‘Lotta good guys went across, hatch,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  They sat silent for a few moments while the girl brought their drinks.

  �
�Keeping busy here?’ Pelletier asked, making conversation.

  Hatcher shrugged. ‘Been hanging out in a place called the Longhorn.’

  ‘Sure, down in Tombstone,’ Pelletier said.

  ‘What do you think of the place?’

  Pelletier shrugged. ‘Good American food down there. Bunch of expatriate Americans turning a buck.’

  ‘Know any of them?’

  Pelletier shook his head. ‘Ain’t been down there in a couple months. Place called Yosemite Sam’s has good ribs.’

  ‘What’ve they got you doing?’ Hatcher asked.

  ‘Sloan got me a berth with immigration. Got six months t’go on my thirty years. Finish my time, keep my retirement.’

  ‘I suppose he has his moments.’

  ‘Suppose. Chicken-shit job, checking locals looking to emigrate.’

  ‘What else?’ Hatcher asked casually.

  Pelletier hesitated long enough to swallow half his drink and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared at Hatcher for several seconds, thinking the question over, then he chuckled. ‘Been keeping an eye on the hill tribes, see who’s big in 999.’

  ‘What’s the word?’

  ‘Your old pal Tollie Fong’s real busy. Still on your case?’

  Hatcher nodded. ‘Remember Joe Lung?’

  ‘That pig sticker.’

  ‘He tried to dust me in Hong Kong a couple of nights ago. He won’t be sticking any more pigs.’

  Pelletier smiled. ‘Good riddance.’

  ‘I’m sure Fong intends to honor his ch’u-tiao against me.’

  ‘Maybe too busy right now... Chiu Chaos cornered a lot of this year’s crop.’

  ‘How much?’

  Pelletier shrugged. ‘The DEA thinks Fong’s got two, three tons of pure, stashed.’

  ‘In Bangkok?’

  Pelletier nodded, finished his drink and ordered another, then said, ‘Having trouble moving it. Feds’re looking for a big shipment. A big shipment.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Any day. Concern you?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Hatcher answered. ‘Have you heard any talk about an outfit called Thai Horse?’

  Pelletier’s eyebrows rose. ‘Heard that one too, huh? You don’t miss a trick.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Street rumors. Jerry Cramer in the DEA says the word is around that a bunch called Thai Horse has been clipping Fong’s couriers. That’s all it is, rumors.’

  ‘Know anything about them, any details?’ Hatcher asked.

  Pelletier shook his head. ‘A mean bunch, what I hear. Knocked off three of Fong’s couriers. As I get it, a couple months ago they were buying babies off the street here, killing ‘em, stuffing ‘em with skag.’

  ‘My God!’

  ‘They got dumped down on the Malay border. Driver got away.’

  ‘They’re worse than the Chiu-Chaos.’

  ‘Suppose. Fong’s done worse.’ He shrugged. ‘So far they only took Fong for maybe a hundred keys. Drop in the bucket.’

  Hatcher’s mind did some fast arithmetic.

  ‘That’s four million dollars’ worth of White before it hits the street,’ he said.

  ‘What’s two hundred twenty pounds against three tons?’

  ‘Bad face for Fong, makes him look bad. Others might try.’

  This time Pelletier’s smile broadened. ‘Be a shame, huh? You take that fucker out, Hatch, they’ll give you downtown Chicago.’

  ‘I’m just looking for a guy, not looking for trouble.’

  ‘You’ve changed,’ Pelletier said.

  ‘Time’ll do it to us all.’

  ‘If you need any help . . . ‘Pelletier said, letting the offer hang in mid-sentence.

  ‘Thanks,’ Hatcher said. ‘If I get in trouble there’s nobody I’d rather have back me up than you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Pelletier said without a hint of emotion, ‘same with me.’

  When Hatcher left the bar an Hour later, he was unaware of movement in the dark shadows of a closed shop across the street. Glittering eyes watched him hail a taxi. As it pulled away a tall Chinese man stepped from the shadows, entered a car that was waiting nearby. It followed Hatcher all the way back to the hotel.

  INVITATION

  The next morning, the Bangkok Nation told Hatcher that aside from the daily races at the Phat racetrack, Sy’s boxing tournament was the only other sports event of the day.

  The big story on the front page was the bombing of the West German embassy in Paris. Seven people, including the Finnish and Swedish ambassadors and their wives, had been killed. The American ambassador had arrived late and missed the explosion.

  In a related story, French officials stated that the infamous terrorist known as Hyena, whose body was discovered later in the day in a hotel room, was believed to be responsible for the attack. Their conjecture was that Hyena had later been murdered in an internal dispute with one of his own people.

  Hatcher threw the paper aside and studied the photograph of Wol Pot for several minutes, memorizing his eyes, the shape of his face, his ears, the configuration of his nose and lips, committing them to his ch’uang tzu-chi, the window to his mind. He tried to imagine what Wol Pot would look like if he shaved his head or grew a beard or mustache. The keys were Wol Pot’s eyes, savage and merciless, his ears, which were large and stood away from his head, and his nose, which was long and narrow, unlike that of most Indo-Chinese, whose features tended to be more blunt and heavy.

  In his ch’uang tzu-chi, Hatcher isolated a strip from Wol Pot’s forehead to the tip of his chin, concentrating on that area of Wol Pot’s face.

  Hatcher spent most of the morning checking out the crowded and noisy Sanam Luang produce market, showing Wol Pot’s photograph to stall keepers and boat people, hoping perhaps someone would recognize the man who had listed himself as a produce salesman on his passport. Nothing. He visited the passport office in the hope that Wol Pot would be remembered there. Certainly he must have applied for a new passport. But once again he ran into a wall of shaking heads and silence. It was highly likely that the elusive Wol Pot had purchased a fake passport, which was not that difficult to do in Bangkok.

  A check of the rest of the locations in Porter’s book proved uneventful. Hatcher’s best lead to Wol Pot seemed to be his penchant for sports, although spotting the little Vietnamese in the crowds that attended the horse races and boxing matches seemed unlikely. The trip to the horse races yielded nothing but crowds of frenzied bettors, since the only thing Thais seemed to like better than sports was gambling.

  He returned to the Longhorn in the late afternoon and gave Sy the rest of the day off to prepare for his boxing match that night, promising he would use the ringside ticket Sy had given him. The crowd would be smaller than at the track, and since the tickets in Wol Pot’s wallet were for a previous boxing match it was obvious he liked the sport.

  Wilkie seemed delighted to see him. Up in the Hole in the Wall, there was a great deal of activity among the regulars. The poker game had been suspended, and several of them were sitting around the table, talking excitedly. W. T. was leaning back iii his chair, sighting down the barrel of a .30 caliber rifle with a gold inlaid barrel and a stock of hand-carved teak. A formidable weapon and a beautiful one.

  ‘You’re a betting man, Hatch,’ Wilkie yelled as he entered the Longhorn. ‘Better hop up there and get in on the fun.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Hatcher asked, entering the Tombstone inner sanctum.

  ‘Tigers!’ Prophett said with a touch of awe in his voice.

  ‘Tigers?’ Hatcher said with surprise.

  ‘A tiger, to be precise,’ Earp said polishing his rifle with a chamois cloth. ‘A rogue tiger running crazy down the peninsula. Killed a couple of kids and an old man. Max Early has put together a hunt.’ He seemed in a more friendly mood than he had been the day before and obviously was excited by the thought of the excursion.

  ‘Kind of sudden, isn’t it?’ Hatcher responded.
/>
  ‘This is a man-eater,’ said Potter. ‘He’s not going to sit around waiting for us to rent tuxedos for the affair.’

  ‘It goes down tomorrow morning whether we’re there or not,’ said Earp. ‘And we’re gonna be there. This is one bad animal.’

  ‘Everybody kicks in two purples, killer take all,’ Wonderboy said. They were like kids planning a holiday.

  ‘Sweets will hold the wagers. He has to stay here and mind his store,’ said Corkscrew.

  ‘How about the rest of you?’ Hatcher asked.

  ‘We’re declaring a holiday,’ Gallagher said brightly.

  ‘We’re taking the dawn plane to Surat Thani,’ said Earp. ‘Leaves at five A.M. Takes an hour. Max’ll pick us up, takes another hour to drive to his place. We’ll be tracking the bastard by eight. With any luck we’ll be back on the seven o’clock flight tomorrow night. It’ll sure perk up your vacation. Interested?’

  ‘This an official invitation?’ Hatcher asked.

  ‘Why not?’ said Riker. ‘The bigger the pot the better.’

  ‘How about a weapon?’ Hatcher asked.

  ‘Max’ll fix you up,’ Corkscrew said with a wave of his hand.

  Max Early was the only one of the regulars Hatcher had not yet met. The tiger hunt was a perfect opportunity to get closer to these men and particularly Prophett. Thus far, his only glimmer of a lead was Prophett’s mention of Taisung.

  ‘Pai-tio, soldier, great sanuk,’ Corkscrew said with a grin. The Thais tended to divide everything in life into two categories: mai-tio, which was serious stuff, like work, and pai-tio, which was sanuk—fun.

  ‘You’ll love it, Hatch,’ said Potter. ‘Give you something to talk about when you get back to the World.’

  ‘Why not, maybe I’ll get lucky and pay for part of the trip,’ Hatcher said.

  ‘Great! How many’ve we got now?’ Wonderboy asked.

  ‘There’s you, Melinda, Johnny, W.T., Corkscrew and Potter, Gallagher, Ed Piker, Hatch here, and Max, of course — that’s nine,’ said the Honorable, who was keeping a list.

  ‘Are you the official referee of this operation?’ Hatcher asked with a smile.