Grandad, There's a Head on the Beach

by Colin Cotterill

  “Yes.”

  “Having thus outlined the negative aspects of such foolishness, all that remains is to inquire as to what, if any, the positives might be.”

  I told him about the pride that could be felt by adhering to moral and professional standards, and when that didn’t work, I told him he’d get Egg out of his office and his ferns back.

  “With no career, I wouldn’t have much need for an office, would I now?” he reminded me. “And do you have this hypothetical witness?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then I don’t have to hypothetically commit my career to the garbage pail, do I now? Get back to me when reality steps boldly from the shadows.”

  “You don’t think I can do this, do you?”

  “I don’t think you should.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just a hunch. But if we’re talking about slavery and murder and decapitation, I doubt this is a sideline of the local embroidery society. Your foes have already tossed a grenade into your midst.”

  “Do you want to make my life safer?”

  “How could I do that?”

  “I’m planning to break into Lieutenant Egg’s files. I’d bet he has a metal filing cabinet right there beside his desk.”

  “With a lock.”

  “OK. So I sneak in there and find all his files relevant to missing Burmese. And I steal them.”

  “And what would I have to do to make your life safer?”

  “Break into it yourself.”

  He squealed a little and the customers looked around.

  “There is no way,” he said. “He’s a beast. He’d beat me to death.”

  “Chom. You’re supposed to be in that office. He’d never know. Any policeman worth his stuff could open one of those files with a bobby pin.”

  “Heavens. I haven’t worn a bobby pin since the good old days.”

  “I’ll lend you one of Mair’s. You can find a time when he’s out of the office. Take the files down to the copy room. And replace the originals before he gets back. Nobody would need to know you were involved.”

  “He never announces where he’s going or for how long. He could walk in any minute.”

  “Then I’ll distract him.”

  “Just how would you go about that?”

  * * *

  “Sissi?”

  “This is she.”

  “Are you still in the country?”

  “Yes. But I’m considering applying for political asylum in Korea.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “Do you remember telling me there wouldn’t be any middle-aged ladies with expensive perms marching out to the airport to throw themselves down in front of my jumbo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t recommend fortune-telling as your next career move.”

  “No way.”

  “I’m at Suvarnabhumi. They’re everywhere: retired pilots, middle-aged women in bulging sweatpants, tropical-fish-shop owners. It would appear your yellow-shirted yuppies are in the process of laying claim to our national airport. Bangkok’s middle classes are on the rampage. A fearsome mob. There’s a backgammon game going on as I speak.”

  “Are they stopping any flights?”

  “Not yet. Seoul is still up there on the departure board. But my faith is dwindling. I’m having a karma attack.”

  “They wouldn’t. I mean, they aren’t going to. Don’t worry. How did they get in?”

  “Same way they got into Government House. They whispered sweet nothings into the ears of the heavily armed police on the barricade. Told them who was funding the invasion, I wouldn’t wonder. Reminded them of the oaths they swore at school and strolled right on through the lines. Your average policeman is overcome with guilt when aiming his gun at a terrorist who looks and sounds exactly like his primary-school teacher—and probably was.”

  “How long before your flight?”

  “Somewhere between forty minutes and infinity.”

  “Do you want something to take your mind off it all?”

  “Anything.”

  “Can you get online?”

  “Of course. I’m traveling first class. They’d fly in Bill Gates if I asked.”

  “You obviously haven’t flown first class for a while. But do you think you’ll have time to do me one quick favor?”

  “Probably more than enough.”

  “Do you think you could access Bpook’s class lists for the duration of her course at Georgetown?”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “I could probably do that on my iPhone with my eyes closed.”

  “Big head.”

  “How do you think that would help?”

  “I don’t know. I’m wondering if there was some relationship issue. What if she had a boyfriend studying with her, someone who was taking advantage of her?”

  “Isn’t that the role of boyfriends anyway? I doubt there’d be a cross-reference of relationships in the public domain.”

  “No, but we can see what names come up often in her classes. She said she was a rental, dented and dumped and used.”

  “You want me to check call-girl agencies around D.C.?”

  “You don’t think…?”

  “She wouldn’t have been the first.”

  “Well, OK. But I doubt she’d have used her real name.”

  “The Web sites post photos of their girls these days. Prostitution’s come a long way.”

  “She said, ‘The monitor lizard knew nothing.’”

  Sissi laughed. I knew why. The Thai word for monitor lizard is heea, and, oddly, it’s the dirtiest word we’ve got in our language.

  “Male or female?”

  “She said it in English so there was no gender. But somebody’s really upset her. If it was the call-girl thing, it might be a friend or relative that got her involved. Could have been a boyfriend pimping her out. But I don’t know. She doesn’t seem the type. She’s got the looks, but she’s missing the tough edge. She seems so innocent.”

  “They pay extra for that.”

  “I know.”

  * * *

  I knocked on the door of the office that was formerly that of Lieutenant Chompu.

  “Come in” came a gruff voice that clearly wasn’t his.

  I entered and found Lieutenant Egg sitting at Chompu’s old desk, the one with the bullethole decals across the front. Chompu was at a sort of card table off to one side, working through a pile of files. The annoying short-wave radio was on, the volume too loud.

  “I’m looking for Lieutenant Egg,” I said.

  “That’s me,” he said.

  I’ve never understood how men with bad toupees can be unaware of exactly how ridiculous they look. I wonder if they gaze lovingly at themselves in the mirror and visualize their heads twenty years earlier before the bald bugs started gnawing at their roots. Lieutenant Egg really looked as if some flock of small birds had built a nest on top of him. But the rest of him was all brawn, so I doubted anyone dared make fun of him. He was a rough-looking man, not to be reckoned with.

  “My name is Jim Juree,” I said. “I’m a journalist doing a piece for Thai Rat about the police and their relations with the Burmese.”

  “Why come to me?” he asked.

  “Major Mana said you were responsible for Burmese matters.”

  “So?”

  He looked pointedly at Chompu, who hadn’t yet emerged from his paperwork burrow.

  “So I’ll be looking at officials at every level, from village headmen, through medical and emergency personnel. I need to know what the attitude of the police is.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “The major believes it would be valuable for his station to have this story told. He said it might dispel some widely held myths that there’s any anti-Burmese sentiment in the police force.”

  “The major said that?”

  He probably would have done if he’d been here and not off selling herbal hair condit
ioner out of the back of his Pajero.

  “Yes.”

  “All right. No names to be printed. I haven’t got much time. Grab that chair and bring it—”

  “I’d rather do this just the two of us.”

  “That’s all right. Loo-ten-ant Chompu can skip out and pick daisies somewhere. Isn’t that right, Loo-loo? Got some embroidery to do?”

  Chompu blushed.

  “Ah, the major had me set up my recording device in your meeting room,” I said. “There are refreshments there as well.”

  Lieutenant Egg slapped his palms on the desk.

  “This better not take long,” he grunted.

  “Ten minutes. Fifteen at the most,” I said.

  The lieutenant slammed shut the file he was working on, picked up his radio receiver, and stamped past me and out the door. I raised my eyebrows to Chom.

  “Fifteen minutes at the most,” I mouthed and tossed him a pack of bobby pins before following the lieutenant along the corridor.

  After taking a long time to settle down and test the recorder, which was being temperamental, I finally asked Egg what his role was when dealing with the Burmese community. I wanted to ask him to turn off his short wave, but I didn’t want to antagonize him. He summed up his duties in about four sentences and leaned on the desk, ready to stand.

  “Is that all?” he asked.

  I couldn’t think of any more questions, but I knew he’d walk if I didn’t say something.

  “Why you?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Why did they make you the representative for the Burmese? There are a lot of officers of the same rank. Why you?”

  “I’m an expert,” he said.

  “On…?”

  “Burmese issues. I’m fluent in their language. I know more about their history and culture than most of the uneducated peasants you meet over here. I’m a sort of ambassador, I suppose you might say.”

  As opposed to a diplomat. He was distracted by movement in my rain cape, which hung from the door.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Dog,” I said.

  I got the feeling he thought I was lying.

  “So you were also liaising with the Burmese when you were stationed in Pattani?” I asked.

  He glared at me.

  “How do you—”

  “Major Mana.”

  “Yeah, I was organizing cross-cultural events. Awareness training for new arrivals. That kind of thing.”

  “Well, that’s just wonderful. I admire men who care about ethnic problems.”

  “Right. Other officers—they don’t care so much. But I’m very sensitive to the problems the Maung face.”

  Ten minutes and counting.

  “And fluent in Burmese. Wow. Where did you learn that? I’ve looked at the textbooks. It seems unfathomable. I reckon you have to be some kind of genius to pick it up.”

  I got a brief gloat out of him.

  “You know, here and there,” he said. “Some people just have an ear. What can I say?”

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying that you seem to be a very special human being, Lieutenant. An officer of the law. A linguist. A social worker. I’ve a good mind to rewrite this just as a feature on you.”

  Mistake.

  I’d gone too far too soon. I could see him shut down. He stood and went to the door.

  “None of that,” he said.

  “I don’t have to use your photo.”

  “Nor name. Nor the story.”

  “Why not?”

  He was already halfway out the door.

  “I like to keep my altruistic side private. Modest that way, I am.”

  “Couldn’t you…?”

  But he was gone. I looked at the time on my phone. Twelve minutes. Depending on how long it had taken Chompu to open the cabinet, sprint downstairs, make copies of all the relevant files, sprint back up and replace them, then return the cabinet to its original state and rearrange his hair, I thought twelve minutes would be just about enough. That was if everything went according to plan.

  I walked along the corridor to their office, where I found Egg standing with his hands on his hips, staring down at his filing cabinet where a nylon police-issue jacket, the type Chompu had been wearing to lunch, was hanging by one corner, wedged in the top drawer of the metal cabinet. Chompu sat at his desk wearing a smile that had seen better days.

  9.

  We Will Iron Each Other

  (from “Islands in the Stream” — THE BEE GEES)

  The water in the stream behind our resort had risen above the banks and was spreading slowly. The sea in front of us was rising gently, now creeping beneath the door of hut number one. The gray sky sent down a steady sprinkle of rain. It was a humble invasion but one that would eventually drown us all. In Chiang Mai, our wise country folk built houses on stilts to keep their families cool in summer and dry in the rainy season. In the south, everyone built at ground level and laughed in the face of floods. It was the Rambo response to disaster. “Come and get me, nature!” “It’s only water,” they say here. “We’ll be dry in a week.” They may have been right, but I’d already watched a table/bench/straw roof set float off to the horizon. Our toilets were shipwrecked, my vegetable patch was being eaten by fish, and our new home, our only livelihood, sat on a sliver of land between the devil river and the deep gray sea.

  I had to leave the motorcycle up on the road beside Captain Kow’s because our carport was waterlogged. The water reached the top of the Noys’ Honda wheels, but at least it was still there. That meant they must be too. Mair and Gaew were in the shop. It was an impressive sight. The ladies of the co-op had done an astounding job. They’d cleaned up and repaired and repainted. They’d replaced the smithereens of wooden shelving with neat bamboo racks, and the place looked every bit as good as it had before the blast. Admittedly, it hadn’t looked that great before the blast. And all this they’d done without the aid of electricity. The power was off all over the district. A little drop of rain and “pop” goes the transformer. I went over to Mair and reached into the pocket of my poncho. I carefully pulled out little Beer. I swear she was about to spit at me until she noticed Mair standing in front of her. And before my eyes the dog became lovable. I offered her up in the plastic hood, but my mother took hold of the puppy in her bare hands and held it to her bosom. She stroked its head and gave it a kiss. I had to look away. I wondered whether Mother Teresa had a daughter who didn’t care that much for lepers. Probably not.

  “There,” said Mair. “See? She’ll be just fine. Do you want to introduce her to her brother and sister?”

  I couldn’t think of anything worse. Between them, they’d probably insult her, then eat her. Mair had too much faith in natural dog bonding.

  “No, Mair. I’ve done my duty for the day. You serve her up yourself.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She kissed me on the forehead with the same mouth that had kissed the dog-of-the-living-dead. But what could I say?

  “Your policeman friend phoned,” she said. “Twice.”

  I’d forgotten that Chompu had Mair’s cell phone number. I’d turned off my phone the minute I’d fled the Pak Nam police station. I suppose it was good news he was still able to press the numbers. It meant not all his fingers were broken. I know I should have stood by him. I should have told Lieutenant Egg it was me who forced Chompu to break into his cabinet. But I needed to keep that newsman’s distance. The crime editor at the Chiang Mai Mail—when he was still sober—had told me, “You can only write about a gold shop robbery if it wasn’t you that did it.” It was conceivable he was speaking literally, but I was young and impressionable and I tended to prefer to see him as a wise seer speaking in fables. The lesson learned was that the journalist had to remain aloof, report the crime with enthusiasm but not to the point that she becomes a part of the investigation. It had been one of the most profound moments of my journalistic education, not at all diminished when the editor’s brother
was convicted of robbing a gold shop. Evidently, his masked accomplice had escaped. The editor had me write up the report. It was my first byline. A moment and a moral I’d never forget. I had faith that my cunning Lieutenant Chompu would have come up with a viable excuse as to how his jacket was trapped inside the other lieutenant’s cabinet. The true answer probably fell somewhere between darned bad luck and stupidity. But it wasn’t my call.

  “Grandad not back yet?” I asked.

  “Goodness,” said Mair. “He’s been dead for forty years. What kind of a sick question is that?”

  “I meant my grandad.”

  “Oh, that one. No.”

  “Have you seen the Noys since breakfast?”

  “Now that’s a story,” she said. “Usually they don’t make it far from their cabin. Can’t say I blame them with this weather. But it’s nice to see they’re getting more adventurous. They made it all the way to Pak Nam today.”

  They’d escaped?

  “Mair, are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I got a call from Boung at the bank. The power was out there too, so the ATM wasn’t working. You know? A bank is rather like a block of soap when there’s no electricity. All that useless equipment. I bet most of the girls there can’t do sums in their heads.”

  “So, the Noys?”

  “They couldn’t use their credit cards, could they now? And it wasn’t their bank. They could have had our bank phone their bank to get confirmation, but I imagine our Noys would be wary about making contact with anything connected to their real lives, wouldn’t you? A few phone line traces and, zoom, helicopters descend on Pak Nam Lang Suan, men in black parasailing down wires.”

  “Why did the bank clerk phone you?”

  “To verify I knew them and would vouch for their credit card.”

  “Wait! How did they get to Pak Nam? Their car’s down there in the carport.”

  “Another story. Boung saw them pull up in front of the bank on the back of the drinking water truck.”

  “The man who delivers the bottles here?”

  “Supachai.”

  “So they really were escaping.”

  “You know, I bet they were avoiding paying their bill.”

  “Mair, the deposit they left would have been enough to put Arny through law school. No, they were afraid it wasn’t safe here anymore.”