by John Burdett
Neither the sergeant nor I was ready for it. Arrested persons in Thailand are hardly ever violent for cultural reasons: the cops would shoot them. Indeed, a second after Chaz charged at me, apparently discounting the wooden table between us, Ruamsantiah was on his feet reaching for his service revolver, which he had stuck in his belt at the base of his spine, but Chaz, mad as a hatter, had launched himself across the table, apparently in a desperate but chivalrous attempt to protect the subject of his right forearm from implication in international drug trafficking. The table had other ideas and moved with him, creating the impression (as I and my chair went down under it) of a kind of four-legged land raft on which the lone sailor was making an adventure tour of the interrogation room, while Ruamsantiah prepared to take a shot at him and I rolled out of the way, spilling the Siemens as I went, which exploded into its various components. The suitcases followed me to the floor, and a few of the blocks burst their packing and crumbled, increasing the net value of my khaki open-neck shirt and black pants by maybe $50,000 as I rolled in their contents. I think Ruamsantiah would not have resisted the temptation to shorten the case with a bullet through that pink coconut had not the coconut itself made violent contact with the opposite wall, leaving its owner groaning in a heap along with what was left of the table. A flimsy third-world piece of furniture, it pretty much disintegrated when it hit the wall, unlike that robust first-world cranium, which suffered no more than a dramatic increase in its pinkness. Still, Ruamsantiah agonized over every cop’s dilemma in such circumstances: shoot the bastard or merely beat the shit out of him?
Reluctantly, but perhaps bearing in mind the mountain of paperwork that invariably accompanies the death in custody of a farang, Ruamsantiah opened the door of the interrogation room and called for reinforcements. Before long the room was filled with vigorous and enthusiastic young men in black lace-up boots who were quick to see a cure for boredom. Coconut began to squeal as I left the room with the remains of the world-class narcotic smuggler’s mobile in my hands.
I had to go to the latrines to dust off my shirt and pants, where I used the occasion to reflect on the fragility of human values: this gray poison, for which people risk life and liberty, was now worthless dust on the floor of an old police toilet. There is no constant in life but change. I also wondered what would happen if I encountered one of our sniffer dogs from the narcotics unit before I had the chance to go home and shower. To the dog, of course, the heroin would remain the most valuable commodity in the universe, since without it he’d be just another unemployed mutt wondering where his next meal was coming from: there are no more enthusiastic supporters of the war on drugs than our sniffer dogs.
Downstairs the forensic boys were too involved with their MP3 project (WAV to MP3 is no problem, but transferring Windows Media Player format into MP3 is quite a challenge, they explained) to check the sim card immediately. They pointed out that in view of the screams from the interrogation room, it did seem as if a confession was imminent, so what was the hurry? They’d get back to me.
Down in the canteen I tucked into a chile-intensive breakfast with a 7-Up before returning to the second floor, by which time the screams from the interrogation room had ceased.
At the top of the stairs one of the young cops in heavy black boots came out to tell me the Coconut wanted to confess. At least, they thought that’s what he wanted. When I entered the room, I was quite pleased to see no blood, bruises, or broken teeth. Whatever they did, though, was amazingly effective. The Neolithic fury had quite dissipated, and the fat face was flabby with surrender and exhaustion, revealing the soul of perhaps a five-year-old yearning for Mother as he lay supine on the floor with a cushion thoughtfully placed behind his head which they propped up against a wall. With most of the buttons on his shirt popped, I saw what a gift he had been to various body artists over the years, some more talented than others, though all with the standard addiction to indigo.
When I asked him if he wanted to confess, he licked his lips and nodded. Now we hauled him to his feet and dragged him to a chair, revealing the telephone book he was lying on. The telephone book is the interrogator’s best friend in these parts. Inserted between boot and perp, it prevents all signs of physical abuse without detracting too much from the point of the exercise.
Ruamsantiah shook his head in wonder. “He’s tough, I’ll give him that. They’ve been going at it all the time you were having breakfast, and they only just broke him. I’ve never seen anything like it—incredible pain threshold. The ugly bastard must be made of concrete.”
Now he mentioned it, I noticed that all the young men were sweating and some were still breathing heavily.
Somebody brought a Dictaphone so Chaz’s confession in English and my simultaneous translation into Thai were both recorded. Chaz was commendably brief (Him: I done it. Me: Done what? Him: The dope), so much so that Ruamsantiah told me to tell him that if he didn’t think up some convincing details, he was in for another round, this time without the telephone book. Chaz seemed to want to comply but was inhibited by some mystic force that had the power to banish fear.
Ruamsantiah: “What happened with the idiot’s mobile?”
I explained that it might be a while before our musically inclined geeks were able to retrieve Denise’s telephone number from the sim card.
“I’ll get it myself,” said the sergeant, who made for the door. By now about twelve young men were all licking their lips. I was not sure how long I could hold them off; nor was I sure if I should hold them off. Maybe if they gave Chaz Buckle a really good going-over while he was still weak from the first beating, he’d see the light and get his sentence reduced by giving us details of Denise’s smuggling ring. If I used my influence to save him from a further beating, on the other hand, he would almost certainly get the death penalty. A man whose main crime was a room temperature IQ would rot on death row while the mastermind Denise went free. Properly understood, karma is more complex than a weather system, but fortunately I was saved from the need to intervene in this man’s destiny by the sudden and triumphant return of Ruamsantiah, who had, he explained, grabbed back the mobile and simply clipped all the bits together again. It seemed to be working, indeed was that very minute receiving a text message: Chaz, where the fuck R U and ? is going on?????
I confirmed the message originated from the same number as Denise’s mobile. Ruamsantiah’s eyes flicked between Chaz and the mobile. He nodded at me, and I pressed the autodial button. This time only a couple of rings were required. A cautious tone: Yes?
“It’s me again. He’s in a Bangkok police station getting beaten up after being found with two suitcases of ninety-nine-percent-pure morphine, which he has confessed he was planning to smuggle out of the country. He has named you as an accomplice—”
A great bull yell from Chaz, who tried to attack me again, but this time everyone was ready. Two of the cops sat on him while others held his arms.
A contemptuous tone from Denise: “Leave it out, sonny boy. My Chaz wouldn’t grass on me for all the tea in China. What kind of rank fucking amateur are you?” She closed the phone, leaving me stranded in perplexity. When I tried her again, I got a busy signal.
I looked thoughtfully at Chaz. Whatever doubts I might have had concerning Ruamsantiah’s rather precipitous conclusion that Denise was behind the racket had now been cleared up. But our evidence against her, although intuitively compelling, could be argued away by an expensive lawyer. Indeed, it could be pretty effectively laughed out of court by a cheap one, since it consisted entirely of that tattoo on his right forearm. Even a Thai court might hesitate to condemn her to death without more to go on.
The sergeant and I shrugged at each other. Ruamsantiah seemed to feel sorry for this great pink baby, who would probably not actually be executed (because he was pink, not brown, the King would pardon him eventually after a few decades on death row) but who would certainly be ground down by our prison system until he was no more than a toothless shade on slo
pping-out duty. Well, there was nothing more to be done for the moment.
“I guess we better check that it really is morphine in the suitcases,” I said to Ruamsantiah, who blinked. What else could it be?
And there it was left, farang, because the next day, before I’d had a chance even to consider what the morphine might signify with regard to Zinna, there was the problem of Mitch Turner to deal with and then that trip down south to Songai Kolok.
End of flashback, farang.
19
Ruamsantiah, still in awe of Vikorn’s low cunning, calls back slightly breathless:
“I’ve just been in the cell with him.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Bad. Really bad. The jailer had to use restrainers.”
“Withdrawal?”
“Cold turkey with extras. He’s strong, he was bashing his head against the bars.”
“Is he in interrogation mode?”
“He could be, with a little help. You’ll have to do it—the brute hardly speaks a word of Thai.”
“I’ll be down. By the way, did you get his record from Scotland Yard? I’ll need it before I question him.”
“I’ve got the fax, but I couldn’t read it because it’s in English. I’ll send it up to you.”
The sergeant sends a young constable, who arrives on the double with Buckle’s British record sheet. He started in reform school, after which he began a five-year career as a moderately successful burglar, followed by jail, where he addicted himself to heroin and began an apprenticeship as a small-time trafficker. After the first serious drug bust he developed an increasing sophistication in his MO and is now suspected of large-scale trafficking from Southeast Asia to the U.K. via Amsterdam in a well-organized ring. Said to have developed a serious reluctance to go back to jail, which has resulted in greater caution in the way he does business. Despite numerous detox programs, he has never been able to kick his smack habit.
I meet Ruamsantiah at the steps down to the cells, and we walk with the jailer to cell four. For once the jailer has exercised compassion in that he has used padded, hospital-style restrainers instead of his usual chains. We stare through the bars. Chaz is in poor shape, shivering and groaning, with some nasty cuts and bruises on his forehead. “Self-inflicted,” the jailer defensively reports.
“Is he on anything?”
“Only tranqs.”
The jailer selects a key from a sparkling chrome chain as long as infinity, then opens the door. Ruamsantiah and I enter the cell, dank with one man’s total despair. I say: “Chaz.” There is only a flicker of recognition, then a return to his compulsive shivering.
“Maybe we can help you.”
Again, a brief flicker of recognition, but this is not the same man as the one I interrogated last week. Thwarted craving shows us our darkest places, our deepest fears, our basic cowardice. “Denise didn’t get you out of here like she promised, did she, Chaz?” I am using Paternal Concerned with plenty of saccharin and just a dash of menace. He stares at me, then lets his head down again, shivering and shuddering.
“You weren’t any ordinary courier, were you? You’re a pro, Chaz. I’ve seen your record sheet—you’re not just some dumb mule like the other losers who hang around Ko Samui and Pataya, waiting to be used, those other ugly dumb tattooed bastards who’ll risk anything for a fix. You were the boss’s main man, her lover, weren’t you? You didn’t have to worry about a little thing like a bust, because the boss is so rich and influential and so damn well connected, she could get you off of anything anytime. That’s why you had the nerve to jump me, remember? This is Thailand, and all she needs to do is bribe the forensic lab—throw money at it, as they say—and you were going to be walking the streets again, shooting up on the best stuff money can buy, right? That was the plan, you talked about it many times, she told you how special you were, how powerful she was, didn’t she? But you were way too experienced to take her word for it. There had to be more to it than this, she had to show you her influence. Her connections. You’d been east enough times to know what connections mean over here. According to your passport you’ve made twenty-five visits in the last five years. Connections are wealth, power, happiness—connections are everything. And even Denise is just another lost farang if she doesn’t have them. So tell us, who is her main man?”
This time he doesn’t even bother to look up. I nod to Ruamsantiah, who produces a small glassine bag with white contents from one of his pockets.
“Chaz,” I say softly. A sudden flick of his eyes, which fix on the bag in Ruamsantiah’s left palm, then down again to stare at his navel. “I can relieve your suffering, Chaz.” I finally have his full attention. Suddenly his eyes are pleading. “It’s okay, Chaz, you can trust me, I’m a cop, ha-ha. No, really, I give you my word. We’ll let you come down slowly, reduce the dose a little every day till you’re clean, maybe even find you some methadone. That’s the humane way to do it, isn’t it?”
He gulps, opens his mouth, stares at the packet, and shuts his mouth. In a whisper: “I can’t do cold turkey, it’s killing me.” Our eyes lock. This is a confession straight from the soul. He just can’t do it. He really can’t do it. Oh, how he would love to play the macho martyr immune to all weakness, but the dope dragon is too powerful.
“Of course, you’ll have to help us nail that bitch and her supplier.”
A quick look, a nod, and then he bursts into tears. In a sob-drenched whisper: “Gimme the smack, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Ruamsantiah and I exchange a glance. “Better get him some gear,” I tell the sergeant. “Make sure it’s sterilized.”
While the sergeant is gone hunting for syringe, oil lamp, and other accessories, I use Coaxing Voice on the perp: “You’re small fry, Chaz, a mule, a dummy. She used you, then she let you twist in the wind. But she’s not such a big fish, not really. She’s just another middle-aged fucked-up farang on her last life, isn’t she? She moves nothing, shakes nothing, she just hangs around the table with her tongue hanging out. So her crumbs are bigger than your crumbs, but at the end of the day it’s still crumbs. Because over here the trade is owned by the locals, right? There are no farang jao por, Chaz, no farang big bosses, they’re all Thai—but you know that. Now tell me, who did Denise produce to convince you that she had the connections to keep you safe? That’s what it takes in your game, doesn’t it, for a wise guy like you to take a risk, even if you were screwing her. She had to show her credentials, didn’t she?”
Ruamsantiah has returned with a disposable plastic syringe still in its germ-free packet, a small oil lamp, and some aluminum foil. He lays it all out on the crude wooden table at the back of the cell, while Chaz watches intensely. Ruamsantiah lays the packet of smack next to the syringe. Now the sergeant and I are both looking at Chaz.
“A Thai army general,” he says in a broken voice.
“Name?”
“Zinna.”
“Tell me more about General Zinna. How many times did you meet him?”
“Once.”
“She produced him just the once to convince you she was kosher?” A nod. “You must have been impressed.”
“He came in uniform, with soldiers.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“How do I know? She took me somewhere, I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Describe the place.”
“Big house, three stories, lot of land, dogs, monkeys.”
When I translate, Ruamsantiah stares at me. “He’s talking about Khun Mu.”
Chaz Buckle has recognized the name: “Yeah, Mu, that was it.”
I nod. “Can you manage to cook on your own, Chaz, or shall we get someone to help you?”
“I’ll do it.”
I watch while the sergeant drags the table over to where Chaz is taped to the bars by his ankles and wrists, then releases Chaz’s wrists. He immediately hunches over the table, pulls off a strip of aluminum foil, and starts to shake out the smack from the packet,
oblivious to all human emotion, including his own shame. I leave him with Ruamsantiah.
20
In a jam at the intersection between Asok and Sukhumvit—that black hole where time gets lost—I ask the driver to switch off his Thai pop CD so Lek and I can listen to Rod Tit FM. Pisit has invited none other than my mother on the show in her capacity as Thailand’s most famous, and vociferous, ex-prostitute.
These are sad times for sleaze, farang. Our government is going through one of its puritanical phases and has decided to impose an earlier curfew. Starting next month, all the bars will have to close at midnight. Naturally, the flesh industry is outraged, the whole of Soi Cowboy has been mobilized, no farang is allowed to pass by without signing a petition. Pisit’s first guest is a katoey who works the bars. Lek listens, riveted.
The katoey with deep voice maintains that she intends to sue the government for the cost of her operation and the ruination of her life. She had the whole shooting match cut off for purely commercial reasons. She grew up as a boy in Isikiert, one of the poorest regions in the poorest part of the Northeast, with five sisters and one brother. Her mother is blind from cataracts, her father’s health is broken from rice farming in the tropical heat twelve hours a day, her sisters are all mothers of infants by drunken Thai men who don’t pay child support, and anyway none of the girls were likely to make a fortune in the Bangkok flesh trade for aesthetic reasons. Her only brother suffers from Down syndrome and requires constant supervision. As the cutest of the brood, she was nominated (unanimously) as the one to solve the family’s financial problems in the big city. Borrowing as best they could and pooling everything they had, they just about scraped enough together for the operation that turned her into one of the sexiest-looking whores on the Game. It was a onetime, high-risk capital investment that, after apainful lead-in period, is finally beginning to yield a reasonable return, and now the government is sabotaging the fledgling cottage industry with this early-closing nonsense. Everyone knows the major part of the business of the Game is conducted between midnight and two p.m., when the johns’ resistance has been properly ground down by alcoholand the attentions of near-naked young women (or katoeys). What maniac in government had this bright idea? Obviously they care nothing for the poor. If she has no money to send home, is the Interior Minister going to take care of her family?