The 38 Million Dollar Smile ds-10

by Richard Stevenson

  “Janice says you told her that the seer predicted bloodshed in your life, and he said that great sorrow was in store for people close to you.”

  Griswold grunted. “Well? Was he right, or wasn’t he?”

  “And that’s why you disappeared? Because of this astrological forecast?”

  “No,” Griswold said. “Khun Khunathip’s reading was just the beginning.”

  “The beginning of what?”

  “Of a chain of events that led eventually to the Sayadaw U project.”

  “You’re leaving some stuff out, it seems.”

  “You bet I am.”

  “Why?”

  “It is very dark.”

  “Enlighten us. It can only help.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay, when?”

  “April twenty-seventh.”

  “That’s a week and a half away. Today is the fifteenth.”

  “That’s right. One and five. That is six.”

  “Unlucky six. Okay. What about tomorrow, the sixteenth.

  That’s a one and a six. Which equals seven. Isn’t that better?”

  “Better but not best.” He looked at Pugh. “Am I right, Khun Rufus?”

  “Right as rain,” Pugh said and gave me a look that said not to worry, we would find a way to squeeze it out of him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Timmy and I walked over to Monkey Mountain to watch the sunset. A long concrete staircase led up to the temple atop the hill. Most of the gray monkeys were swinging in the trees at the foot of the staircase next to the food stalls, or scampering around on the ground gobbling up bits of food left by tourists.

  One of the bigger monkeys was hissing and squawking at the smaller ones and grabbing their food.

  I said, “I’ll bet that guy was Prime Minister Thaksin’s minister of defense.”

  “Or head of his police.”

  There were a few other farangs climbing the two hundred or so steps, and a number of Thais. The Thais appeared to be couples and small families who had come to pray or for an outing with a view. We could see two men on motorcycles stopped down below, but they didn’t seem to be paying any attention to us.

  As we approached the summit, Hua Hin was now visible to the north, spreading westward from a long arc of sandy beach.

  The high-rise hotels along the water and the green hills inland gave the place a mini-Rio look, though instead of a huge cross overlooking the town there was a Buddhist temple, and now we were approaching it.

  The place had the customary Buddha figure on a platform in a cozy room, with candles flickering and floral and other offerings below the altar. This gold-leafed Buddha was seated in the lotus position, palms pressed together in a wai, and he was smiling in his serene way.

  I said, “You go into a Christian church and an agonized Jesus is stuck up on the wall looking like a bit player in a Wes Craven horror flick. You go into a Buddhist temple, and this guy really gives you a feeling of peace. I like this better.”

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  Though long-since lapsed from the Mother Church, Timmy stiffened and gave me one of his looks. “If the Buddha had been crucified by the Romans, he might not look so thrilled with his circumstances either. But, lucky for him — and for much of Southeast Asia — he was not.”

  “True enough.”

  “But I do share your deep good feelings about the Buddha, Donald, and about Buddhism. Even if I don’t believe in reincarnation, or in a system of rewards for good behavior that feels to me as if it’s organized a little too much like the Delta SkyMiles program — still, Buddhism is so wonderfully enveloping with its philosophy of acceptance and tolerance, and its rejection of violence, and its aesthetic of simplicity. I’m so glad I came to Thailand — even though I came closer to dying here than I ever thought I would at this stage of my life.”

  We walked over to the parapet, where the setting sun was putting on its gaudy show over the hills to the west.

  “I was so afraid for you,” I said. “Pugh thought we could rescue you, but he wasn’t sure we could do it in time. And after what Yodying’s goons did to Geoff Pringle and to Khun Khunathip, we knew what a cold-blooded bunch they are. It was your presence of mind, really, and the Millpond reference, that made the rescue possible.”

  “Well, it was your presence of mind to pick up on the hint that saved Kawee and me. As soon as I understood that you had heard me, I knew we were going to be okay.”

  “Really? I wasn’t all that confident.”

  “I told Kawee that you had the information that would free us, and he said yes, he could tell that you were a man who was up to the job because you reminded him of a kind of gay Bruce Wayne.”

  “That’s a bit confusing.”

  “Anyway, he really was prepared to accept whatever his fate might turn out to be. He said he had long ago accepted that suffering was central to being human, and also why should he be afraid of anything he couldn’t control? His calm in the face of danger was really amazing. And while I didn’t follow all of his logic, I saw how his belief in an ongoing cosmic continuum of life gave him strength and confidence, and just being tied up in the same room with Kawee gave me strength and confidence, too.”

  “So those goons didn’t… You know…beat you or anything?”

  “No, they didn’t. And they fed us decently, too. I can’t really complain about our treatment. Except for having to crap in a bucket. I wasn’t crazy about that.”

  “But the heat and the tedium must have been pretty grueling. What did you and Kawee find to occupy yourselves with in that room for a day and a half?”

  “Oh, we just fucked and whatnot.”

  “I wondered about that.”

  “I thought you might, after that Paradisio episode. No, really, what we did was, we basically just talked about how much we liked our lives and how lucky we had been with so many things in our lives up till that point. Except for one thing, in Kawee’s case. When he was seventeen, he had a boyfriend back in his village who died of malaria. The kid was Burmese and went home to visit his family in Shan state and got sick.

  Burma has no health care system to speak of, and the guy was too weak to make it back to Thailand, and he just died. Kawee says this guy, Nonkie, was his great love. Some day, Kawee told me, he wants to visit Shan state, because a Burmese friend who was there told him that Nonkie’s ghost had been asking people traveling to Thailand to find Kawee and invite him to come over. Kawee said he would have gone by now, but it’s hard to get a visa. And anyway once you’re inside Myanmar the military government could grab you and put you on some forced-labor road-building project. He wants to see Nonkie’s ghost, but he doesn’t want to get trapped inside that sad country.”

  The sun was gone now, but the entire western sky was aflame over southern Thailand and Lower Burma and the Andaman Sea beyond.

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  I said, “Has Kawee seen ghosts before? He might be disappointed. I know Thais believe in them, but I’ve never actually met a Thai who has run into a ghost.”

  “Kawee told me about his uncle who was in the hospital with several cracked ribs after he fell off a logging elephant. The doctor showed the family the uncle’s X-ray, and they all saw his phee on it. That’s his ghost.”

  “I wonder if Griswold believes in ghosts. He seems to be a genuine convert to most of the bigger ideas here, both Buddhist and the old superstitions like astrology and numerology that got dragged along when Buddhism spread eastward from India.”

  “But if in a previous life Griswold was Thai himself,”

  Timmy said, “and was Buddhist, then he’s not really a convert.

  The unfortunate diversion from his true path was his being born to Max and Bertha Griswold in Albany. He must have done something really nasty way back when to have been karmically punished by ending up for a while in the steel business in Albany. Oh, you know what? There’s something Kawee said that might help explain it.”

  “What?�
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  “Kawee said Griswold once told him that somebody else in his family had committed a very great sin. It was something so terrible that Griswold himself would have to help compensate for it with offerings and with meritorious works in order to protect his soul and the souls of family members.”

  I said, “I don’t think that in Buddhism you can be punished by being born into the wrong family on account of sins that that family hasn’t even committed yet at the time of your birth.

  Buddhism is fairer than that, more morally logical.”

  “But what if the sin was committed before you were born?

  By your parents or grandparents.”

  “There’s only one way to figure this out. We have to ask Griswold. It may be part of what set him spiraling off into la-la land six months ago — hiding out and plotting whatever it is he’s plotting.”

  “You’re just going to ask him about it outright? Good luck with that.”

  “I realize I may have to wait until April twenty-seventh.”

  “Donald, that’s twelve days from now. I have a feeling you’re going to have to get a handle on all this well before then.

  Surely General Yodying isn’t so dumb and incompetent that he won’t track us down here. And if he does, we might not be so deft and clever and lucky the next time.”

  “True. But I’m sure Pugh has a Plan B and a Plan C and a Plan D. It’s how he thinks. To be on the safe side, though, maybe you should head home, Timothy. I’m sure Pugh could get you over to Cambodia, and you could fly home from Phnom Penh, just like Griswold said.”

  Timmy looked back at the temple. A couple of elderly monks in their orange robes were walking inside followed by three young novices. The gold leaf on one of the smaller Buddha images in an outside alcove was glowing now in the last tangerine-colored light, and the sea beyond looked so soft that you could float out over it, suspended by particles of light, and drift down for a swim and then have a nice green curry along the beach.

  Timmy said, “I may not make it to magical April twenty-seventh. But for now, I want to stick around. Despite what happened to me, I like this place.”

  “Me too,” I said. “All we have to do to really enjoy Thailand is keep from being hurled into our next lives prematurely.”

  “Okay, let’s do it that way, if we can. Survive first, and then take on whatever pleasant features Thailand has to offer next.”

  “Deal.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The two motorcycle guys at the foot of Monkey Mountain were not assassins. They were moto-taxi drivers, and since it was dark now Timmy and I hired them to take us back to the compound. My phone rang just as we reached the house, and it was Bob Chicarelli.

  “Can you hear me, Strachey?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good, because you’ll want to know about this. Are you still working for any of the Griswolds?”

  “Yes, but not Ellen and Bill. Nothing has changed since they pretty much cut me off yesterday morning. According to Ellen, I’m supposed to tie up any loose ends here and then head home. But now I’m working for Gary Griswold. I’m helping protect him — for the moment anyway. He’s not too crazy about having me around, either, so there’s no telling how long this job — if you can even call it a job — is going to last. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just as well that you’re not counting on Bill and Ellen for fees or expenses. Algonquin Steel has been in total turmoil over the last twenty-four hours. The Albany Griswolds are struggling to retain control of the company, with this offshore group buying up shares by the shitload. Whoever the buyers are, they’re paying premium prices and money seems to be no object to these people. So just do understand that Ellen is going to be plenty distracted until all this comes to a head at the company’s annual meeting at the end of this month, when it is very likely that Bill will lose control of the company. I don’t know whether any of this affects what you’re doing over there, but since I basically got you into this I thought you should be kept up to speed.”

  “Yeah. This might be helpful, I’m beginning to think.”

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  “Hey, Strachey, that’s great news that you were able to spring your boyfriend and that Thai kid. How did you pull that off?”

  “It’s this Thai PI, Rufus Pugh, I’m working with. He knows his way around Bangkok the way you know your way around Albany. Except he’s also got muscle-boy gunsels and acrobats and an arsenal of smelly fruit. Tell me something, Bob. You said Algonquin Steel’s annual meeting is at the end of the month.

  Do you mean the very end, like April thirtieth?”

  “No, I think it’s the twenty-seventh.”

  “Uh-huh. What do you know about the group that’s trying to take over the company?”

  “Nothing, really. I’m told they’re based in the Caymans. But that’s probably just a front, and the buyers could be anybody anywhere in the world.”

  “Is Algonquin in such good shape that it would be all that desirable to foreign investors? Why is the company suddenly so red-hot?”

  “That’s a bit murky,” Chicarelli said. “Algonquin is solid and profitable and I would say an excellent long-term investment.

  But it’s not so flashy that anybody is likely to make a quick killing on it. The company is almost blue chip-like in the way it’s likely to keep paying out modest but dependable dividends for decades to come.”

  “It sounds as if Algonquin would make a nice conservative addition to any institutional endowment.”

  “I’d say so, yes. But I doubt if it’s Yale or the Ford Foundation that’s going after Algonquin now. Whoever these buyers are, they are very, very aggressive.”

  I asked Chicarelli if he had informed Ellen Griswold that her brother-in-law Gary had been located and, at least for the moment, was in Pugh’s and my protective custody.

  “I left a message with Ellen, but I have yet to hear back.

  Which is odd, since it was her hiring you to find the guy that got all these strange turds flying around in the air in the first place. I’m assuming she’s pleased but currently distracted.

  Maybe she’ll call you directly when she has a spare moment.

  Meanwhile, if I find out more, should I call you and let you know?”

  “Yes. By all means.”

  Timmy was laid out on a chaise back in the poolside gardens, studying the night sky. The stars were blurry in the warm haze but offered up the same northern hemisphere constellations visible in upstate New York.

  I said, “Are you attempting to discern your future up there?”

  “Yes. The stars are saying: Timothy, tonight you will get a good night’s sleep.”

  I sat down and told him about my conversation with Bob Chicarelli. “I do believe,” I said, “that Gary Griswold is behind the attempted takeover of Algonquin Steel. Probably in partnership with Anant na Ayudhaya, the ex-minister of finance Griswold was going to do the currency speculation deal with and then didn’t. Once they get hold of Algonquin, they can donate it to the Sayadaw U Buddhism center Griswold is sponsoring, and it will support the center in perpetuity, or at least as long as capitalism lasts. Griswold builds the center, and he and these Thai investors keep it solvent. It’s good for Buddhism in Thailand, and Griswold and his cohorts earn so much merit they’ll be sitting pretty for tens or even hundreds of lives in the future.”

  Timmy sat up but looked puzzled. “That is very weird.”

  “It’s the best explanation we have for the timing of Griswold’s big investment project and its coming to fruition this month. It also explains his secrecy. He doesn’t want us to find out about it, because he thinks we might blab to his brother and sister-in-law, and for some reason he doesn’t want them to know that he’s the man behind the takeover.”

  “Jeez, Donald. It’s his own family. What could possibly be going on that would lead Griswold to force his own brother out of the business their father founded? I know this kind of thing happens in families
— all-out bloody wars, even, over control 202 Richard Stevenson of a family business. But don’t we know that Griswold actually washed his hands of Algonquin Steel several years ago?”

  “Kawee told you there was some kind of Griswold family sin that he said he had to atone for. It might have something to do with that.”

  “You mean he’s both atoning and getting even?”

  “It’s not that rare a combination in family affairs.”

  Several figures approached us across the tile terrace behind the guesthouse where most of us were staying. None of them was Griswold. I wanted to tell him that I had figured out how he was planning on financing his Buddhist center. And I wanted to assure him that since he — not his sister-in-law — was my client now, I was not about to spill the beans. Unless, of course, he was planning on misbehaving in some annoying way and somehow putting all of us in immediate terrible jeopardy yet again.

  Pugh, Kawee and Mango joined us by the pool. Mango had just come by bus from Bangkok, and Pugh said Miss Nongnat had also arrived. “She’s upstairs powdering her nose,” Pugh said. Pugh’s wife and children were on the way and would arrive soon, and his girlfriend Furnace was in a friend’s house up the road with Miss Aroon keeping her company.

  “Have you had rice yet?” Pugh asked and said that Ek had gone into town to pick up some eats for everybody.

  Nitrate brought drinks out — beer, Coke, fruit juices, bottled water, and bird-spit beverage. Timmy asked, “How do they get the birds to spit into that small container? Are there bird charmers who make a profession of this?”

  “When elephant mahouts grow old and are forced to retire,”

  Pugh said, “many of them switch careers and become bird mahouts. It’s so much less rigorous a life. As with the elephants, a bird mahout develops a long-term relationship with one bird and can make it spit into one of these little bottles on command.”

  The Thais all had a good laugh over this, and they seemed pleased when Timmy laughed too.

  “No, really,” Pugh said, “the birds use their saliva as mortar when building their nests. The nests are filched — regrettably for the birds, I must say — and then boiled, and the resulting fluid is the basis for this tasty beverage.”