“I don’t walk around with that kind of cash,” Munny finally said, eyeing Gop and wondering how he’d respond.
“Where is it?”
Gop had delivered the question Munny had been hoping for.
“The cash is at the place where the boy’s father lives.”
“Munny, if you’re lying, I’m going to hurt you bad, and then I’m turning what’s left of you in to the police.”
“I’m telling you the truth, Gop. You’ll get what I promised. No need to lie about it. I need you to take me where the cash is, or how can I give it to you?”
Gop eyed him long and hard. Two hundred customers ready to buy were already a certainty in his mind. He might stay a week. That would be three hundred and fifty thousand baht. A month would put it over 1.4 million baht, and he could kick back for a year. Gop had caught the money-making bug and was running a high fever.
“There’s one other thing,” said Munny. “When we pick up the money, we pick up the boy’s father, too.”
Gop looked at the back of the van.
“We’re short of room.”
“He’s small. He won’t take up much space. And he can help with washing dishes and cleaning up. With all of those customers, we need someone washing up. Besides, he’s holding your money. So we don’t have much choice, if you want to get paid.”
Free labor was always an appealing prospect. Gop’s father had taught him that lesson. And the Khmer and the Burmese begged for work.
“How much will this cost me?”
“He’ll work for free. Same as me and the boy.”
“I don’t know,” said Gop.
He’d inherited Wang Tao’s doubt about doing something he hadn’t thought of first. Doing something thought of by someone else almost always ended in disaster. Munny was Cambodian, and that doubled up the odds of some non-obvious double-cross.
“The boy needs his father. And it’s right on the way. We pick up the money I owe you, and the father comes along. Tell you what... What if I throw in another five hundred baht for your trouble?”
“A thousand baht.”
“Once we get there you can help me.”
“Help you what?”
“Bring him down to the van.”
“Why would I do that?”
“He has a disability.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He stepped on a landmine sixteen years ago and lost a leg.”
“How’s he going to wash dishes?”
“He doesn’t need two legs for that. He’s got both hands and arms, and that’s all the job calls for.”
“A thousand, right?”
Calvino waited in his car, the window rolled up, air-conditioning on, watching Fah’s Twitter timeline—“I’m going on a long trip & won’t be back soon. Bye.” He’d parked twenty meters away from the dark, derelict building, from which the smell of fish diffused through the night. After dark the Aquarium looked like any other abandoned, half-constructed building, all shadows and concrete, with shafts of moonlight spilling through the cracks in the walls and open floors. From the street, other than some patches of flickering light, there was nothing to see, no movement on the lower levels and only the noise of traffic in the distance. He glanced in the rear-view mirror as another driver killed the headlights nearby.
The Road Kill van had pulled to the curb, and Gop cut the engine and looked up and down the street.
“Where in the fuck are we, Munny?”
Munny and the kid climbed out of the back and walked around to the driver’s side.
“The money’s inside.”
Munny tapped his knuckles on the window frame.
“Let’s go.”
Gop was overtaken by fear. Strange neighborhood. No one ventured out on the street. No police, no soldiers. None of that stillness seemed right or normal, and Gop froze, hands locked on the steering wheel, knuckles white from the tightness of his grip.
“I’ll wait here,” he said.
“It’s only going to take a few minutes, Gop. I’m counting on you.”
The driver’s door finally opened wide and Gop climbed out. He bent over, grabbed his knees and took a deep breath.
“I don’t like this, Munny.”
“Nothing not to like. We’re stopping for the cash.”
With Thais, Munny found that “cash” was the magic word that opened doors.
Gop stared at the kid in the dark, trying to make out his features. He hadn’t said much all day. He stood close to Munny and let him do the talking.
“Okay, let’s do it,” said Gop.
Munny wasn’t only an artist; he had that rare mind that comes from a hardscrabble upbringing, where planning an escape became second nature, like brushing one’s teeth. Like Tom Sawyer, he’d convinced someone else to paint the fence.
Calvino waited until they were all out of the van and then climbed out of his car and called after them. He wore a blue Brioni suit, tailored to fit without the shoulder hostler showing. He’d once had worn a Brioni suit when he’d had to kill two men. It was a killer suit. With the light blue shirt, dark tie, jacket unbuttoned, he looked like in the half shadows like one of Ballard’s yacht buyers who had ended up lost.
“Munny, I’m Fah’s friend.”
Both Munny and Gop turned around and looked down the soi as Calvino approached.
“Who’s that?” said Gop.
Gop’s heart was in his throat, and he looked like he might throw up.
The boy squeezed Gop’s hand and told him, “You’ll be okay, Mr. Gop.”
“It’s okay, he’s my friend,” said Munny.
“He’s a farang,” said Gop, stating what was obvious even in the dark.
Gop climbed back inside the van and locked the doors. At first Munny thought he might drive off. But with all that meat and buns in the back, where was he going to go?
Munny walked ahead, putting some distance between himself and Gop. In the dark, a few meters from the van and shrouded in the shadows, Calvino made a smooth hand-off, and Munny palmed the money in his hand. Gop, from that distance, had no idea about the amount of money. He couldn’t even be certain it was money the farang had given him. Munny had already stuffed whatever it was in his jeans pocket as Gop powered down the window to talk.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Munny?”
Munny appreciated that Gop had the power of the van. Munny didn’t want an ugly fight on his hands.
“Just got some good news,” said Munny.
“What’s that?”
“Not many roadblocks on the highway.”
Calvino stared at Gop through the open van window.
“You with Munny?”
“Munny’s with me,” said Gop.
“This is Khun Vincent,” said Munny in Thai.
A few seconds passed. No traffic came into the dead end. Calvino saw from Munny’s body language, and the way he’d dealt with Fah’s twenty thousand baht, that things were complicated.
Calvino turned back to Munny.
“Fah said you were an artist.”
“I’m good at tattoos.”
Munny’s modesty made Calvino smile.
“I’ve seen your work.”
“I really don’t have time to talk. My friend’s waiting, and he doesn’t like to wait.”
“Where are you heading?”
“We’re picking up another friend.” Gesturing at the dark building, he added, “He’s waiting inside.”
“What is this place?”
“The locals call it the Aquarium. I used to live here with my family.”
“But not anymore?”
Munny shook his head.
“That’s right. The coup changes things. I gotta go,” Munny said, standing straight, hands in front of him.
Calvino looked him directly in the eye.
“You and your friend look nervous,” said Calvino. “Are you expecting trouble?”
“No, sir, but trouble might expect me. It often
does.”
In the end, it was the uncertainty of a small detail that changed everything, like going into a squatter’s building at night with a stranger—three strangers, counting the boy. The casual way Munny expressed his acceptance of whatever waited for him inside caused Calvino to close his car door and point the remote control to lock it.
“I can come along,” said Calvino.
“No need to take on another man’s troubles.”
Calvino had made a living doing precisely that and hadn’t run across many people who weren’t willing to unload their troubles on a willing stranger.
“You’re quite the artist,” said Calvino. “My great-grandfather was an artist. A hundred years ago he painted scenes in Bangkok.”
“That’s something,” said Munny. “I’m no painter.”
“I’ve seen your art. You’re more than a tattoo guy. You’re more like Lucian Freud,” said Calvino.
“Why do you think like that?”
“Fah.”
Munny cocked his head to the side, wondering how Calvino was going to play it. Fah had told him about Lucian Freud, the great English painter who had a history as a tattoo artist during the war. Standing before him in the half shadows was a foreigner telling him the same thing. Such praise could go to a man’s head.
“Let’s go get your friend,” said Calvino.
“What did your great-grandfather paint?”
“A Chinese man running.”
“Where was he running to?”
“Good question, Munny.”
With a long sigh, Gop climbed out of the van again.
“Are we getting your friend, or what?” said Gop.
Calvino gestured for Munny to follow him. He opened the trunk of his car and a light came on. Munny looked inside.
“In Brooklyn, my cousin Nero and me once got in some trouble. Nero’s father, my father’s brother, took us aside and said a man only needs three tools to solve ninety-nine percent of his problems.”
Munny looked over Calvino’s shoulder as he leaned forward into the trunk.
“A Brooklyn type of problem requires either a bolt cutter, a baseball bat or a .38.”
Calvino lifted the bolt cutter and looked at Munny and Gop, who had joined them. He shook his head, and put it back.
“No bolts to cut, sir,” said Munny.
“That’s not the right tool,” said Calvino, and he put it back into the trunk and picked up the baseball bat and a baseball. “My uncle said, Vinny, if you get yourself into a situation where none of these tools solve the problem, move to another neighborhood. Start over.”
“We can’t do that,” said Munny.
Calvino saw him looking at the baseball bat.
“I thought that might be the case.”
Calvino flipped Munny the baseball and he caught it with one hand.
“Nero always chose the baseball bat when we were kids.”
Munny ran his fingers over the stitches on the ball’s surface, smiling. Catching a ball in the dark isn’t something anyone can do, thought Calvino.
“You ever swing a baseball bat?”
Calvino pulled out a Louisville slugger from the trunk. He handed it to Munny, handle out.
Munny shook his head.
“No, sir, I’ve never held one.”
He took the bat and twisted the smooth wood handle around in his hands.
“Thanks, sir.”
Calvino closed the lid of the trunk and leaned against his car.
“Do you know what kind of wood that is?”
Munny shook his head.
“Ash.”
Munny repeated the word, smiling.
“It’s a hard wood.”
“I sometimes wondered when I was a kid whether the guy running in my great-grandfather’s painting had hit a home run or a sacrifice fly ball to right field. I’m not certain he knew. Let’s go in the building and see if the bases are loaded.”
As Munny turned, the boy broke free and took off running.
“He misses his father,” Munny said.
“I don’t like the feel of this place,” said Gop.
“Who are you?” asked Calvino.
He’d asked him before and was still waiting for an answer.
“Munny’s boss.”
“That’s good, and if you came to help him, even better.”
That made Munny smile.
“Let’s just get your friend into the van,” said Gop. “I’ve got a long drive ahead.”
“Thanks, boss,” said Munny. “We’ll be in and out in five minutes. That’s all the time we need to bring Heng down to the van. I told you, he’s only got one leg. He can’t make it on his own.”
“You told me he was holding the money. That was a lie. The farang gave you the money. Now you tell me your friend doesn’t have a wooden leg. Is that another lie, Munny?”
“He did have one, but some people took it away.”
“Why?”
“Because they could.”
Helping a friend was something Munny had a history of doing. In Munny’s universe that’s what friends were for, to give you help when everyone else had left you behind.
“You coming, boss?”
Gop stood in the road, half of him wanting to climb back into the Road Kill van and get the hell out of the area, and half of him not wanting to look scared in front of Munny and the stranger.
“Okay, okay, five minutes.”
Munny guided by moonlight started up the entrance stairs and then turned and stopped. Dark shadows swallowed the small pools of light at each turn.
“I’m worried about someone coming in after us,” he said to Calvino. “If you could stop that from happening, I’d be grateful.”
“I’ll stay,” said Gop. “It’s too dark. How can you see anything?”
“Boss, you come inside with me. We’ll be okay. Because this farang is gonna stick out inside, and we don’t want people noticing too much. You and me are gonna blend right in.”
The more Calvino heard the results of Munny’s planning, the more he saw that this was a man who thought two steps ahead. Survivors need luck, he knew, but they also need to anticipate the weak points of any plan. Munny was right. A farang in this place at night would create suspicion.
“I’ll stay out of sight,” said Calvino.
Munny nodded and continued up the staircase, a route he knew like a path through minefields.
“Vichet, where are you?” Munny called out.
“I’m up here,” he heard from inside.
“Gop and me are coming. Stay where you are. Wait for us.”
Munny waited for a reply, but the silence was broken by the splash of fish in the water in the basement below.
On the first-floor landing, Kiri waited until Gop had cleared the staircase before stepping out of the shadows behind him.
“Munny, you said you were coming back to work on the generator. You lied.”
Munny turned around, concealing the bat. If Kiri hadn’t been drinking, he would have seen it.
“It’s not easy moving around with soldiers and roadblocks,” said Munny.
“That’s not my problem. It’s your problem,” said Kiri.
Munny flicked the flywheel on a cheap lighter, and a narrow yellow flame outlined Kiri’s large head. He wasn’t that old, but in the light of the flame he looked it. His eyes sank back in his skull, he had a fleck of spittle on his upper lip, and he hadn’t shaved in several days. The cumulative effect was to add another twenty years to his appearance.
The full blast of the fetid air, rising from the stagnant water, hit Gop with the rank odor of a small ocean of fish, some dying, some dead and the others roiling, splashing in the water, making a racket.
“What’s that stench?” asked Gop. “I can’t breathe.”
“There’s water and fish all cooped up in the basement,” said Munny, looking over the edge and into the void of darkness.
Kiri wasn’t going to tolerate disrespect any time of day
from someone like Munny, and he yelled at him, “You’re not paying attention, Munny! Your business is with me and Nimol.”
A slant of light across his red-eyed face showed Kiri had been drinking. A pressurized anger, bottled up too long, was threatening to come uncorked. Kiri was about to enter what the Thais called the a-rom chua-woop phase, when they didn’t care about dying and all that lack of care went into hurting someone else real bad.
“Where’s Nimol?”
“Over here, Munny.”
Nimol stepped forward with Vichet, point a gun at his head.
Gop hyperventilated and bowed his head, his hands trembling as he clutched his knees. He tried to catch his breath to keep out the stink from the water below. If Gop could have mustered the strength, he’d have run down the stairs and out of the building. Fuck the Khmer who’d talked him into some crazy shit. He rose up and turned to leave.
“Stay where you are,” said Kiri. “You wouldn’t make three steps before I cut you open like a catfish.”
Gop sat down on the floor, crossed his legs and closed his eyes. Kiri stepped in front of him.
“Go up and get Heng,” Kiri said. “Sixth floor. Tell him Vichet and Munny are down here waiting for him.”
“That’s a good idea, Kiri,” said Nimol. “Get this Thai to do the heavy lifting, so you and I can make a party of it. Munny, you can start thinking about the compensation you’re going to give us for that lie you told about fixing the generator.”
Gop looked over the situation, heading up the stairs alone didn’t seem like a good idea but staying where he stood was even a more dismal one.
“If you were a real man, Kiri,” said Munny, “you wouldn’t be hiding behind a boy. You’d come after me. But you know you don’t have the balls. Your style is beating up a man without a leg, or a seven-year-old kid.
Kiri pushed the boy hard and Nimol caught him as he stumbled.
“Time to teach Munny a lesson,” said Nimol.
In the dark Kiri hadn’t noticed the baseball bat, which Munny had kept in the shadow and behind his right leg. The instant Kiri glimpsed the moving Louisville Slugger, it was already too late. Teeth shards, bits of skin with flesh attached and a thick arc of blood fanned out like a cone of light from a supernova. The momentum carried Kiri’s body across the cement floor.
First time at bat, and Munny had hit a home run. But now he wondered if he’d killed him. Only gurgling noises were coming out of Kiri’s throat and nose.
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