The water rat of Wanchai al-1

by Ian Hamilton

  The company also became an importer, buying whole grouper and snapper from India, the Philippines, and Indonesia, processing the fish, and exporting it to the U.S. The only problem was that it bought according to terms and paid well for only about six months. Then the company stopped paying invoices and started making complaints about every quality issue imaginable. Eventually the lawsuits were flying. Seafood Partners fought every claim, confident that time, cost, and the complications involved in cross-border legal action would discourage the exporters. They were right. One by one, the lawsuits disappeared.

  But the Thai Department of Fisheries did not go away. All the quality issues related to the shrimp exports caught its attention. After a cursory examination, the department cancelled the licence of the processor, Siam Union and Trading, leaving Seafood Partners, even though it was the exporter of record, untouched.

  Next Antonelli flew to Atlanta for what looked like six months. He seemed to have returned when they landed the Major Supermarkets business. Ava couldn’t believe that Major Supermarkets had actually given them that business. Where was their due diligence?

  She read on. Antonelli maintained a Thai bank account with a balance that rarely exceeded a hundred thousand baht, about three thousand dollars. His hotel bills were paid with a Visa credit card issued by a U.S. bank. His car and driver had been paid for by Siam Union, and when that company left the scene, by the same Visa card used to pay the hotel bill.

  There was no mention of Seto in the file, not in reference to the formation of Seafood Partners or in the lawsuits. She now wished she had asked the Thai police to run a casual check on him. At the very least she would have found out how often he came and went, and where he stayed when he was in Bangkok.

  One thing that caught her eye was Antonelli’s cellphone number, which had a Thai area code. She made a mental note to ask Arthon the next day if he had any way to access calls made to and from that number.

  At the back of the folder were copies of the assault complaints filed with the police against Antonelli. None of them had remained active for very long. Ava leafed through them and stopped before the end. It was like reading sadomasochistic pornography. She wondered what the wife in Atlanta would think about his habit of beating up defenceless women and boys. Then again, maybe she knew.

  The bedside clock said it was almost midnight. Ava tried to convince herself that she was tired and slipped under the covers. Fifteen minutes later she got up, put on her linen slacks and a clean Brooks Brothers shirt, and went downstairs to Spasso, which was one level below the hotel lobby. During the day and into the early evening, Spasso was the Hyatt’s Italian restaurant. After 9 p.m. it began its transition to nightclub. Tables were cleared, the bandstand was set up, the bar was fully staffed, and security manned the door. It was one of the most popular high-end clubs in Bangkok, and Ava knew it would be going full blast until at least 2 a.m.

  When she walked in, the place was jammed with the usual mix of young farang professionals — residents and tourists — and Thai girls on the make. This wasn’t a place for backpackers. It also wasn’t a place for bar girls from Soi Cowboy, Nana Plaza, or Patpong, the three most popular downmarket night spots in a city that advertised in-your-face sex clubs, night markets, lurid shows, and cheap by-the-hour hotel rooms for farangs who were squeamish about taking the bar girls back to their own hotel. The Thai girls at Spasso were amateurs, part-timers, teachers and students and the like, trying to make a few extra dollars and hoping, just hoping, to hit the jackpot — a farang boyfriend who would send monthly financial support when he got back home to North America or Europe, and who might give her the blue-eyed baby that had become a status symbol among these girls.

  The foreigners in the club weren’t all from the West. Ava saw some Japanese, a few Koreans, and a cluster of what looked like wealthy, hip Arabs. None of them were a natural attraction for the girls; they homed in on the Westerners. The Japanese and Koreans wouldn’t get any action until the girls had explored all their Western options and found them wanting. The Arabs would have to wait as well, and they weren’t being patient about it. One of them had ordered a large tub filled with ice and about forty shooters in test tubes. He held a shooter in each hand and waved at the girls to come and take what they wanted. He was getting the odd nibble but was having trouble getting the girls to stay.

  Ava found a small table at the back of the club as far as possible from the stage, which had a set of drums and two guitars on it. To one side, propped on an easel, was a sign that read MANILA MAGIC. She groaned. Filipino cover bands were an Asian cliche. There wasn’t a five-star hotel anywhere in Asia that didn’t have one playing. The noise level in the room was already deafening; she could hardly imagine what the band would add to it.

  She ordered a glass of white wine and sat back, content to dissect the action, trying to figure out who was going to get lucky. She could feel eyes turn in her direction. She ignored them, discouraging attention.

  The band came onstage — three guys on the instruments and two female singers — and broke into a pretty horrid rendition of “Proud Mary.” As she watched, a blonde crossed her line of sight. From the distance she looked about thirty. She wore black silk pants and a green silk blouse.

  The blonde worked her way through the crowd towards Ava, and the closer she got the faster Ava’s interest waned. She was closer to forty than thirty, and she had heavy thighs and a big ass.

  “Hi, I’m Deborah,” she said. “Can I join you?”

  Ava hesitated and then realized she wouldn’t mind the companionship. “Sure, but I’ve got to tell you right off the top that you’re not my type.”

  The woman looked flustered. “I’m sorry, I thought you were — ”

  “I am, but you’re still not my type. Sit down anyway.”

  “This is a tough place for girls like us,” Deborah said, holding her own glass of white wine.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Washington, D.C. You?”

  “Toronto.”

  “Here on business?”

  “Yes, and you?”

  “Same.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Here.”

  “Me too. This is my first trip to Bangkok, and I can’t fucking believe how great these hotels are, how great the service is.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “Another five days.”

  “Well, Spasso is not where you should be. These girls are focused on farang cock. They’re all very entrepreneurial, and they know that’s where the money is.”

  “So where should I go?”

  “Over on Royal City Avenue — RCA — there are a couple of bars you might enjoy. One is called Nine Bar; the newest one is Zeta. I liked Zeta last time I was here. Most of the girls are young — you know, early twenties — and some of them are just figuring things out, still experimenting, enthusiastic and eager as hell but lacking technique. They would take to a woman like you.”

  “Are they bar girls?”

  “No, not really. They don’t expect to get paid. Mind you, if you slipped them twenty or thirty dollars they would appreciate it. But it isn’t necessary.”

  “Would I have any problems if I went by myself? I mean, at home I’m quite circumspect. Dyke bars aren’t my thing.”

  “No problems.”

  “Is it close?”

  “Ten minutes by taxi. But then in Bangkok everywhere is ten minutes by taxi, according to the drivers, unless of course there’s traffic,” Ava said and smiled.

  “Thanks. I have to work early tomorrow morning, so I’m going to head out,” Deborah said.

  “The girls will still be there tomorrow night,” Ava said.

  “Can I buy you a drink before I go?”

  Ava shook her head. “No, I think I’m finally getting tired enough to go to bed. And besides, if I have to listen to another Filipino cover band murder Shania Twain, I think I’ll go crazy.”

  (11)

  Ava
popped a couple of melatonin tablets before going to bed and slept through until 6 a.m. It was too early to call Arthon, so she phoned her mother. She would be at home, since it was still too early for dinner and mah-jong. Ava told Jennie about having dim sum with her father. As always, Jennie overreacted. Nothing pleased her mother more than her daughters’ contact with their father. She pretended that she was happy for their sakes, but Ava knew it was just as much about reaffirmation of her status as wife number two.

  Ava boiled some water and made a cup of VIA instant coffee. She turned on BBC World, but after five minutes she gave up and reached for her running gear and a rubber band to tie her hair back. She was always of two minds about running in Bangkok. There was the safety, security, and clean air of the hotel gym, while her other option was to run outside and fight the smog, the smothering humidity, and the carnival of people. But she knew that the Hyatt was only about a kilo metre from Lumpini Park, and she loved running there. When she stayed at the Mandarin Hotel, sometimes she would even take a taxi there and back. Lumpini it would be.

  At six thirty the sun was visible but not yet oppressive. The streets were already lined with traffic but the smog hadn’t had time to build to its midday thickness. She turned left from the hotel and headed to the park, dodging dogs and sidewalk cracks and rises.

  In a city with virtually no greenery and few public recreational facilities, the park was a magnet for all kinds of athletes. Thousands of people were there, nearly all of them Thais. She joined the throng circling the park on a three-kilometre track, which was thoughtfully marked every two hundred metres in white paint. It was a catholic group, with no apparently dominant gender or age. The only people who stood out in the running group were the businessmen, who held their shirts and jackets in their hands so as not to get them sweaty.

  The track was on the outer perimeter of the park. In the interior it was just as busy, with pockets of activities that made the place so interesting to her. There were tai chi practitioners, several groups of them, silently performing their rituals. Old men and women waving swords and fans in precise slow-motion patterns. Bird-lovers with their cages. People playing badminton, tennis, and a Thai form of lawn bowling or bocce. All this took her mind off the running. In the gym she was usually good for five kilometres; at Lumpini she did three full laps before heading back to the hotel.

  She showered, dressed in her business suit, put her slacks and shirts in a laundry bag and requested same-day service, and then went down to the lobby with the Antonelli file and her notebook. She reread the file as she sipped some ice water. How to approach him? How to get him to open the door to Seto? She had Antonelli’s cellphone number. If Arthon could patch into his phone and trace calls to and from it, that could save her some time. She called Arthon and told him what she wanted.

  “It won’t be easy,” he said. She could hear street noises in the background. “You can buy a SIM card anywhere here, and there are tons of pay-as-you-go phone-card companies. It isn’t like the U.K. or North America, where you have only a handful of carriers. It could take me a while to find his carrier, and then I have to see if we’ve penetrated them already.”

  “Please try,” she said.

  “What are your plans for today?” he asked.

  “I’m heading over to the Water Hotel in a few minutes. I’ll see if I can engage Antonelli in conversation.”

  “Using what pretext?”

  “Feminine charm,” she said.

  He didn’t respond, and for a moment she thought he was mocking her. Then he said slowly, “When you read the data on Antonelli, did you take note of the section that mentioned what he likes to do now on weekends?”

  “I don’t remember it particularly, but I assume he hits the bars.”

  “More precisely, he goes to Nana Plaza.”

  “And how is that different from Soi Cowboy or Patpong?”

  “On the first two floors it’s the same old bar-girl shit, but when you get to the third floor — that’s another thing altogether. When we were in the car, I didn’t get a chance to finish my story about him. Antonelli has graduated from women and boys and gotten into katoeys — ladyboys. The third floor at Nana Plaza is all katoey. The violence seems to have toned down since he switched. Maybe he’s found what he was looking for.”

  “Oh.”

  “Like I said, he’s a pig.”

  It took longer than she had planned to walk to the hotel. Ava had to cross a couple of intersections, and the traffic lights were programmed to change about every five minutes. So you waited; if you tried to jaywalk you would meet inevitable death, because Bangkok traffic stopped for no one.

  It was just after eight when she finally walked into the Water Hotel. It was supposed to be a five-star establishment, but she could tell from the lobby that it fell short. The furniture looked worn, and the staff uniforms showed frayed edges.

  She spotted Antonelli right away. There was a lounge to the right of the lobby where they were serving coffee and tea. He sat on a sofa, his computer open on his lap, a cup and saucer and a plate of toast sitting on a small table beside him. He wore a barong, the loose Filipino shirt that is the fat man’s friend.

  His head was virtually bald, apart from a few straggly strands of hair stretched from ear to ear. He was even bigger than he had looked in the picture. His jowls swallowed up his neck, and the barong was stretched so tightly across his gut that she could see his white T-shirt between the buttons, which were threatening to pull apart. When he sat back on the sofa, his feet barely touched the ground. But as he typed, Ava noticed that his pudgy fingers moved quite deftly.

  The lounge was busy, which gave her an excuse to sit almost directly across from him. She ordered coffee and waited for a chance to attract his attention. But Antonelli was focused on his computer, lifting his head only to look at his watch. When her coffee came, she took a sip and said, “My God, is the coffee here always this bad?”

  He took a quick glance at her but said nothing. Then he closed his computer, slipped it into a wheeled briefcase, stood up, and rolled out of the lounge. She watched him exit through the giant glass doors at the entrance. An elderly Thai man stood at the curb. He took the briefcase and put it in the back of a black Toyota SUV. Antonelli, with some difficulty, climbed into the back seat. Then the car drove off.

  Well, wasn’t that successful, Ava thought.

  She phoned Arthon and told him what had happened. She could almost hear him smile. “I’ll give it another go in the bar tonight,” she said. “In the meantime I’m going to go shopping, try to catch a nap, and wait for you to call me back with the cellphone information I need.”

  “I told you that won’t be easy.”

  “One other thing,” she said. “We asked you about Antonelli, but we are also trying to locate a guy named Jackson Seto. Antonelli is our primary source, but it would be useful to know what you can dig up on Seto and his movements both to and from and in and around Thailand. I’ve been assuming he’s still in the U.S., which is why we didn’t ask about him initially. That may have been a mistake on my part.”

  “Jackson is an English name. Does he have a Chinese name — a proper name? Because if he does, his passport will likely be in that one.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll look under Jackson and see if anything comes up. Where will you be?”

  “On this phone or at the Hyatt.”

  It was too early to shop at Pantip Plaza, the techie mall almost directly across the street from the Water Hotel, so Ava walked back to the Hyatt. She got wai ’d at the door, wai ’d in the lobby, and wai ’d at the elevator. Wai is the most basic form of respectful greeting among Thais, palms held together in prayer fashion and accompanied by a bow. The closer the hands are to the face and the lower the bow, the greater the respect being shown. As a woman in business attire, Ava seemed to generate a considerable amount of deference — from everyone except George Antonelli, she thought.

  When she got to her room
, she stripped down to bra and panties and hung up her clothes. Then she napped for a couple of hours. When she woke, she saw no reason to dress up, so she slipped on her track pants and a T-shirt. There weren’t any wai s this time when she left the hotel.

  At Pantip she ordered all five seasons of The Wire — fifteen DVDs — for forty dollars, and then she bought three film-editing software programs for one of her friends. The software cost three dollars for each program; her friend would save a couple of thousand dollars. While she waited for the DVDs to be burned, she went across the street and had a bowl of tom yam kung.

  After Chinese hot and sour soup, which ranked as her uncontested favourite, tom yam kung was at the head of the second-tier list. Like a good hot and sour seafood soup, it is made with a chicken stock base and a generous amount of shrimp. Cilantro, straw mushrooms, scallions, fish sauce, lime juice, lemongrass stalks, and kaffir lime leaves are added to produce a flavoursome broth, its surface dotted with a crimson oil slick from the final ingredient, red chili peppers. The soup had a clean, clear aroma, like pure oxygen with just a hint of citrus.

  After lunch she went back to Pantip to collect her DVDs. As she was paying for them, Arthon called. He had had no luck with Antonelli’s phone, but they had compiled some information on Seto.

  “Can I drop it off at the Hyatt?” he asked.

  “Fifteen minutes,” she said.

  “More like an hour,” he countered.

  “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  (12)

  Ava waited for Arthon for close to two hours. She drank several glasses of fruit juice and read all the newspapers in the lobby: the two English-language papers — The Nation and the Bangkok Post — a Chinese paper, the International Herald Tribune, and the Asian edition of the Wall Street Journal. The news was all the same: the economy was in tatters. This usually made for good business for Ava. Desperate times called for desperate measures.