AHMM, October 2010
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Cover by Vance Vasu/gettyimages.com
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CONTENTS
Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: TUNE IN NEXT STORY by Linda Landrigan
Fiction: THE FARM IN RATCHBURI by Mithran Somasundrum
Fiction: WINTER by Chris Muessig
Fiction: PANDORA'S CONFESSION by Gilbert M. Stack
Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn
Fiction: OLD DOGS by Naomi Bell
Fiction: DEATH WITHOUT PAROLE by Loren D. Estleman
Fiction: MONSIEUR ALICE IS ABSENT by Stephen Ross
Department: COMING IN NOVEMBER 2010
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Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: TUNE IN NEXT STORY by Linda Landrigan
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The stories in this month's issue are equally divided between series installments and stand-alones. Readers and publishers alike enjoy series characters, but they present writers with particular challenges. Each story must be self-contained and the characters reintroduced for the sake of the first time reader, while series fans want to enjoy some character development as well as the pleasure of seeing a familiar sleuth solve new problems in his or her inimitable way.
Stand-alones are less constrained by a character's predetermined traits (not to mention the need to keep them alive for future stories) and so may offer a greater field for surprise. Our three stand-alones this month—Chris Muessig's “Winter,” Naomi Bell's “Old Dogs,” and Stephen Ross's “Monsieur Alice is Absent"—are united in offering characters who, for good or evil, find an inner strength.
Speaking of series characters, we're delighted to report that Jas. R. Petrin's story “Nothing is Easy” (AHMM, January/February 2009), featuring Leo “Skig” Skorzeny, has been shortlisted for an Arthur Ellis Award, presented by the Crime Writers of Canada. Congratulations to Jim!
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: THE FARM IN RATCHBURI by Mithran Somasundrum
The middle-aged Thai man came into our office like a bull. He strode into the center of the room with his head down, looking preoccupied: a busy sort of bull with appointments to keep. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up above the elbows and there were twin patches of sweat under each armpit. A burgundy tie was knotted under a collar which looked awfully tight. He raised his meaty forearms to form an inverted V: twin karate chops. In Thai he said, “You're a detective."
"And a translator. We do both here."
"Never mind about translating. I'm a busy man.” He peered around the office as though expecting Doi or me to contradict him. When neither of us did, he added, “I need someone who can find things out. What do you think? Are you that kind of person?"
"Sure. That's what we're here for."
"Good. Because I don't waste time.” He took out his wallet and extracted a business card. “Noppaporn Wirarut,” he said as he handed it over. “But you can call me Nop. Freight Forwarding,” he added, pointing to the card. I looked and sure enough, it said “Freight Forwarding” under his name. “You don't waste time in freight forwarding. Time is money."
"Quite,” I said.
"So look. I'm going to come to the point. Business is not good. And that's the point. I want you to investigate my business."
"And do you have any suspicions why it's not good?"
"Yes!” It was a loud snort of a reply. “Should I tell you or should I let you investigate? I don't want to prejudice your results."
"Nop, you should definitely tell us."
"Right. I hired a new sales manager, interviewed him myself. Seemed good. But since he came we've been losing money. I want to know what he gets up to."
"But aren't you in the office with him? I mean, don't you know what he gets up to?"
Nop shook his head. “He's out a lot looking for sales. And I'm a busy man, I have a lot of . . . business interests."
"Okay, well, if you give me his name we can see what he's doing. The charge is two thousand baht a day plus minor expenses and petrol money. We usually ask for the first two days up front—"
"Ha!” said Nop and gave me the twin karate chops again. “I thought you were going to say that. You see, at the moment I have a problem with cash flow. Liquidity."
"We can compromise on the advance. I'd like to get something, but—"
"It's okay, it's okay. I came prepared. I'm a businessman, I know what it's like. Business is all about trust. I want you to trust me.” And with that he turned, relowered his head and charged out of the office. Doi and I looked at each other. She opened her mouth to speak and before the words could come out, Nop had charged back in again. He was carrying a hemispherical bamboo cage in one hand and some newspapers in the other. He spread the newspapers on the floor and dropped the cage on top of them. It came to just below his waist. I began to get a bad feeling. “Okay,” said Nop and went back out. He returned carrying a startled fighting cock that he popped under the bamboo. The bird ruffled its feathers and glared at him. “Here's your guarantee,” he said. “This is Daeng. He's a ten thousand baht-bird. What I mean about trust. I can't give you the money yet, but until you've finished investigating I'm going to let you keep Daeng."
"You know, that's probably not necessary, I—"
"What? You don't think he's a ten thousand baht-bird? Listen, you take him up to Ad Carabao's farm in Chachengsao and I guarantee Ad Carabao's going to tell you that's a ten thousand-baht bird. He'll probably want to buy him.” Nop karate chopped. “But you can't sell Daeng, of course. It's all about trust.” With that he went out again, and then came puffing in with a large sack of raw unhusked rice. “You'll have to feed him three times a day. He needs to keep his weight up. And put some water in a bowl. You see? I trust you to feed Daeng and you trust me for the money."
I couldn't argue with the logic, and so I settled for getting details of Nop's sales manager. The man's name was Sawang Tientong and according to his C.V., recited from memory by Nop, he was thirty-seven years old. Also according to the C.V., he'd had five years experience as a sales assistant in the Heng & Co. freight forwarding company. The general manager there had given him a glowing reference and explained to Nop, over the phone, that while he was perfectly happy with Sawang's output, he couldn't yet promote him—his current manager was perfectly capable. So Sawang had gone off to get his promotion elsewhere.
"Right, I have to be back at the office,” said Nop. He checked his watch. “I'm late already. You need something, you call."
Daeng craned his neck to watch Nop leave. Despite being a ten thousand baht-bird, you could see he'd been in the wars. There was pink angry flesh visible on his chest and on the hinge of both wings. His remaining feathers were mostly black, other than the dark red splash at the tail that had obviously given him his name.
After the door closed, I said to Doi, “Well, this is different.” Hearing me speak, Daeng swiveled his head and stared.
* * * *
As usual, I borrowed Doi's husband's car, a twelve-year-old Peugeot 205; and as usual, Tor handed the keys over without complaint. Which made me feel guiltier than if he'd just moaned about it.
Nop's office was in
a four story building on Charoen Nakorn Road, in between a furniture shop—wardrobes and bookshelves out on the pavement—and the wonderfully named “Angel Reinsurance Broker Co. Ltd.” A small soi curled behind these buildings. Following it round, I passed the staff-only car park for Nop's place. A bit further on I turned the car around and waited with the radio down low. Sawang's C.V. was on the seat next to me. Nop had returned to drop it off and feed Daeng a brownish red paste that he squeezed into pellets with his fist. ("We don't want parasites, Vijay.")
The soi was more of an alley than a lane, and there was little to see except high walls and loading bays, and at one point on a wall written in chalk in Thai “If you want amphetamines wait here at eleven p.m."
After an hour a guard opened the wooden gate of the car park to let out a Nissan Teana. It had the license number Nop had written on the C.V. I let Sawang turn left at the end of the soi, and then as soon as he was out of sight, I gunned the Peugeot. I followed him for about thirty minutes, into the bumper-to-bumper traffic of Silom Road. He got halfway down and then stopped outside a handicraft shop called the Tien Chan Gallery. I pulled up a few doors behind, left the engine running, and zoomed my digital compact into the shop's plate-glass window. The LCD screen showed Sawang talking with his hands, smiling and being disarming, and one arm and half a leg of the woman he was talking to. The rest of her was obscured by a large wooden dragon. Eventually he handed over a business card and came back out. Edging the Peugeot back into the traffic, I reflected that at least he was trying.
And he continued to try, stopping at a second handicraft shop (Lai Mai Antiques) on Silom to leave another business card, then heading out in the direction of the port, where he inquired at a furniture warehouse (Siam by Design). Even if his sales patter was lacking, at least he wasn't doing anything dishonest.
As I was thinking this, he took the Teana out onto the expressway in the direction of Dao Khanong. I paid the toll and went after him, knowing I was going to have trouble. Sure enough, he eased into the fast lane and accelerated away. Tor's Peugeot couldn't live with that 2.3 liter engine. Behind me a BMW came up and flashed its lights. I pulled back into the middle lane and chugged along, wondering what to do next. It occurred to me that, according to his C.V., Sawang was heading in the direction of his home. I couldn't think why he'd be going there at two p.m., but I didn't have any other leads, and Nop was paying for the petrol, so what the hell. I came off the expressway, onto the Rama II Road, bumped along past a construction site and then turned into Sawang's moo bann.
This was a grid of sois, entered through a security gate where I had to hand over my ID card. On the other side of the gate were broad tree-shaded pavements and plenty of speed bumps. The houses were all detached and of a comfortable size. You knew that come evening there'd be Toyota Fortuners and Izuzu MU-7s parked in driveways.
I found Sawang's place eventually, and there was the Teana sitting outside. It was still only two thirty p.m., so I parked in the shade of a peepul tree and waited for him to head back out. At around five, schoolchildren began trickling back home in their white-shirted uniforms. By seven the streetlights had come on and it was obvious Sawang wasn't going anywhere. Did he really think these were acceptable hours? How could he when he'd already worked in freight forwarding?
As I drove back to Chinatown I thought of how hard he'd tried in the handicraft shop, how disarming he'd been, chuckling away with heaving shoulders, inviting the woman into his good cheer. And I realized what I should have done after he'd left.
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The next day I hunted out my Lonely Planet guidebook for Bangkok, put on a pair of good jeans and my one and only silk shirt. I hoped the look said “tourist with money.” To keep up the look I returned the Peugeot to Tor and traveled to Silom by taxi, making sure it stopped directly in front of the Tien Chan Gallery. The woman inside saw me alighting. By the time I'd reached her door she was already holding it open with a bright, professional smile. I nodded and tried to look like a serious shopper. Which wasn't easy, given the shop. I was surrounded by monstrous Chinese carvings. Fierce robed warriors brandishing halberds, dragons with bulging eyes—you felt diminished standing under them. Who bought this stuff? More to the point, what did they do with it? Moving further in I found a knee-high stone lion, which I supposed I could credibly be interested in. “Twenty thousand baht,” said the woman, moving up to my shoulder. I had an unsuccessful try at lifting it. She giggled. “Real granite,” she said. “Hand carved."
"I like it, but I bet the shipping's going to cost."
"You don't worry sir, can arrange everything for you. Have a special rate for this shop."
"Yeah, thing is, I'm actually quite concerned about shipping. It's just that . . .” I realized I'd chosen totally the wrong object. “I'm a bit worried about breakages."
"Sir? It's real granite."
"I know, but that's the thing. A friend of mine had a stone lion shipped from Thailand and when it arrived the nose was missing."
"How can the nose be missing?"
"God knows. That's what the freight company said, you know, it's carved from one piece of stone, how can it be missing? But I've seen the lion and the nose definitely isn't there. My friend thinks it was chiseled off. Some kind of fetish.” The woman was now looking at me weirdly. “Tell you what, can I have the name of your freight company? I'll e-mail my friend and check it's not the same one.” The woman gave me an irritated glance and clicked away on her high heels. She returned from her desk with Sawang's card, which I made a great show of copying into the flyleaf of my guidebook: “Sawang Tientong” and underneath in red embossed letters, “Heng & Co. Freight Forwarding."
So that was half the puzzle completed. Sawang hadn't left his last employer at all. The remaining question was why he'd chosen this particular shop. And I already thought I had the answer to that one. Outside, I flagged down a taxi and asked for Charoen Nakorn Road.
According to the bell push, Nop was on the third floor. When I leaned on the outer door it opened, and so I went up the musty stone stairs without bothering to ring. At the third floor landing there were only two doors—one was locked, while the other opened onto a small cluttered office. On the other side of a wooden counter a young woman was sitting at a computer. Her hair was dyed an incongruous blonde and either she was following the craze of “big-eye” contact lenses, or she'd been staring at her monitor for way too long. Behind her were three metal desks piled with files, and behind them a glass partition with two more desks, one empty, the other occupied by a young guy eating mango slices out of a plastic bag. No one seemed to notice my entrance. I leaned on the counter and asked, “Is Nop around?"
"Nop?” asked the girl, with her huge Sailor Moon irises still on the screen. I leaned over a bit more and saw that she was playing solitaire. “Khun Noppaporn. Your boss.” She clicked her tongue and looked up with a puzzled expression. “Is he expected?” I asked.
Looking at me oddly, she went off to the glass partition. I heard her saying in Thai, “There's a keak here asking for Khun Nop."
The guy came out from the back, licking his fingers. “Yes, hello? Can I help you?"
"Hi, I've been hired to do some work for Khun Nop, and I need to see your client list."
"Khun Nop hired you?” This was apparently weirder than me wanting to know his clients.
"Do you want to phone him and check?"
The guy slouched back to his desk, ate another mango slice, licked his fingers again and finally decided he was willing to call. After a brief conversation he looked up and waved me in.
All Nop's clients were in a single Excel file, listed alphabetically, and so they didn't take long to find: Tien Chan Gallery, Lai Mai Antiques, Siam by Design. Sawang was clocking off at two because he didn't want to bleed Nop dry too quickly. I considered phoning in the news, but then decided to wait. After all, Sawang could just say he'd handed over the wrong card, forgot it was in his wallet, hey what do you know? I needed more proof.
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As I stepped into our office the ripe, farmyard smell hit me. “God.” Doi shot me a look from her desk. “Think it's bad for you? You're the one who's out driving. I'm sitting all day with this chicken.” As though knowing he was being disparaged, Daeng stuck out his chest, strutted for a couple of steps, then dropped a wet green sludge onto the newspaper. “And he keeps doing that! Vijay, I'm not cleaning after him. I take this job to be a secretary and improve my TOEFL score. You don't say anything about animals."
"I didn't think there'd be any. But look, don't worry, I've just about got this cracked.” I pulled open the top drawer of our battered green filing cabinet and began hunting. “Do you remember Khun Rit? The guy whose wife was having an affair with her gym trainer? If he can do me a favor then we could have this finished.” Doi humpfed and went back to her translating. Finally digging out his number, I phoned Rit. The point being, he worked at Thailand's Company Registry. I suspected the moo bann was far too posh for a lowly sales assistant. Sure enough, when I gave Rit the name “Heng & Co. Freight Forwarding,” it turned out Sawang was on file, listed under directors. Let's see him talk his way out of that one. “And how are you doing, Rit?"
"I'm bench pressing sixty kilos, Vijay."
"That's good, Rit."
I phoned Nop and told him to come and see us. Then I sat back with my hands behind my head. “It all came together in the end."
"You think I give him too much food? He kee so much."
"Possibly. But he's a ten thousand baht-bird, we need to keep his weight up."
This was confirmed by Nop, who arrived carrying another sack of rice in case we'd run out. “And I clean the cage as well.” He waved a handful of newspapers at me.
"That's not necessary, you can take him with you."
"What?” asked Nop.
"Our investigation is over. I know why you were losing money."