"You do know he's only thirty-seven centimeters tall?" I said.
"But he's so macho."
"So you feel you need to make a statement."
"Right."
"By getting involved in our battle with the slavers."
"Is that all right?" I wasn't sure.
"You might have to-I don't know-hit people. Dodge bullets. Face danger." He paled.
"I can do that," he said with no conviction. Against my better judgment, I yielded. "All right," I said. "You're on the task force. Don't let me down."
He started to cry again. This time with happiness.
Before I could get to the motorcycle, I got a call from Sissi. "Hey, Sis."
"I'm out of the condominium."
"Well done."
"I'm in a taxi."
"I knew you could do it."
"It smells."
"That's the scent of reality."
"I just wanted to remind you that you won't be able to avail yourself of my services for a week."
"I shall survive."
There was a pause.
"Are you sure?"
"Barely. How are you feeling?"
"I'm surprisingly excited. And you can keep your eyes on the road, you pervert."
I assumed that wasn't directed at me.
"There's something you need to remember before you leave the country," I said.
"What's that?"
"You never stopped being beautiful."
There was another long pause, and I knew she was smiling.
"I'll call you from Seoul," she said.
"Bon voyage."
I sometimes wondered why they hadn't come up with a new bon. Nobody voyaged anymore. At last I made it to the motorcycle and was about to head off when Mair ran out of the shop holding some kind of deflated pink football bladder.
"Monique," she said, "where are you going?"
"Pak Nam."
"I need you to go via Lang Suan."
"Hmm, a mere thirty kilometers out of the way in the pouring rain. Why not?"
"It's an emergency," she said. "I want you to stop by Dr. Somboon's place and ask him to take a look at her."
She held her handful aloft and there it was. Something.
"What is it?"
"A puppy."
"Not again. Is it alive?"
"Do you think I'd ask you to take a cadaver to the vet?"
"Mair. We have too many dogs already."
"Child, every rule book has a final page. But the kindness bus has no terminal."
She dropped it into my poncho's detachable hood, which I'd just been about to attach. The animal was hairless and riddled with disease.
"Where on earth did you get it?"
"She came to me, darling. Like all the creatures do. Like Mohammed, she floated down the river on the bulrushes. I pulled her from the water and gave her resuscitation."
I cringed at the thought of Mair applying mouth-to-mouth to an almost-dead dog.
"And look," Mair went on, "she survived. All the sick and dying creatures of the earth will find their way to me."
I had no choice. I folded the creature into the poncho pocket, still wrapped in the hood, and left Mrs. Noah standing in the rain waiting for the giraffes to arrive. I stopped at the bridge, surprised at how quickly the humble stream had swollen to a gushing torrent. I wished then that I'd bought an iPhone when I still had an income back in Chiang Mai.
Discovery Channel paid well for home videos of natural disasters and I sensed the Gulf Bay Lovely Resort was about to become one.
"What's that moving in your pocket?" Aung asked.
"Dog," I said.
"Beer" was feisty for a dying pup. She was mad at all the shots Dr. Somboon had speared her with and the pills he'd forced down her throat. I couldn't blame her. I'd named her Beer because the vet was drinking a can of Singha when I arrived. I think he'd had a few. It was just a stop-gap name. I couldn't imagine her surviving the night. Not in this weather. To his credit, Aung didn't ask me why I had a dog in my pocket. He wasn't shirtless today, but he was soaked to the skin and his T-shirt stuck to his muscles like paint. I fought back my urge to rip it off him with my teeth.
"Aung," I said. "I know you don't trust me."
Throw that line at a Thai and he'd be on his knees denying it. Aung's expression said, "Yeah. You got me."
"But here's what I think," I continued. "I think Burmese are being kidnapped and ferried out to deep-sea vessels, where they're enslaved, ill treated, and killed if they make too much trouble. I think the head that arrived on our beach was just one example. I think you and your community know about this, but you feel helpless because you aren't able to do anything about it. I think you all live in fear that one day it'll be you or your wife whisked away."
A long silence followed.
"So?" he said.
"That's all I get? A 'so'?"
"Look. Even if you know. Even if you have proof. Even if you're out there on the big boats taking photographs. What do you think you could achieve? What Thai prosecutor really wants to go to the trouble of prosecuting Thais for crimes against the Maung? We're dispensable."
"Well, that's one thing we can achieve. Make you less dispensable. Put names and faces and family backgrounds to the slaves. Talk to loved ones. Show that-"
"Nobody would give you a name."
"OK. So I'd make it up. Photoshop a loved one. Hell, who's going to rush down here to prove me a liar? Aung, this is Thailand. We manipulate public opinion all the time. The masses feel what Channel Nine tells them to feel. If I couldn't splash up a wave of sympathy for the poor country boys chained to the oars of a galley, I wouldn't be much of a journalist, would I now?"
"Who do you work for?"
Damn, the man just refused to get caught up in the splendor of the rhetoric. And he'd hit another nerve.
"I'm freelance. That means I can work for anybody."
"Or nobody."
I was starting to see why we hated the Burmese.
"All right. Here's the deal. My family and I are going to fight this. We had a grenade thrown at us because we refused to give in to bullies. If you aren't into human rights, fair enough. Somehow we'll get evidence and somehow I'll write about all this and somehow it'll make the eyes of the world. And I do this with you or I do it without."
Clint would have put some background music in there.
Violins rising to a cello and kettledrum crescendo is my guess. All I had for emphasis was the belch of a tugboat horn. I hoped it would be enough for Aung to sense my sincerity.
"Good luck."
"That's it?"
"You'll need it. You don't know what you're up against."
"So I can't count on any help from you?"
"I didn't say that. I'll give you information when I can. As long as it's off the record."
"That's big of you. All right. Information. Give me some now. Explain how your people are lifted from the street in broad daylight without anyone seeing."
"Are you serious?"
"Sometimes."
"Then why do you think nobody sees?"
"Thais down here may be stubborn, proud to a fault, but they have a sense of justice. If they saw someone being bundled into a truck, they'd do something about it."
"Not if that truck was brown and cream with a flashing police light on top."
"What's that in your pocket?"
"Dog."
"You don't say. How does it breathe in there?"
"I lift the flap from time to time."
"If it's a shih-tzu, I'll take it off you."
"You like shih-tzus?"
"Who doesn't? Those broken little Chinese noses. Those pus-filled squinty eyes. And they do so attract the boys. 'Ooh, what a lovely little doggie.' "
I was having lunch with Chompu at Pak Nam's famous chicken and rice restaurant, called The Chicken and Rice Restaurant. The chicken and rice were average, but the sauce-passed down through Yunnan dynasties-was what brought in the custo
mers. They traveled from as far away as Lang Suan to eat there. The place was never empty.
"Even so, it appears to be quite agitated," Chompu observed.
"Look, will you stop whining about the dog? It's a survivor. I'm asking about the Pak Nam constabulary picking up Burmese off the street."
"Happens all the time."
"Ha. You admit it."
"Hard to deny. Random ID checks. Work cards. It's policy."
"To harass?"
"You know? With the right interior decorator, they could really make something of this place. I'd go Japanese. Bamboo on the wall. Short-legged tables with-"
"Chom!"
"Perhaps we harass a tad. But nicely."
"Why?"
"Well, those without work permits hand over a fine."
"Which is signed for, paid into the police fund, and sent to the police ministry in Bangkok, naturally."
"Which goes directly into the wallet of the harassing officer to be spent on base desires such as karaoke."
"And you think that's OK?"
"We aren't paid very much, you know? And it's better for them than going to jail. Paying the fine is the penalty they opt for when they decide not to go through legal channels. They know the risk."
"I have witness statements that Burmese were stopped on the street and bundled into police vehicles, never to be seen again."
"Uh-oh. Hold the Pulitzer. That isn't exactly a secret either. It happens every day, darling. After our random stops, if the migrants don't have work permits and don't want to contribute to our pleasure fund, they're invited into the truck and whisked off to immigration in Ranong. We have to keep up our quota. We'd look suspicious if we didn't have any illegals at all, wouldn't we now?"
"How many?"
"Six to a dozen a week."
"So what would you say if I could prove these vanishing Burmese had work permits and sponsors?"
"I'd say, 'Bring me the witnesses.' And you'd say, 'Ooh, they aren't comfortable speaking to the police.' And I'd say, 'Mm, I'm not surprised, considering they're all figments of your imagination.' "
"Don't you be so sure."
"Oh I'm sure. If they were Thais, they'd have no idea whether the Burmese we picked up were illegal or not. So that leaves only the Burmese themselves. And the only way one of them would step up and accuse the Royal Thai Police of kidnapping a fellow countryman is if he was certifiably insane. In which case his statement would be inadmissible. Ta-daa! I rest my case."
"All right, so-and this is hypothetical-if I could prove a legal Burmese was kidnapped by the police and sent to the deep-sea vessels, would you file the report?"
"Let me see now. You're asking whether a smart, virile young police officer, a-k-a me, who carries a burden of sexuality that makes his tenure in the police force tenuous if not feeble, would pursue a criminal case against his friends and colleagues in order to bring justice to the citizens of a country none of us particularly likes?"
"Yes."
"Having thus outlined the negative aspects of such foolishness, all that remains is to inquire as to what, if any, the positives might be."
I told him about the pride that could be felt by adhering to moral and professional standards, and when that didn't work, I told him he'd get Egg out of his office and his ferns back.
"With no career, I wouldn't have much need for an office, would I now?" he reminded me. "And do you have this hypothetical witness?"
"Not yet."
"Then I don't have to hypothetically commit my career to the garbage pail, do I now? Get back to me when reality steps boldly from the shadows."
"You don't think I can do this, do you?"
"I don't think you should."
"Why not?"
"Just a hunch. But if we're talking about slavery and murder and decapitation, I doubt this is a sideline of the local embroidery society. Your foes have already tossed a grenade into your midst."
"Do you want to make my life safer?"
"How could I do that?"
"I'm planning to break into Lieutenant Egg's files. I'd bet he has a metal filing cabinet right there beside his desk."
"With a lock."
"OK. So I sneak in there and find all his files relevant to missing Burmese. And I steal them."
"And what would I have to do to make your life safer?"
"Break into it yourself."
He squealed a little and the customers looked around. "There is no way," he said. "He's a beast. He'd beat me to death."
"Chom. You're supposed to be in that office. He'd never know. Any policeman worth his stuff could open one of those files with a bobby pin."
"Heavens. I haven't worn a bobby pin since the good old days."
"I'll lend you one of Mair's. You can find a time when he's out of the office. Take the files down to the copy room. And replace the originals before he gets back. Nobody would need to know you were involved."
"He never announces where he's going or for how long. He could walk in any minute."
"Then I'll distract him."
"Just how would you go about that?"
"Sissi?"
"This is she."
"Are you still in the country?"
"Yes. But I'm considering applying for political asylum in Korea."
"Why? What's happened?"
"Do you remember telling me there wouldn't be any middle-aged ladies with expensive perms marching out to the airport to throw themselves down in front of my jumbo?"
"Yes."
"Well, I wouldn't recommend fortune-telling as your next career move."
"No way."
"I'm at Suvarnabhumi. They're everywhere: retired pilots, middle-aged women in bulging sweatpants, tropical-fish-shop owners. It would appear your yellow-shirted yuppies are in the process of laying claim to our national airport. Bangkok's middle classes are on the rampage. A fearsome mob. There's a backgammon game going on as I speak."
"Are they stopping any flights?"
"Not yet. Seoul is still up there on the departure board. But my faith is dwindling. I'm having a karma attack."
"They wouldn't. I mean, they aren't going to. Don't worry. How did they get in?"
"Same way they got into Government House. They whispered sweet nothings into the ears of the heavily armed police on the barricade. Told them who was funding the invasion, I wouldn't wonder. Reminded them of the oaths they swore at school and strolled right on through the lines. Your average policeman is overcome with guilt when aiming his gun at a terrorist who looks and sounds exactly like his primary-school teacher-and probably was."
"How long before your flight?"
"Somewhere between forty minutes and infinity."
"Do you want something to take your mind off it all?"
"Anything."
"Can you get online?"
"Of course. I'm traveling first class. They'd fly in Bill Gates if I asked."
"You obviously haven't flown first class for a while. But do you think you'll have time to do me one quick favor?"
"Probably more than enough."
"Do you think you could access Bpook's class lists for the duration of her course at Georgetown?"
"That's all?"
"Yes."
"I could probably do that on my iPhone with my eyes closed."
"Big head."
"How do you think that would help?"
"I don't know. I'm wondering if there was some relationship issue. What if she had a boyfriend studying with her, someone who was taking advantage of her?"
"Isn't that the role of boyfriends anyway? I doubt there'd be a cross-reference of relationships in the public domain."
"No, but we can see what names come up often in her classes. She said she was a rental, dented and dumped and used."
"You want me to check call-girl agencies around D.C.?"
"You don't think…?"
"She wouldn't have been the first."
"Well, OK. But I doubt she'd have used her real name."
&nb
sp; "The Web sites post photos of their girls these days. Prostitution's come a long way."
"She said, 'The monitor lizard knew nothing.' "
Sissi laughed. I knew why. The Thai word for monitor lizard is heea, and, oddly, it's the dirtiest word we've got in our language.
"Male or female?"
"She said it in English so there was no gender. But somebody's really upset her. If it was the call-girl thing, it might be a friend or relative that got her involved. Could have been a boyfriend pimping her out. But I don't know. She doesn't seem the type. She's got the looks, but she's missing the tough edge. She seems so innocent."
"They pay extra for that."
"I know."
I knocked on the door of the office that was formerly that of Lieutenant Chompu.
"Come in" came a gruff voice that clearly wasn't his.
I entered and found Lieutenant Egg sitting at Chompu's old desk, the one with the bullethole decals across the front. Chompu was at a sort of card table off to one side, working through a pile of files. The annoying short-wave radio was on, the volume too loud.
"I'm looking for Lieutenant Egg," I said.
"That's me," he said.
I've never understood how men with bad toupees can be unaware of exactly how ridiculous they look. I wonder if they gaze lovingly at themselves in the mirror and visu-alize their heads twenty years earlier before the bald bugs started gnawing at their roots. Lieutenant Egg really looked as if some flock of small birds had built a nest on top of him. But the rest of him was all brawn, so I doubted anyone dared make fun of him. He was a rough-looking man, not to be reckoned with.
"My name is Jim Juree," I said. "I'm a journalist doing a piece for Thai Rat about the police and their relations with the Burmese."
"Why come to me?" he asked.
"Major Mana said you were responsible for Burmese matters."
"So?"
He looked pointedly at Chompu, who hadn't yet emerged from his paperwork burrow.
"So I'll be looking at officials at every level, from village headmen, through medical and emergency personnel. I need to know what the attitude of the police is."
"I don't think-"
"The major believes it would be valuable for his station to have this story told. He said it might dispel some widely held myths that there's any anti-Burmese sentiment in the police force."
"The major said that?"
He probably would have done if he'd been here and not off selling herbal hair conditioner out of the back of his Pajero.
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