Live Fire

by Stephen Leather

  The hotel served breakfast in the lobby but Shepherd decided to go out for a walk to get the lie of the land. The bellboy who had carried his suitcase upstairs was on duty. He pulled the main door open for Shepherd and wished him a good morning. Shepherd headed down the road towards the beach. A group of Thai men in green vests were sitting on motorcycles, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Their skin was uniformly mahogany brown and leathery from years in the burning sun. ‘Where you go?’ asked one.

  ‘For a walk,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Too hot to walk,’ said the man. His hair was jet black and spiky and he had a spider’s-web tattoo on his neck that might have been done with a needle and a bottle of ink.

  ‘I’m okay,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘We take you,’ said the man, after a drag on his roll-up. ‘Where you go?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Shepherd.

  The group laughed. ‘We motorcycle taxi,’ said a younger man. He had a thick gold chain around his neck from which hung three circular amulets. ‘You pay us, we take you.’

  Finally Shepherd understood. They were waiting for customers. A teenage girl with waist-length hair in a pale blue knee-length suit spoke to one of them in Thai and he kick-started his bike. She climbed on and sat sidesaddle, her handbag in her lap, smiling sweetly at Shepherd as she sped off down the road. ‘Later,’ he said, and headed down the beach road. The side furthest from the sea was lined with stalls selling cheap clothing, counterfeit DVDs and tacky souvenirs. Two Thai toddlers giggled and squirted his legs with water pistols. Their mother spoke to him in Thai and she was smiling, so Shepherd smiled back. ‘Happy new year,’ she said.

  Shepherd said, ‘Happy new year,’ back to her. It was a strange way to celebrate the new year but it was so hot that the water had been welcome.

  As he crossed a side road, he saw three Jeeps parked by the kerb with ‘FOR RENT’ signs on the windscreens. He walked up and looked at them. They were open-topped with wide wheels. One was black, another vivid red and the third metallic blue with ‘Born To Rock’ in silver across the bonnet. An old man with a huge mole on his nose was sitting at what appeared to be an old school desk. ‘You want car?’ he grunted.

  ‘How much to rent the black one?’

  A fat woman, her hair tied back with a metal bulldog clip, waddled over. ‘One thousand baht, one day,’ she said.

  ‘What if I wanted it for a week?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘One thousand baht one day. One week seven days, seven thousand baht.’

  Shepherd smiled. ‘What if I wanted it for a month?’

  ‘Which month?’

  ‘This month.’

  ‘This month thirty days, one day one thousand baht, thirty days—’

  Shepherd held up his hand to silence her. ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘Thirty thousand baht.’

  ‘You smart farang,’ she said, then muttered to the old man at the desk. He chuckled, cleared his throat and spat greenish phlegm into the road.

  ‘I’ll come back with the money,’ said Shepherd. ‘Keep the black one for me, yeah?’

  ‘You not want the blue one? Bigger engine.’

  ‘I wasn’t born to rock,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I need your driving licence,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll bring it with me,’ promised Shepherd. He headed back to the Sandy Spring.

  Next door to the hotel a bar called the Sportsman, with a blackboard outside, was touting its Mega-breakfast. Shepherd’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since he’d been on the plane, and he pushed open the door. Four waitresses sprang to attention. True to its name, the bar had three televisions, all showing different sports – rugby, cycling and tennis. Shepherd sat down at a circular table and ordered coffee and the special Mega-breakfast – double egg, double sausage, double bacon, bubble and squeak, baked beans, mushroom, tomato, black pudding, fried bread, toast and marmalade. Cholesterol on a plate, but it was exactly what he felt like eating.

  The bar was dotted with horse brasses, and a rack of English newspapers stood by the door. There were only two other customers – a man in his sixties, who seemed to have fallen asleep over a copy of the Sun, and a middle-aged man in a running vest, who didn’t look as if he’d done much running in the past decade or so. He had a beer belly as full as a late pregnancy hanging over his shorts as he played pool with a girl half his age at the far end of the room.

  Shepherd sipped his coffee and half-heartedly watched the tennis. His food arrived on a huge rectangular plate. ‘Enjoy your breakfast,’ said the waitress, with a beaming smile. Already on the table there were bottles of Heinz tomato ketchup, HP brown sauce and malt vinegar. He tucked in with relish.

  After he had finished, he paid his bill and went back to his hotel room. He was bathed in sweat so he showered again and changed into a shirt and a pair of shorts. He checked himself in the mirror and smiled at his reflection. It wasn’t his style, but it was the sort of outfit that an armed robber on the run might wear. He put on his Ray-Bans. ‘Perfect,’ he said.

  He took his John Westlake driving licence and a wad of banknotes from the safe, put the estate agent’s business card into the pocket of his shirt and went back downstairs. The bellboy opened the door for him again and gave him another bow. Shepherd headed back to the beach road and along to the line of Jeeps. The fat woman took his driving licence, slid it into the pack on her belt, then counted the banknotes he’d given her. Shepherd pointed at her pack. ‘I’ll need my licence back,’ he said.

  ‘No need,’ she said, smiling broadly. ‘I keep for when you bring car back.’

  ‘But if the police stop me, they’ll want to see it.’

  The woman’s smile widened. ‘Police no want to see licence,’ she said. She held up one of the banknotes. ‘Police want to see money,’ she said, and cackled. ‘One hundred baht okay, maybe two hundred baht.’ Two hundred baht was less than three pounds, so Shepherd decided his licence wasn’t vital. The woman finished counting the money, then recounted it, slipped it into her pack and zipped it up. She said something to the man at the wooden desk. He opened a drawer and took out a key on a chain with a small plastic football. He gave it to Shepherd and mumbled something in Thai.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t speak Thai,’ Shepherd said.

  The woman cackled again. ‘He said if you lose, you pay. If you crash, you pay.’

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘I’ll be careful,’ he said.

  ‘Careful or not careful, you still pay,’ said the woman. The smile vanished, she turned her back on him and began talking to the man in Thai.

  Shepherd climbed into the Jeep and fired the engine. He reversed back slowly, then joined the flow of traffic. The baht buses that Oswald had told him about crawled along the kerb, looking for customers. Motorcycles buzzed around him, weaving in and out of the traffic. The Thais were on small Hondas or Yamahas, while the Westerners preferred bigger bikes, 1000cc Suzuki street bikes or throbbing Harley Davidsons. Most of the motorcyclists wore cheap plastic helmets and little in the way of protective clothing. Almost all the Thais had on flip-flops – Shepherd dreaded to think what would happen if they had an accident.

  He kept his speed low and the Jeep in third gear. The side roads to his left were identified by numbers on blue circles; his hotel was in the one numbered thirteen. The office of the estate agent was in number seventeen. When he reached the turn, he indicated left and took a quick look over his left shoulder. The motorcyclists behind him seemed oblivious to the Jeep’s flashing amber light and continued to overtake him on the inside. Shepherd slowed to a crawl as he made the turn. The street was lined with bars, and motorcycles were parked on the left all the was along, front wheels against the kerb. Shepherd drove slowly. Every third or fourth business was a bar and young girls sat in front of them, wearing short skirts and revealing tops. Many waved at him. ‘Where you go, handsome man?’ shouted one, and giggled.

  ‘I want go with you!’ shouted another.

  Despite himself.
Shepherd smiled. He could see how easily a man might come to believe his own publicity in a place like Pattaya.

  The estate agent’s office was between two bars, one flying the flag of Sweden, with banners offering free pool and free Wi-Fi connection, the other with the cross of St George offering a full English breakfast and a pint of Chang beer for the bargain price of two hundred baht. It was a little after eleven but both bars had customers, middle-aged Westerners in Tshirts, shorts and flip-flops, nursing bottles of local beer and gazing blearily at the street.

  Shepherd parked the Jeep behind a pick-up truck delivering plastic sacks of ice. He walked back to the estate agent’s office, stepping off the pavement to allow an old man to pass: he was carrying a pole over his shoulder with two baskets hanging off it, one containing eggs, the other a metal stove filled with smoking charcoal. He smiled, showing blackened teeth. ‘Eggs?’ he asked hopefully.

  Shepherd shook his head and turned to peer into the estate agent’s window. Two dozen photographs of apartments and villas, each with a brief description of a property, were Blu-tacked to the glass. There were three desks in the office, occupied by petite Thai girls in pale blue suits. They were watching a television set in the corner, which seemed to be showing a Thai soap opera. One was munching a chocolate bar, another was using chopsticks to attack a bowl of noodles and the third was eating crisps. None looked up as Shepherd walked in. Leading off the office there was a smaller room in which a middle-aged Westerner in a yellow polo shirt and long khaki shorts was tapping away on a Hello Kitty calculator.

  ‘Are you the boss?’ Shepherd asked him.

  The man stood up. ‘For my sins,’ he said. He had long hair slicked back, pale blue eyes, and the weathered skin of a man who spent a lot of time on boats. ‘Dominic Windsor,’ he said. ‘My friends call me Dom.’

  ‘John Westlake,’ said Shepherd. They shook hands. Windsor had a gold chain on his left wrist, the thickness of a pencil, and another around his neck from which hung a small Buddhist figure.

  ‘Can’t place your accent,’ said Windsor. ‘Midlands, I’d guess.’

  Shepherd smiled amiably. ‘I’ve been moving around a lot,’ he said.

  ‘I’m from Norfolk,’ said Windsor. ‘A long way from home.’ He waved Shepherd to the seat on the other side of his desk. ‘Take a pew and tell me how I can help.’

  Shepherd sat down and crossed his legs. ‘I’m thinking of buying a place here,’ he said.

  ‘It gets in your blood, Thailand,’ said Windsor. ‘Every day I get a dozen guys from England wanting to sell up and settle here. The way England’s going, who can blame them, huh?’ He picked up a cheap ballpoint pen. ‘What sort of budget do you have, Mr Westlake?’

  ‘I want somewhere decent,’ Shepherd said. ‘Three or four bedrooms, pool, view of the sea, maybe. Watch the sun going down with a bottle of bubbly, know what I mean? And call me John. Whenever I hear “Mr Westlake” I think I’m back in court.’

  Windsor raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you a lawyer?’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘No, Dom, I’m definitely not a lawyer,’ he said. ‘Didn’t get the A levels. So, here’s the thing. I’ve got a place in Spain that cost me eight hundred thousand euros. Probably worth a million and a half now. I’d spend about the same here.’

  Windsor’s eyes sparkled. ‘A million and a half euros?’ he said. ‘That’s about seventy-five million baht. You could get a palace for that.’

  ‘A villa will be just fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’d want secure parking for three cars, maybe four. And a decent security system would be a bonus, though I can always fit one myself.’

  ‘Is privacy an issue?’ asked Windsor, making a note on his pad.

  ‘I don’t want to be overlooked, but I’ve no problem with neighbours,’ said Shepherd. ‘So long as the place is secure. High walls for sure, and a decent electronic gate to keep out the riff-raff.’

  Windsor continued to scribble. ‘Do you have family, John?’ he asked.

  ‘Not here,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve an ex-wife back home but she won’t be joining me.’

  Windsor chuckled. ‘Coals to Newcastle,’ he said, ‘bringing a girl out here. Why would you when there’s so much on offer?’ He gestured at the three in the office, who were still eating, their eyes glued to the television. ‘See those little angels? All look like good little university girls, don’t they? Wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’ He grinned. ‘Wrong,’ he said. ‘They all used to work in a soapy massage place on Second Road. I hired them as eye-candy but they’ve taken to property like the proverbial ducks.’ His grin widened. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret, John. We have a bonus scheme here. Every guy who buys a property from me gets a free blow-job from one of the girls. How about that? Is that a deal or what?’

  Shepherd wasn’t sure if he was joking.

  ‘Mind you, if you buy a seventy-five-million-baht villa from me I’ll let you have all three,’ added Windsor, and Shepherd realised he was serious.

  Windsor stood up and went over to a filing cabinet. ‘I have to say, John, that right at the moment I don’t have anything over forty million, but the ones I have are as luxurious as you’ll get in Pattaya.’ He flicked through the cabinet and pulled out several brochures. ‘Why don’t you have a look at what I’ve got on my books and I’ll make a few phone calls, see what else I can drum up?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can you show me a few rental places as well? I’m not happy staying in hotels – I like my privacy.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ said Windsor. He winked and carried on sifting through the files.

  Sweat dripped down Shepherd’s face and he wiped his brow on his shirt sleeve. They were standing at either end of a swimming-pool to the rear of a three-bedroom villa. ‘Is it always this hot?’ he asked Windsor. The estate agent was at the far end of the pool, looking towards the sea.

  ‘I’m afraid so, but it’s cooler in the evenings and the mornings. If you wanted to get some swimming in, that’s when you’d do it.’

  ‘I’m more of a runner than a swimmer,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to run in this climate,’ said Windsor. ‘A few guys jog along the beach road in the mornings and evenings but you should see the state of them. Take it from the Thais – you never see them running if they can avoid it.’ He pointed to the sea. ‘The great thing about this place is the view, plus you’re up the hill so you get a breeze.’

  ‘But too far to walk into town,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You’ve got your privacy, though. And no noisy neighbours with pool parties in the early hours.’

  ‘What about the seller?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Guy in his late sixties. Used to be a teacher in Birmingham, cashed in part of his pension to build this place and lived off the rest. Had more sex in the five years he was here than he’d had his whole life.’

  ‘So why’s he selling?’

  ‘He got sick,’ said Windsor. He tapped his chest. ‘Dicky ticker. Insurance wouldn’t cover his treatment because they said it was a pre-existing condition so he’s back in Blighty, being treated on the NHS.’

  ‘And how much does he want for this?’

  ‘Oh, it’s well below your price range. Four million baht is all he wants. You’re right, the location’s against it, but if you wanted to rent for a few months, I’m sure we could get you a deal. Thirty thousand baht a month, maybe?’

  Shepherd went back inside the villa. It was small and not particularly well built. The furniture was cheap, there were cracks in the plasterwork and the tiled floor was uneven. Windsor followed him. ‘I’ve got to be honest, Dom. I want better than this.’

  The estate agent nodded. ‘Not a problem,’ he said. ‘It’s just I know I can get a good deal for you on it because the guy’s desperate to sell.’

  ‘I don’t want a good deal. I want bigger and I want better,’ said Shepherd. ‘I want a big pool, and I want a bit of land. Trees, coconuts, bananas – you know what I mean. And I
want to be closer to the action than this place is.’

  ‘Heard and understood, John,’ said Windsor. ‘On the rental side, how much could you run to?’

  ‘Five grand a month. Six. To be honest, cash isn’t a problem.’

  ‘The reason I ask is that I do have something a little special. The owner lives in Singapore and he only comes out a few times a year. I know he doesn’t have a trip planned for a few months and he rents it out from time to time. I think if you could run to half a million baht a month I could probably swing it.’

  ‘That’s about eight grand?’

  ‘Give or take,’ said Windsor.

  ‘Let’s have a butcher’s, then,’ said Shepherd.

  They went out through the front door and climbed into Windsor’s Toyota. Like the limousine that had driven Shepherd from the airport, a Buddhist amulet swung from the rearview mirror. As Windsor started the engine, Shepherd asked him about the amulet.

  ‘It’s the wife,’ said Windsor. ‘The monks came to bless the car and said we should have this fellow to look after us.’ He gestured at white fingermarks on the roof above his head, dotted with gold leaf. ‘They did that too. Seems to have done the trick because we haven’t had a scratch in three years.’

  Windsor drove back to the city. He was careful, rarely getting into fourth gear, and his eyes were constantly flicking between his rearview and wing mirrors. Shepherd guessed it was the way he drove rather than divine intervention that had kept his car in such pristine condition. Every time they went over a bump or a pothole Windsor reached up with his left hand to steady the amulet.

  The second villa was a thirty-minute drive from the first, on an estate surrounded by a high wall. A uniformed guard saluted them as they drove in. There were just ten homes on the estate, around a large man-made pool surrounded by palm trees. Each was encircled by its own wall with its own gated entrance, and trees had been planted around the perimeter of each plot giving it complete privacy.