“Mister, I swear to you! If I ever try this again, you come after me and kill me, Okay? I just want out. Please!”
The big man slowly let the hammer down. “Okay, kid. That’ll be the deal. You try another hit, I’ll hear about it. And I’ll put a bullet through you.”
“Yes! Yes! But you won’t have to. I swear it. Please!”
“I told you to stop crying. ... You piss your pants?”
“...Yes.”
“All right. I’m probably doing something I’ll regret.” He stared at the boy, who continued to sob uncontrollably. “You got ten seconds to get up and get the hell out of here. And nine of them are gone.”
The boy jumped up, ran to the door, opened it and ran out, slamming it behind him.
The man stared at the closed door for several seconds then replaced his revolver in his belt holster. He walked to the table and began replacing rods and patches and cloth back into the gun kit box.
Suddenly, from the inner hallway leading from the bathroom, a middle-aged man appeared. He was slim and dark and unhappy. And dripping wet. His clothes appeared to be covered with blood. He carried a pair of dry shoes over to the sofa and placed them on the floor.
“If I had to stay in that bathtub one more fucking minute I would be dead for real. As it is, I may have got pneumonia. I still say I coulda just been on the bed.”
As he spoke, he grabbed the clean clothes and towel from the television set and stepped back into the hallway. He raised his voice while he changed. “What the hell did I have to be in the tub for, anyway?”
“I told you: it looks better.”
“Yeah, right. It looks better.”
“He might have checked you out on the bed. Nobody touches a body in a tub full of bloody water.”
“That right? Well, you’re the expert. But I got ketchup in my hair, my nose, my ears... my eyes, for fuck’s sake!”
The big man said nothing. The man with ketchup in his hair quickly finished changing and walked back into the room. “First time I ever made money playing a corpse. How about you? You ever played a corpse?”
“Never did.”
“You shoulda taken the punk’s wallet. I’ll bet he was loaded. He offered it to you, didn’t he?”
“I’m not a thief.”
“Well, pardon me all over the fuckin’ place, but where I come from money is money.” The slim man suddenly sneezed three times in a row. “See? I’m getting pneumonia from that tub. And it’s not like I got health insurance or somethin’.”
The big man finished packing up his gun kit. Folding the newspaper neatly, he dropped it into a trash can. He lowered himself slowly into a chair and waited for the slim man. He stared at the stylized painting of the village. It could be any Thai village. He’d left his after his first hit. And never returned. Images of long ago flickered across his mind. A beautiful young girl, a competing suitor, the flash of a knife, blood, screaming, running, hiding.
The slim man sneezed again before he could get his sentence out. “You got health insurance?”
“No. ”
“I don’t know anybody in the business who does. Who the hell can afford it on what Wichai pays? What pisses me off is that punk kid is gonna go to a college in the States and fuck lotsa blondes and drink lotsa beer and end up in business with his corrupt uncle and makin’ a fortune. And me? I’m gonna croak from not having health insurance.”
He rubbed his hair vigorously with the towel and then sat on the couch. He angrily put his socks and shoes on. “We didn’t get enough.”
“Forty thousand baht apiece to scare a kid out of the business? Seems pretty fair to me.”
Yeah, forty thousand baht will pay off a few gambling debts. But how much did the kid’s uncle pay Wichai to hire us? What’s Wichai’s take? You know who that kid is? Who his uncle is? I mean—”
“I don’t care about Wichai’s take. But…”
The slim man noticed the hesitation. “What?”
“I don’t like it.”
“What?”
“I’m good at what I do. I don’t like this kind of thing. The money’s not clean.”
“Money’s dirty to you unless you took somebody out for it?”
“It doesn’t feel right. It feels phony. ”
“What’s phony about it?”
“I acted out what I am. I only pretended to do what I do. And took money for it. So what am I? A whore? I feel like a goddamn actor.”
“You? An actor! That’s a good one. Yeah, well, if it makes you unhappy, you can always give me your share. ’Cause the only thing don’t feel right to me is havin’ no money. How I get it is never the question.”
The big man remained in his thoughtful mood. “I wish somebody had done that for me when I was his age.”
“Done what?”
“Kept me out of the business.”
The slim man stared at him, shook his head and then continued checking himself in the mirror for any remaining traces of ketchup. “You! Man, you are in some mood today. That kid musta spooked you. I couldn’t believe his bullshit about the Kaeochart hit. I thought you might take him out just for trying to take the credit.”
“Kaeochart was a clean hit.”
The slim man interrupted combing his hair to stare at the big man, finished combing it and then walked to the door and opened it. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting the hell out of here.” He exited into the hallway and left the door open.
The big man listened to the sound of the slim man’s receding footsteps. He glanced again at the painting and then pushed his large frame up and out of the chair. He picked up his gun case, walked to the door and paused in the doorway to look back into the room. He spoke aloud but to no one. “I just wish somebody had done that for me.”
He exited the room and closed the door behind him.
Dean Barrett
Dean Barrett is the author of several novels set in Asia Memoirs of a Bangkok Warrior; Hangman’s Point (Hong Kong); Kingdom of Make-Believe (Thailand); Skytrain to Murder (Thailand); Identity Theft (Thailand and Florida), Mistress of the East (1862 China).
His recent books are Murder at the Horny Toad Bar & other Outrageous Tales of Thailand and The Go Go Dancer Who Stole My Viagra and Other Poetic Tragedies of Thailand. Dragon Slayer is a book with three novellas on Chinese themes. His latest, Permanent Damage, is a sequel to Skytrain to Murder, a detective novel set in Thailand starring Scott Sterling.
Barrett’s plays have been performed in nine countries and his musical, Fragrant Harbour, set in 1857 Hong Kong, was selected by the National Alliance for Musical Theater to be staged on 42nd Street.
The Sword
Vasit Dejkunjorn
From the glass window Yuddha could see the blue BMW Series 5, parked in the roofed parking lot in front of his office. Yuddha was aware of his colleagues’ concealed suspicion. But he ignored it. After all, he was not the only police superintendent—full colonel—who owned an expensive European-made car. Another superintendent, his classmate from the Police Officer Academy, had bought a Mercedes. Yet another colonel owned a Lexus, Japanese-made but equally priced. To own and drive an expensive car is a dream of every police officer. Yuddha guessed that the other cars had been obtained by means not much different from his.
It had begun soon after his graduation from the Academy. He had been assigned to a police station in Bangkok. His responsibility was to interrogate suspects brought in by arresting officers and to submit interrogation reports to the superintendent, with recommendations that the suspects be charged or else released for insufficient evidence.
Yuddha learned quickly that his recommendation might change the suspect’s fate. With a few clicks of his notebook mouse, the suspect might be freed—or start his rough journey to the penitentiary. He learned too that every suspect was willing to pay for his freedom. Yuddha was no longer surprised when approached by some of his superiors who suggested, often with straight faces, that he fact-twist for the benefit of the su
periors’ relatives or friends. At first he felt awkward and ashamed, but finally he gave in and jumped on the bandwagon.
Yuddha’s popularity-cum-notoriety grew steadily, proportionate to his wealth. He was recognized by superior officers, envied by colleagues and quietly feared by both the innocent and the crooks. To superior officers, Yuddha was always generous. He managed to appear, though uninvited, with appropriate, expensive gifts at police generals’ birthdays, New Year parties or wedding anniversaries. If there was a donation involved, his amount was always among the highest.
So when Yuddha’s name was submitted to the selection board, with long, elaborate, praising explanation by his commissioner, none of the board members objected or questioned the submission. At forty-two Yuddha became one the youngest police colonels and superintendents on the force. In the seniority list there had been over 100 names above his.
Yuddha progressed with his lucrative police work. He did not forget that criminal investigation and interrogation alone were not sufficient for his fame. To be hailed as a police idol, he would have to show that he was skilled too in crime suppression. The young superintendent consequently turned to the easiest prey: the petty thieves. His arrest records were impressively long. When an armed robber resisted arrest, Yuddha did not waste time negotiating. The robber was gunned down in a brief firefight. With the extrajudicial killing, Yuddha joined the prestigious class of police exterminators.
Yuddha’s trail of thought was interrupted by a middle-aged warrant officer’s entry. The noncommissioned officer did not stop to salute him but casually sat himself on a chair and said unceremoniously, “Sia Preeda has returned and wants to see you.” The article “Sia” is a Chinese word, indicating the man’s origin and his status in business. Yuddha had been expecting the return of the Sia. He nodded his head in acknowledgement. The warrant officer too knew the reason for the superintendent’s expectation. Expressionlessly, he rose and left the room.
While waiting, Yuddha recalled the incident that had led to the confrontation between him and Sia Preeda. The businessman had been involved in a car accident that resulted in the death of a motorcyclist. Such accidents are routine in Bangkok and no longer reported by the media. According to the crime scene investigator, the speeding motorcycle had crashed into Sia Preeda’s Mercedes. The businessman’s expensive car was heavily dented. The fault was obviously the dead motorcyclist’s. But technically, according to the Criminal Code, the driver of the Mercedes was to be arrested and charged for careless driving causing death.
Sia Preeda had accompanied his driver to the police station and requested bail for the unfortunate chauffeur. It was Friday afternoon. Unless the bail was quickly granted, the driver might have to spend the weekend in the police detention cell. The superintendent has the power to approve or deny bail. In this case the investigating officer had recommended that bail be granted.
For experienced but dishonest police officers, this was an ideal opportunity to make easy money. Yuddha flipped the pages of the investigator’s report, feigning reading. A few pages afterward, he looked up and told the businessman, “Looks like your driver was going a little fast.”
“Fast?” Sia Preeda and his driver were obviously shocked. “We were approaching a very busy intersection. The traffic was—”
“I am aware of the traffic condition.” The superintendent’s voice was raised and ice-cold. “It was congested, yes, but you were going beyond the speed limit, as the skid marks show. Incidentally, who was actually driving the car at the time of the accident?”
“Who?” Sia Preeda repeated the word in disbelief.
“What do you mean, who?”
“I was driving, sir,” the driver offered meekly.
“That remains to be seen,” the Colonel’s voice was offish. “In the meantime I am afraid we may have to hold both of you for additional questioning.”
“This is ridiculous!” the businessman nearly screamed. “I am going to call my lawyer.”
“After you have been charged,” the superintendent said in a toneless voice, “you may call anyone you like. But we have to seize your phone too. It’s an important piece of evidence.”
While Sia Preeda was speechlessly trying to control his temper, the young colonel pushed a button on his desk. The warrant officer entered the room, approached the desk and waited for the stern order.
“Book these two men as suspects in the accident case.”
The warrant officer knew exactly what he should do. He had done it many times before. Once outside, he told the businessman: “Sia, there is a way this can be settled without any complexity. You and your driver don’t have to be locked up, spend the night in the cell and go to court tomorrow.” The officer’s voice was soft and soothing. Sia Preeda lowered the hand holding the mobile phone. The warrant officer did not wait for a response but proceeded with his advice: “The superintendent is a contestant in the annual departmental programme for police station development. But he is short of funds. With some voluntary donations, the station can be renovated, the lawn mowed, the flagstaff repainted. Besides, donation means public support. The superintendent will earn additional points in the contest and have a better chance of winning.”
“Wh-what about the accident case?” The businessman was not convinced.
“Take my word. All you have to do is go back to the superintendent and offer a sum—er, donation—and everything will be all right. You will be freed, although your driver will have to be charged. But the investigating officer will conclude it was the fault of the dead motorcyclist. He will recommend that the driver be released on bail, and the charge will be dropped. Believe me, it’s routine.”
“But there’s still the prosecutor.” Sia Preeda showed he knew some legal procedures. “He may disagree with the investigating officer. And what about the motorcyclist’s family?”
“The prosecutor will agree.” The warrant officer’s raised voice indicated he was annoyed. “As for your Mercedes, it is insured, right? First-class? Will the insurance company not handle the matter for you?”
“How much should I offer for the… er, donation?” Sia Preecha asked the expected question.
He was shocked when given the amount. “Fifty thousand baht! I think I’ll call my lawyer.”
“Go ahead.” The warrant officer’s soft and soothing tone was gone. “I’ll take you to the investigating officer. He will charge the driver and charge you as an accomplice in the accident case. You and your driver will be detained and denied bail. I don’t know what the lawyer’s fee is, but in a case like yours I presume it won’t be low.”
The warrant officer waited while Sia Preecha was pondering an alternative. He was certain of the businessman’s next sentence. And he was right, as always.
“Okay, but I don’t have enough cash. I’ll have to write a cheque.”
“No cheque.” It was an order. “The superintendent does not accept cheques, only cash. There are two ATMs in front of the station, next door to the 7-Eleven.”
Five minutes later, Sia Preeda was back in the superintendent’s cozy office. He found the Colonel sitting comfortably on the padded leather chair, intensely watching an ongoing football match between two famous British teams.
“I… I understand, sir, that you are in the process of developing this police station to win a contest,” Sia Preeda’s wavering voice reflected his total submission. “I would like to help by making a—er, donation.”
The superintendent turned around in his swiveling chair, smilingly facing the businessman, and responded in a friendly tone. “I appreciate your kind interest in the police business. As you must have already known, the police serve the public. But our budgetary capability is very limited. So public support like yours is always welcomed. We will never forget your kindness.”
Half an hour later, Sia Preeda found himself out of the police station in his Mercedes with the bailed driver. Leaving the premises, he spotted the shining blue BMW parked in the roofed garage under a sign that r
ead “Superintendent.” The businessman could now guess where his donation would be going.
The young police colonel eyed the white envelope he had just accepted from Sia Preeda. Yuddha knew that, according to the Criminal Code, he had just made another offence of willfully accepting a bribe. If caught and proven guilty, he might be sentenced to serve years in a state penitentiary. But the superintendent was not worried. Sia Preeda was a wealthy businessman. In his business his profit must be huge, incomparable to the Colonel’s meagre salaries. It was a fair game in which no one was hurt. Yuddha believed he deserved the 50,000 baht he had just squeezed from Sia Preeda.
He opened the envelope and took 5,000 from the stack. As a usual practice, the amount would go to the warrant officer—his broker—for another service rendered.
Yuddha opened his Samsonite briefcase and threw in the envelope. The 45,000 baht would join the millions in the safe at his house. He never trusted the bank, although he maintained a modest account there, in case someone investigated.
The warrant officer entered the office without knocking, pocketed his earnings, deposited some mail on the desk and left. Yuddha looked at his watch and saw that it was close to six o’clock in the evening—time for dinner. His dinner date was a young, extremely attractive and extremely rich lady. Yuddha had been steadily courting the girl for a year and seriously planning to marry her. The wealthy girl, though openly affectionate, had been evading his engagement proposals. Yuddha did not want to miss the dinner or keep her waiting.
He rose, but a posted envelope on the desk caught his attention. The crude handwriting on the envelope looked familiar. Then Yuddha saw the name of the sender and the return address and recognized them. Slowly he sat down, opened the envelope and read the short, simple letter.
“My dearest son Yuddha, “I have bad news. The doctor has just told me that I have a final stage cancer and don’t have long to live. As you know, you are my most beloved son. So after I die, I want you to handle all of my money and property, to make sure that you, your brother and your sister have fair shares. As you already know, as a farmer, I do not have much, but I hope what I give you will help you some. Please come to see me as soon as you can—before it is too late.
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