by Ben Ezzell
It had been a very long day. Up since midnight local time – he’d just begun to become accustomed to the time difference – then on the phone after last night’s fiasco and then driving up to Chiang Rai. Maybe now, on the way back, he could catch a few hours sleep.
Definitely, Mr. Jones thought, you should have done this in the first place – instead of relying on finding local talent. Even recommended local talent. Except the problem with asking favors was simple – you might get what you needed but you were never sure what the price was going to be.
Not, at this point, that he had many choices remaining. Whatever the price would be, the price of not recovering the disk would be higher.
For the moment, he wished he were somewhere else. Like maybe fifteen years in the past – back when there’d been more choices. Or even a year ago, he thought. Or a month even … back before Phillip had started snooping.
But it would all work out.
It wasn’t like he’d had any choice – any real choice that is…
And it wasn’t his fault. Phillip’s death was an accident. It had to be – nobody could have arranged it.
It was just that … since then … he just seemed to be getting in deeper.
He slept badly during the return trip.
DragonTree.com Contents
Chapter Twenty-Three:
Chapter Twenty-Three:
Baan Orchid, Friday, February 9th, 12:40 PM
“Ladies? Gentlemen?” Nolan addressed the table. “Now that you’ve all had some lunch – and a few hours to catch up on sleep – I’m afraid that I have to raise the question of whether you wish to continue with our tour, if you would prefer I offer some other arrangements or, of course, if you would prefer a refund. No, let me finish,” he raised a hand. “I’m afraid that things aren’t working out exactly as you expected – not as I expected either, really – so if anyone wants to back out, I’ll quite understand. Or, if you’d like me to make arrangements to relocate and maybe get away from these disruptions, I think I could manage that as well. Terry has already offered a couple of suggestions and he’s made a couple of phone calls…”
“Don’t be silly, Nolan,” Joan interrupted. “We’re having a perfectly marvelous time. Or I am, at least, and I haven’t the slightest interest in going somewhere else. After all, this is an adventure, isn’t it?” Joan surveyed the table, seeking agreement. “I mean, its not like anyone’s been hurt or anything. Except for poor Khun, of course, and I don’t think you can be blamed for that now. After all, he was a burglar, wasn’t he?”
“Could be one of us,” Bob suggested. “Next time, that is. Not that I’m suggesting quitting, mind you, but things have been getting a little wild. And I don’t suppose that you’ve heard anything on Tanya?”
“I told you, Bob,” Rosalyn laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Tanya went out last night with that young Australian chap we met the other night. Now she’s a big girl and I’m sure she’s just out having fun. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Tanya,” Joan agreed readily. “I’m sure she’s fine where she is. Now, Nolan, you don’t want to interrupt Greg’s dinner tonight, do you? After all, he was up early this morning to get to the market and I’m sure he has something very interesting planned. Isn’t that right, Greg?”
“Uh, yeah. That’s right,” Greg straightened up. “It’s mu tom khem – that’s a stewed pork dish – and Plah’s going to show us how to fix som tam using green papayas. Uh, and I’m doing a fried rice dish but it’s Thai style, not Chinese. Oh, and there are canapés and, uh, a dessert. Besides,” Greg’s grin was partially belied by a faint plaintive note in his voice, “it’ll probably be years before I get another chance to be head chef. Especially with a bunch of pros like y’all, I mean. So I don’t want to quit anyway.”
“Who’s killing the great chefs of Europe?” Sarah’s question sounded like a non-sequiter. “Have you ever seen it? The movie, I mean? Where Robert Morley was playing a food critic and someone was killing off all of the top chefs and … Well, I guess it doesn’t matter really. I mean, not that anyone’s been killed. Or even threatened really.”
“Pretty silly, really,” Bren criticized. “I mean, the movie was fun but it was awfully unrealistic. Speaking of which, I hope nobody’s planning on preparing a bombé?”
“Not a chance,” Sarah laughed. “Who was it who called a bombé ‘an overrated confection for the obstinately obese’? I’m afraid that a bombé simply isn’t my style. Not that I object necessarily to creating something lavishly ornate, just that I’d prefer it also had a degree of substance when it was finished.”
“An accurate condemnation,” Jeffery agreed. “Although I can’t place the quote. In any case, Bren and I,” he squeezed his partner’s hand, “certainly wouldn’t dream of leaving.”
“Absolutely,” Bren confirmed.
Wat Faham Road, near Baan Orchid, 12:45 PM
Maddie was right, Joan decided. This time she certainly did owe Maddie one. Well, time enough for that. And Daniel hadn’t done to badly either, she decided, leafing though the fax pages. This did explain a lot – more than she’d expected.
Of course, this didn’t explain where Alex might be – that was one item Maddie’s sources hadn’t answered.
Not that it mattered, Joan assured herself. She was pretty sure she knew the answer – in general terms, at least – even without having firm proof.
The question was: what should she do with what she had? Tell Sarah? Well, certainly – but maybe not just yet. Not until she had a little more, anyway.
Inspector Taskin? She would certainly tell him some – not everything but enough.
And she would have a quiet word with Kun Tahm. Yes, definitely. Tahm would be important. He was getting very fond of Sarah. And she of him. And Sarah would need someone, she thought.
Someone besides a dowdy old honorary aunt.
“There you go again,” she reminded herself firmly. “You’re no older than you feel and you certainly don’t feel that old. Maybe,” she smiled to herself, “you should ask Tahm if he has a friend. One who’s a little bit more mature, of course. But maybe later.”
“Excuse, missy?” the samlaw driver turned to question her. “Mai kow ji, kahp?”
“Mai pen rhy, ka,” she laughed. “Mai pen rhy.”
Baan Orchid, 1:20 PM
“I guess you’re stuck with us,” Nolan spread his hands. “Nobody wants to leave.”
“Interesting bunch,” Terry offered casually. “But I can’t say I’m surprised. Hey, you’ve seen how the average farang acts – gets all upset if things aren’t exactly like home, complains about not being able to find a decent hamburger, a croissant and brie or good Blutwurst, expects everyone to speak perfect French or German or English – not that most of them do – and generally make you wonder why they ever left home. Naw, this crew of cooks of yours are a different maw bplah.” – literally: kettle of fish – “It’s a pleasure to have them here.”
“So far, sure. But what if something else happens? I wouldn’t make any long term plans.”
“Mai pen rhy!” Terry shrugged. “But don’t sell them short either. I have a feeling that – whatever happens – they’re just going to get that much more stubborn. Hey, haven’t you noticed? They’re enjoying the excitement. Beside, even with the uproar, we’re quite pleased to have your group here. And I hope all this won’t make you hesitate to do another cook’s tour. For one thing, Plah has been really stretching herself to show off. I mean, she’s always a good cook but I think she appreciates the audience, no?”
“It does happen,” Nolan grinned. “And I did think she was more elaborate than I remembered. The ‘son-in-law’ eggs for lunch? I take it that they weren’t your usual fare?”
“Are you kidding? The only time I’ve had those before was when Mam’s mother fixed them for me. Word is they’re supposed to be an aphrodisiac. For that matter, maybe they are – Mam’s suggesting that we
should take a nap this afternoon.”
“Considering last night,” Nolan’s grin widened, “that seems reasonable. Hey, enjoy yourself.”
“Well, I’d like to,” Terry shook his head. “Problem is, I need to round up some help and a truck with a crane to get the safe back up. And I’m supposed to go by TAT to meet our new ‘gardener’. Maybe later…”
“Tell you what,” Nolan suggested. “You go by and collect the gardener, first, and then take a nap. I’ll take care of the safe. Your neighbor down the street still makes wrought-iron gates and such, right?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Because I figure he has a truck and crane for handling them. And enough help and cables and such to get the job done.”
“Yeah, probably. Should have thought of that myself. Uh, I don’t think he speaks English very well.”
“So? Is my Thai that bad?”
“No,” Terry admitted. “Just that I’m that tired. Yeah, thanks. We’ll do it that way. I could use a nap.”
2:15 PM
Joan watched for a minute while the truck and crane backed carefully across the lawn, leaving ruts in the turf as it went. The truck looked like it had been around awhile – probably longer than she’d been licensed to drive – but there was nothing hesitant about the driver or the men who had come with it.
Of course, Jeffery and Bren were there to help and Tahm, of course, but Nolan appeared to be in charge. She hoped they’d be careful and no one would get hurt.
In the mean time, she’d already had a brief nap. At her age, sleep wasn’t as important as it had been when she’d been younger and she had better things to do.
And the sheath of faxes were safe – rolled up and safely hidden. They’d be fine for now.
Crossing to the front, Joan peered through the hedge, looking to the north. Not too far down the road, she could glimpse a tuk-tuk parked outside the small convenience store. Satisfied, she crossed back to the main house, then let herself out the gate, turning down the road to the south.
Wat Faham Road wasn’t busy. On this side of the river, it was an older residential area with large houses – some modern, others in the native Thai style – each on its own large wooded site, hidden behind shrubbery, hedges or walled enclosures. A few, like the ironworks, were light industrial but most were quiet residences.
State-side, in any city of similar size, the area would have been prime for development with both the old and new houses – and the mixtures of fruit, banyan and coconut trees – leveled to make room for condos or sprawling ranch-style estates. Here, the pressure for development was less and, as she walked, a trio of colorful chickens – Oricanos, she thought – ignored her as they scrabbled for bugs in the grass along the roadside.
Joan hadn’t walked far – less than half a city block – before the tuk-tuk she’d spotted approached from behind.
“Sawat dii kahp,” the driver greeted her as he pulled alongside. “Missy need ride, mai kahp?”
“Sawat dii ka,” Joan nodded, stepping into the back. “We’ll start by going downtown. Then you can tell me where to find something, right?”
“Downtown,” the driver agreed. “Forty baht, mai kahp?” He extended a card.
“Fifty baht when we get back,” Joan directed firmly, accepting the card with a brief glance. “Now, I assume that guns are illegal here, no?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “It doesn’t matter anyway. What I want to find is a good taser. Or a stun gun. And some pepper spray of course. I assume you know where to find these?”
“Mai kow ji, kahp,” the driver protested. “Not understand.”
“Of course you do,” Joan’s manner and voice reminded the driver of occasions when his grandmother had caught him misbehaving. Her voice held the same cool tone of complete disbelief with an overlay saying ‘surely you can lie better than that’ and, for a short moment, he felt like he was six again, back in Mae Rim. “If you really don’t know, young man,” Joan continued, “then we should go by the station and I’ll ask Inspector Taskin. But I think it would be better if you simply took me, Officer Singhaseni – did I say that right? We really don’t need to bother the Inspector, do we?”
In the driver’s seat of tuk-tuk, Officer Kowit Singhaseni of Tourist Authority of Thailand sincerely hoped that he was not fool. But one thing was absolutely certain; he was not such fool that he take Kun Maguire to station to talk with Inspector.
“No gun, kahp,” he confirmed. “Not legal for farahng, kahp.” He turned tuk-tuk onto Tae Phae Road, crossing Nawarat Bridge, wondering how he was going to explain this turn of events to Inspector.
Or if there were any way to avoid mentioning it.
No, Officer Singhaseni decided, better that he tell. Otherwise – somehow – Inspector find out later. And that very bad. Mai dii mak mak!
2:37PM
Kowit Kanoontong, wearing old clothes showing much wear, stepped out of the van and looked around, feeling a slight sinking feeling in his stomach. Except for the ruts in the grass, Baan Orchid was a nice place. But the ruts were going to need filling, smoothing and replanting. And he, Kowit Kanoontong, was new gardener.
At home, Kowit was also gardener. At home, Kowit grow many good vegetable, many flower and many fruit tree but there he have wife to help. Also two children.
Still, advancement exam come soon. And exam count but good review from Inspector count too. If Kowit do good job here, Inspector notice, help Kowit advance.
First thing, Kowit decide, fill ruts and plant grass. Get grass plugs from side of yard where not show.
But not forget why here either! That most important of all.
3:19 PM
“Look, Bren …” Jeffery let his words trail off.
Bren turned to his partner but didn’t say anything.
“I … I’m sorry,” Jeffery hesitated. “About the other night, I mean. About getting jealous and all.”
Instead of answering, Bren shook his head softly, finally adding, “That’s okay.”
“No …” Jeffery hesitated, then, “It’s not really. But I’d like to make it right.” He paused again, then concluded, “Could we go back to the Iron Butterfly? Tonight? It was a nice place. And I’d like to dance with the guy you were with? I mean, he was a good dancer.” Jeffery hugged himself, biting on a knuckle while waiting for a decision.
“Let’s do,” Bren agreed after a brief pause, then smiled, adding, “Did I mention that he thought you were cute?”
DragonTree.com Contents
Chapter Twenty-Four:
Chapter Twenty-Four:
Baan Orchid, Friday, February 9th, 3:40 PM
One thing that the Thais didn’t understand, Greg decided, was bread. Probably it was because they ate so much rice and because they did so much with rice. Whatever the reason, the only bread Greg had found was white bread. Almost perfectly square loafs and, except for the crusts, as white as starched sheets.
If he’d known – or if he’d had time – Greg would have tried starting a batch of sourdough and baking his own. Still, this was the local bread so it would have to do. And this part of dinner, he intended to fix himself. Not while anyone else was around. No, the canapés would be his surprise.
Greg trimmed the crusts from a dozen slices, then cut each slice in square quarters before arranging them on a flat pan and putting them in the oven at low temperature to dry.
While the bread was drying, Greg pounded fresh coriander root, peppers and garlic in a mortar, adding a little water to make a paste.
Grinding the pork was easy. Plah had supplied an old-fashioned food mill – the kind with a hand crank. After putting oil in a large wok to heat, Greg mixed the finely ground pork with the paste from the mortar and a beaten egg, then began spreading mounds of the meat paste on the squares of dry bread.
Once the oil was hot, Greg beat another egg into froth, then dipped each of the squares in the batter before dropping each one into the oil with the mounded meat down. As each one started to brown, Greg pull
ed them out, laying them on folded paper towels to drain. He would brown them one step further before serving – they needed to be hot – but this was enough to cook the mixture and to seal them.
Munching on one of the canapés, Greg took a large bunch of coriander stalks, plucking the leaves and making a mound of greenery for a garnish. The canapé was salty, rich, and spicy – just the right blend to put the edge on an appetite. Another round in the oil and a garnish and they’d be perfect.
Next, he roasted fresh pimentos – using a long fork – until the skins blackened and split. The peeled pimentos were sliced into thin strips and set aside before he turned up the oven to preheat. The oven thermostat was marked in Centigrade instead of Fahrenheit and Greg scratched his conversions on a paper bag to make sure he had the temperatures right.
The next item was a custard. Coconut milk and eggs whipped with palm sugar into a thick liquid. That was simplicity. This was the part of cooking Greg really liked, he thought as he reached for the small kabocha pumpkins, opening each one as if for a jack-o-lantern, then scooping out the handful of seeds.
Filling each pumpkin with the custard mix and dusting the surface with fresh cinnamon, he replaced the tops, arranging them on a large tray for the oven. The pumpkins were to be served cold – cool anyway – but the pumpkins and custard had to steam for an hour or so.
The entrée could wait for now. For the mu tom khem and the fried rice, he’d wait until it was dinnertime and the other guests were ready to join him in the kitchen. And Plah was going to show him which greens to pick – along the riverbank – for a spinach-like dish cooked in coconut milk and limejuice. And Plah’s green papaya som tam would complete the menu.
There really wasn’t that much work involved. It wasn’t like a restaurant where you were serving a large crowd and having to fix a dozen different dishes at the same time. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t do it right.