He thought of Caroline. How yet again he had taken a wrecking ball her life.
Michael found his phone and dialed Tin’s number.
Voice mail.
“Please call me,” he said.
He clicked on CNN. The news reports were still leading with the Islamabad explosion. He switched off the TV and watched an ant walking across the stone surface of the counter. He watched it until it disappeared under the kettle. When he saw his distorted reflection in the chrome he looked away.
His phone rang. The lawyer.
“Tin. I’m sorry. I’m monopolizing your time.”
“No worries.”
‘I’ll pay you, okay? I’ll pay you for your time.”
“Mate, slow down,” Tin said. “I don’t want your money. What’s up?”
“Can we meet?”
“Sure. I can be at your place within the hour.”
“No. Not here. Can we meet at Blues?”
“Absolutely.”
At the bar Tin drank, grimaced, and set his glass down. He stared at Michael.
“Okay, mate. Talk to me.”
God, it was tempting to spill everything to this man.
Then Michael saw the haunted look on Caroline’s face in the video and knew that her life was his to save.
“I need ten million U.S. in cash. The funds are no problem, but will a Thai bank give me that amount of dollars?”
Tin took a while to reply. “Okay, Mike, what the fuck’s going on?”
“I just need to tie up a few loose ends.”
“Loose ends?”
“Yeah.” Michael downed his drink and waved the empty glass at the barman, the ice cubes clinking like poker dice.
“Loose ends don’t run to ten mil U.S., Michael.” When he got no reply Tin said, “This have anything to do with that video?”
Michael gaped at him, for a mad moment believing that Tin was talking about the video of Caroline in captivity. Then he laughed unconvincingly and said, “Nothing to do with my little beach escapade.”
“Mike, I’m your lawyer. I’d also like to believe I’m your friend.”
“You are. Of course.”
“So level with me, mate.”
Michael’s fresh drink arrived and he took a slug. He looked at Tin.
“Do you want to help me?”
“Yes.”
“Then please just tell me how I can get my hands on the cash as soon as fucking possible.”
Tin looked down at the counter. As he toyed with a coaster something shifted in his face. When he turned back to Michael his eyes were cold.
“You can’t get it from a bank. That’s way over the foreign currency limits.”
“Is there another way?”
Tin took a long breath. “I’m risking disbarment even talking about this.”
“Please, Tin.”
The lawyer nodded. “There’s another route. I’ll make a few calls.”
He pushed his unfinished drink away and stood.
“Understand this, Michael. I’ll get you a name. Then you’re on your own.”
Michael nodded and watched Tin walk away.
82
The heat in the windowless room was unlike anything Caroline had ever experienced.
With its sheet metal roof the tiny space was like an oven. She lay on the floor near the door. She had stripped to her underwear and still the sweat flowed from her, pooling beneath her back on the concrete. She felt as if her eyes were being cooked in her skull.
She’d drunk all her water within an hour of waking and banged on the door for more. Charlie threw in another two plastic bottles.
She soaked her shirt and washed herself.
She wet her hair and lay down.
The air was thick and hot in her lungs. She felt as if something were sitting on her chest, suffocating her.
Caroline tried to distract herself with thoughts of winter as a child.
Conjuring the cold and the ice and the snow.
Conjuring a wrecked car flipped on its roof in a blizzard, engine still running, exhaust still steaming.
“Darling! Darling!”
Charlie’s voice brought her back into the molten room.
The door opened and bumped her foot as he rolled a bottle of water across to her.
As the door was bolted and locked she grabbed the bottle. It was almost frozen. It chilled her hand, and she left fingerprints on the misted plastic.
She uncorked it and gulped the icy liquid, taking pleasure in the frigid burn.
Caroline stretched out on the floor again and held the cold bottle against her forehead.
She heard the scrape of a chair as Charlie settled himself outside the door. A lighter clicked three times and she smelled cigarette smoke.
“Better?” he said, and coughed.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He dragged on the cigarette and exhaled. “I thought we might have a little chat.”
“About what?”
“Oh, nothing in particular. Just shoot the breeze. To pass the time.”
“Shoot the breeze?”
“Uh huh. Isn’t that what you lot say?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Jesus, Charlie. Just fuck off, okay?”
When Caroline heard him stand and lift the chair she realized she was being unstrategic.
“Wait,” she said. “Please.”
The plastic chair creaked as he sat down again.
“I’m upset,” she said.
“Understandably.”
“What do you want to chat about?” she said.
“Oh, I dunno. Stockholm syndrome, maybe?” He laughed.
Despite herself she laughed too.
Then the laugher drained away. “So what’s happening? With me?”
“Michael is getting the money together. I think we can expect a very positive outcome by the end of tomorrow.”
“You’ll get the money and you’ll just let me go?”
“Of course. Happiness all round.”
She drank and said, “You’re not sick, are you, Charlie?”
“The cancer?”
“Yes.”
“No. Fit as a fiddle.”
“So you just hung out at the hospital to set your little trap for me?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” He puffed and exhaled. “But I did like you. Still do actually.”
She wanted to yell at him but she bit it back.
“You’re doing this with Liz aren’t you?”
A beat. “Liz?”
“Come on. Liz Keller.”
“Oh, that gauche American floozy you were having coffee with at Central? Good God, darling, I don’t know her from a bar of soap.”
“You’re lying, Charlie. You went after me and she went after Michael. You shot that video of them on the beach, didn’t you?”
His phone rang and he stood.
“Lovely yakking, but I have to take this.”
He walked away and she stared up at the roof. The late sun had turned the rusted metal deep orange.
It would be dark soon.
83
At sunset Liz Keller stood at the window of her hotel room, looking down at the pool below. Foreigners were sprawled on loungers like victims of a massacre. She smoked a small joint and sipped from a glass of vodka that left rings of moisture on a wooden table.
She looked beyond the pool, over a wall, at a row of rundown rooms where Thai workers lived. A child played in the dirt, oblivious to a dead cat that lay rigid and bloated near the road.
Liz turned away and crossed to the bathroom and dropped the stub of the joint into the toilet bowl where it hissed and died. She flushed it away, washed her hands and stared at herself in the mirror.
She looked like a debauched boy.
Returning to the room she took a burner phone from her bag and dialed.
“I thought you’d forgotten me,” Charlie said.
“Not yet.” She sat on
bed and leaned back against the headboard, closing her eyes on a small headache. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. The lodgings are unspeakable, of course.”
“Not for much longer.”
“Hubby’s being a good boy?” Charlie said.
“Yes. He just needs a little time to get things together.”
“Of course.”
“And our friend?” Liz said.
“Good as gold.”
“You’re not getting all palsy-walsy now are you?”
“Darling...”
“I know how much you love being liked,” Liz said.
“And like being loved.” He laughed.
“Charlie...”
“Relax-ay-voo, darling.”
“Be careful,” Liz said
“Always.”
She threw the phone on the bed and it bounced once.
Liz rose and found her vodka.
The sun was gone and she stood in the dark and closed her eyes and drank.
84
Michael sat on the sofa in the glass living room with all the lights on, like a man with nothing to hide.
A black wheelie suitcase stood beside him. It contained three hundred and fifty million Thai baht. Eleven million dollars. He’d drawn an extra million to take care of any additional expenses.
The money meant nothing to him.
He had a bottomless reservoir of money.
When he’d come to Thailand he’d transferred thirty million dollars into a Thai bank in Phuket Town. Small people in suits had waid and fluttered around him like moths when he’d gone in to formalize the transaction.
Earlier today he’d called the bank and asked for the money to be prepared for him. An hour later he’d driven over and collected it. Three women in blue uniforms had packed it neatly into his suitcase. An unarmed security guard had escorted him to his car.
He could’ve left it in the SUV in his driveway but for some reason he found it reassuring to have it in sight.
His phone rang.
He expected it to be Tin but it was a number he didn’t know.
“Mr. Michael Tate?” an American man said.
“This is he.”
“I’m Todd McArthur. I’m with the Citizen Services Unit at the American Embassy in Bangkok. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time to call?”
“No, not at all.”
“I’ve just been on the line with the police in Phuket and they’ve apprised me of the situation regarding your wife. First let me say how sorry I am to hear about this.”
“Thank you.”
“It must be very distressing.”
“Yes, it is. Very.”
“I’m calling to let you know that I am available to you twenty-four hours a day for any help you may need. If you would like me to come down to Phuket, I could be on a plane in the morning.”
“No, Mr. McCarthy—”
“MacArthur.”
“Mr. MacArthur, that won’t be necessary. But thank you.”
“Well, if there’s anything else don’t hesitate to call.” A pause. “As I understand, your wife has not yet been found?”
“No,” Michael said, “not as yet.”
“Well, should that status change and you need help with the repatriation of... of Caroline, I’ll be standing by to help.”
“That’s very reassuring. Thank you.”
“Well, then I’ll say goodnight Mr. Tate.”
“And goodnight to you.”
Michael put the phone beside him. A thin wire of lightning flared briefly over the ocean, but he doubted it would rain. Monsoon season was months away. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but he did.
He found himself in the kitchen and knew he should eat, even though he wasn’t hungry.
He considered making spaghetti marinara, but he couldn’t imagine eating it without Caroline.
It was her favorite meal.
85
Caroline’s mother came to her in the dark. Her real mother, not the bizarre apparition she had conjured before. Sarah Dunne with her French plait and her soft eyes.
“Time is running out, Caroline,” her mother said.
“Yes.”
“When he gets the money he’s going to kill you.”
“I know that.”
“Then you have to fight. You have nothing to lose.”
Her mother was gone and she lay on the floor in the heat of the night. It was cooler than the day, but still stifling.
She wanted to cry, but what would be the point?
She was too dehydrated for tears.
86
At just after 9:00 AM Michael heard the churn of a scooter. He went to the bedroom window and looked down to see a helmeted Food Panda delivery rider in a pink T-shirt coming up his driveway.
He’d just stepped out of the shower and water dripped from his damp hair onto his shoulders. He wrapped a towel around his middle and went downstairs.
The Panda guy handed Michael a parcel and he tipped him generously. The man waid and took off.
Michael carried the food package into the kitchen. The rancid tallow stink of KFC assaulted his nostrils as he set the bag on the counter. He’d never been able to stomach KFC. He opened the bag and took out two white boxes with red stripes. The one contained chicken. Without guilt he threw it into the trash. He opened the second box and found something wrapped in paper napkins.
He removed a cell phone.
Michael rinsed his hands and took the phone with him upstairs, putting it on the bureau while he dressed in chinos and a cotton shirt.
Tin had called him half an hour ago, on an anonymous line.
There was none of the lawyer’s usual banter and bonhomie.
“Expect a food delivery within an hour. There’ll be a cell phone with it. A man will call you on it sometime today. He’ll speak enough English to give you instructions. Follow them exactly.”
“Thank you.”
“I know nothing about this,” Tin said, and he was gone.
Michael finished dressing and went downstairs.
He sat on the sofa by the suitcase of money, the cell phone on the cushion beside him.
He waited.
87
Charlie lounged on the plastic chair in the shade outside the front door of the house, smoking a Dunhill, drinking a beer. It brought to mind an old country song. Something about having a beer for breakfast and another for dessert. He detested country music but it was good advice all the same and he went to the fridge and got himself a second Chang.
He poured half of it down his neck and it helped ease his nerves.
It wasn’t fun this, minding Caroline Tate.
He’d drawn the short straw, hanging out in the sweltering hovel watching his prisoner unravel while Liz swanned around in a fancy hotel.
He could see her lazing by a pool somewhere.
Or having a facial.
Or a Brazilian wax.
When he caught himself humming “The Girl from Ipanema” he knew he was going stir crazy.
A blackbird swooped down and tore at a plastic bag of garbage left under a tree by the previous tenant. The bag released a fetid stench. Charlie chugged down the last of the beer and threw the bottle. It shattered against the tree trunk and scared the shit out of the bird, which squawked shrilly and flapped away.
Charlie laughed. Then his laughter dried when he recalled his grandmother boxing his ears when she’d caught him throwing stones at the blackbird that had nested in the eaves of their building.
“Watch yourself, you little bugger,” she said, shaking him by the neck. “The blackbird is a messenger of the fuckin devil. It brings death and malice, it does.”
Superstitious twaddle.
Still, the memory knocked the shine off the morning just a tad.
Charlie stood and scratched his armpit. He rotated his neck, easing out some kinks.
He just needed to see the day out. He’d be collecting the ransom money tonight. Driving the van to wher
e he’d stashed an anonymous Yamaha scooter on a side street in Chalong—the Vespa was too recognizable—and use the bike to do the pickup.
Liz had tried to insist that she should do it, but Charlie had shaken his head.
“It’s a job for someone on a bike. Quick in and out.”
She couldn’t argue. And she didn’t ride a bike.
One of the very few things she was afraid of, motorbikes.
She’d looked at him and said, “Now you’re not thinking of taking the money and disappearing on me are you, Charlie?”
He’d gaped at her. “Darling! What a thing to say!”
“Don’t tell me it hadn’t crossed your mind?”
“Never. Scout’s honor.”
She’d shaken her head and smiled sourly
Truth was he had thought of doing a runner with the money. For all of two seconds. Then he’d dismissed it. He owed Liz her half. And a deal was a bloody deal.
But he doubted she had his scruples, which is why he’d lobbied so hard to do the collection himself. Even though he knew it was a potentially perilous business.
He stood and strolled over to the van. A miserable heap he’d rented for a week from a down-at-heel Serbian pimp who used it to ferry whores around the island. Charlie fancied he could still catch a whiff of cheap perfume and unwashed lady parts.
He opened the glove box and took out something bundled in a red T-shirt. A Glock 17. Also courtesy the Balkan flesh monger.
Charlie was no gunsel but he wasn’t a total monkey when it came to weapons.
He ejected the clip and checked that it was properly loaded. Checked there was one in the pipe and smacked the clip home.
He replaced the gun in the glove box.
Liz didn’t know about it.
But what the hell, he wasn’t about to do tonight's business without a little backup.
88
At exactly 11:00 AM Michael drove the SUV out of the parking lot of the Big C supermarket on the main road of Kamala Beach. He turned right, toward Patong, passing rows of two storey buildings painted in faded blues, yellows and greens. Minimarts. Pharmacies. Opticians. Tailors. Expat bars. Realtors.
Good Friends Page 17