The Corruptionist

by Christopher G. Moore

She had to make a decision: Was this foreigner a possible hole that might swallow her and her husband in one belching gulp? She kept an eye on Calvino as if waiting for him to do or say something. Calvino stepped forward, keeping his head half bowed like a medieval courtier. He reached the table, using both hands to offer the basket filled with mangoes, bananas, kiwi fruit, and oranges. She nodded for him to set the basket on the table. Calvino positioned it on the table in front of the khunying so she could get a closer look.

  She moved one of the candles to the side of the basket and examined it. It was a dangerous game. If the demonstration succeeded in bringing down the government, the factions in the department who had supported the leaders would be rewarded; if it failed, then the police would need deniability. Wives were a perfect foil. No man was expected to control his wife, and her actions could be distanced from his in a way that every man understood. But they also knew how the game was played.

  “He’s our good friend. My husband has known him many years,” said Manee. What she really meant in this roundabout way was clear: “I can vouch for Khun Vincent.”

  “And so can I,” said Ratana.

  Manee introduced Ratana as someone from a good family.

  Looking around the room, he understood what was at stake. Manee and Ratana were offering themselves as guarantors; if something happened to cause damage because of Vincent Calvino, then they’d both be held accountable. And what was a guarantor other than a specialized type of hostage? On the scorecard of guilt, Manee and Ratana would have received a perfect score. In an odd way, it was almost reassuring to have a farang in the room to blame if whatever they planned fell apart, blew up, or faded away into nothingness.

  Without asking him, two Thais had pledged their family as a guarantee for his good conduct. He felt imaginary handcuffs on his wrists, leg irons around his ankles, and a gag tight around his mouth. The general’s wife smiled at Manee and Ratana. She motioned for everyone to sit at the table. At last Tamarine had been satisfied that Vincent Calvino understood the deal—and how things worked if the deal were broken.

  “Do you have a Thai traffic lesson that explains what’s happening?” Tanny asked in a whisper.

  He smiled, his eyes hovering for a moment before they returned to Tamarine. “It’s about the social status of someone passing on a blind turn. Rank determines who walks away, who gets left in the road.”

  Mem took the chair nearest to Tamarine and her two friends.

  “Everyone is grateful for your work at the pharmacy,” said Tamarine, repeating herself as though the purpose of the meeting had been to congratulate Mem. “If I can do anything to help, I can try.”

  Mem turned, nodded at Tanny. “This is my first daughter, from America. I’ve told her that you can find justice for my family.”

  Tamarine showed no emotion or acknowledgment, looking at Mem like a poker player glancing up from her cards. Manee had briefed Tamarine on the basic facts of the daughter’s murder during the war on drugs. Tamarine’s first comment was to pronounce a judgment about Tanny’s appearance. “Ouab un,” Tamarine said. The others laughed. Mem explained to Tanny that the Thai saying referred to someone who’d grown up eating a lot of beef, milk, and eggs. The kind of diet that ensured a woman would develop a voluptuous body. Once the small talk was over, they reached the point where dealing with Tanny’s dead sister could no longer be avoided.

  All eyes in the room were on Tanny as she talked about how much her mother had suffered, and how she herself had gone through the evidence to see that clearly there had been a gross injustice. The general’s wife never stopped smiling. How much of Tanny’s fast, clipped English Tamarine understood wasn’t clear, since by her expression she indicated that everything was understandable. And, in an odd way, it probably was. When Tanny finished, she sat back in her chair. A moment later the conversation switched back into Thai. Tanny discovered the hard way the importance of the language barrier—finding herself on the outside looking in, confused and frustrated, like a child shut out by the adults.

  If Tanny had expected help, she would have been disappointed. She waited for her mother to lay out all the facts about her sister’s death, not knowing that that wasn’t the way things worked. It wasn’t necessary. Tamarine had no reason to hold a meeting unless she’d been convinced that Mem’s daughter had been a victim of an extrajudicial killing and that she might find a way to reward the mother who’d devoted her time to the cause with an inquiry. And there was another benefit—Manee would be in her debt, meaning that her husband, Colonel Pratt, would also owe the general a debt.

  “Please, help my mother,” said Tanny.

  Tamarine smiled, and in English said, “I know how difficult it has been for your family. In Thailand we all love our family. And we feel hurt when something bad happens.”

  Real power and justice in a criminal matter weren’t drawn from the conclusiveness of evidence gathered at the crime scene—the outcome was determined by the importance of the person who left the evidence, his connections and influence, which trumped eyewitness accounts. Calvino figured the chances were that Tamarine’s husband might gain by going against the senior officer who had approved the murder. Whatever happened next, it would have little to do with how justice worked in other places. Everyone had feet of clay, but on close inspection, some people were clay all the way up to the top of their heads. And it was this kind of people who were the first to be tipped over and hauled away, the ones swallowed up by a crack.

  Nong, a thirty-two-year-old, had a lovely smile. Her friends complimented her on her clothes sense. She rose early in the morning and fed the monks who filed past her house. Nong had never missed a payment on her red Toyota, which she used to take her children to and from school. Her husband was named Gung. He worked for a local realestate company. He was liked by his colleagues and had good relations with his neighbors. The police said Nong had been a major methamphetamine dealer.

  Nong was shot in her dining room, in Korat, on February 11, 2003. She was eating lunch with two neighbors. They had been discussing a project to raise money to build a new sala in the grounds of the wat where the monks who came past their houses each morning lived.

  The neighbors said that an “unidentified man” arrived in a pickup truck, walked inside the convenience store that was part of the house, and shot Nong five times. Police refused to pursue the case, saying they’d found court documents in Nong’s house indicating that she had acted as a guarantor for more than two hundred drug suspects who had been released on bail. Her guarantee had been called in. There was no need to proceed further.

  The ex-prime minister said that the first war on drugs had made the Thai public happy with his administration.

  THIRTY

  BRANDON DRANK WITH the recoil action of a double-barreled sixteen-gauge shotgun shoved into his mouth. Or so an American freelance travel writer reported.

  The reporter’s name was Kincaid. After the crowd had thinned, leaving only a scattering of hardcore drinkers, Brandon heard his name being called. His fan club sat around a table, and they waved him over. Brandon crossed through a handful of stragglers. A woman asked him about a set of cancer-rate statistics she’d read in The Guardian.

  “There’s a link between increased cancer and genetically modified corn. It could be the same for rice. I’d like your opinion.”

  “Corn, rice, peaches, lobster—lady, you can find statistics that show anything will cause cancer,” Brandon said as he brushed past. “Eyeliner, lipstick, bikini panties.”

  “I don’t think that really answers—”

  But he’d already sat down at the table, Kincaid slapping him on the back and introducing him to Harry, a wireservice hack from Berlin, and Ian, a TV cameraman from Denmark. Brandon liked the back of the club better than the front, with its TV cameras, platform, and guest table. Kincaid bought Brandon a drink. When the whiskey arrived, Kincaid watched in awe as Brandon performed his seal-swallowing-a-whole-herring trick. Most of crowd had left th
e club. The hardcore drinkers had also dwindled, leaving only Brandon’s fan club and a few other stragglers.

  The woman who worried about cancer walked up to the table.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Brandon asked her.

  “I don’t drink,” she said.

  “I’m told that’s good. Me, I eat genetically modified food and drink. I’ll take my chances. Sure you won’t have a drink?”

  She had turned and walked away. Brandon shrugged and caught the eye of the skinny head barman, signaling another round.

  “She’s afraid of cancer,” whispered Brandon.

  “She doesn’t trust the Chinese,” said Ian, rubbing the side of his face as if it had gone numb.

  “Blame the Chinese. Everyone does. But I think they’re trying to improve their game,” said Brandon. “The world’s gotta eat.” He paused, watching Gillian disappear out the door. “She has nice legs,” said Brandon. “At least what I saw of them.”

  “You’re not a problem drinker,” said Harry. His Berlin accent made it sound like a stern cop’s warning.

  “I’ve got no major problems with drinking.” He thought for a minute. “And no minor ones.”

  “You must be a single man,” said Kincaid.

  “Single-malt man,” said Brandon.

  After Brandon finished his drink—ahead of the others—he invited them to go drinking. “Two things that draw a big crowd: A dinosaur exhibit and naked women. If you could combine the two elements, the sky’s the limit.”

  “You know a place like that?”

  A radiant smile crossed Brandon Sawyer’s face. Half an hour later, they cleared out of the club, leaving behind a half dozen others. Brandon phoned ahead, and his driver was waiting with the van outside the side entrance to the Maneeya Building. When he saw Brandon, he got out and slid open the door. Brandon was in the back, taking the top off an ice chest. He removed a bottle of white wine, opened it, and poured plastic glasses to the brim, handing them to his new friends.

  By the time Brandon’s van reached Sukhumvit Road, they’d polished off the bottle. Brandon climbed out of the van and led the way along a narrow neon-lit soi lined with bars and hole-in-the-wall massage parlors and restaurants. Near the far end of the soi, Brandon turned into a fourstory shophouse where the neon sign out front flashed in red and green lettering—lost horizon. Once inside the bar, Brandon nodded at a waitress and then a farang owner, then continued up three flights of stairs. At the top they entered a fake tropical jungle. A wet bar had been built in the middle of the jungle foliage.

  “I don’t see any dinosaurs,” said Harry with childlike disappointment.

  Brandon pushed back the plastic leaves on a fake tropical fern and pointed at a dinosaur about the size of a cocker spaniel. He pushed back a plastic green banana leaf to disclose another, slightly smaller stegosaurus skeleton that looked like the skeleton of a cat with tiny shark fins taped to the arched backbone.

  “Aren’t dinosaurs supposed to be bigger?” asked Ian.

  They watched a waitress arrive to take their drink order; she wore an outfit that signaled she’d crossed the line between cheerleader and streetwalker. Kincaid stared after the waitress as she walked away and said, “I thought the second thing you told us about at the club was naked women. These all have clothes.” Several yings began massaging Brandon’s shoulders and back.

  “Feels so good,” Brandon said, his eyes half closed. “Stop complaining. ‘The dinosaurs are too small, the women are wearing too many clothes.’ You sound like a gay hairdresser screaming over a hair floating in his bowl of noodles.”

  His fan club had slowly begun to unravel. Brandon had managed to do what Brandon did best—break the audience’s mood with a rapid-fire barrage of insults. Ian stared at his drink as if there were a dead mouse in the bottom, the German looked disappointed, and Kincaid ruffled his own hair in a gesture of tired frustration.

  “Let me get this straight. You came for a good time?” asked Brandon.

  The mood of the evening had been broken. Harry glanced at his watch. “Got to work tomorrow.”

  After Harry left, Brandon said, “The Germans give the work ethic a bad name.”

  Ian patted the head of the stegosaurus.

  Brandon eyed him closely. “You’re not leaving, too?”

  “Got to,” said Ian.

  “I thought you guys were serious drinkers. But you’re a bunch of pussies,” said Brandon, pretending to be a little hurt. And that left Kincaid, who stood near the model of a sauropod, which had a neck and head shaped like a penis. The skeleton didn’t look quite right but somehow it fit the atmosphere of the upstairs party room.

  “Kincaid, it’s only you and me, buddy. Fuck the Europeans. Us Americans gotta stick together. I have a story that will run with your byline in the New York Times.”

  “I’m a travel writer. I write features about full-moon parties. Vultures eating decomposing bodies left on a hill in Tibet. I can sneak in a story about lions eating people.”

  “Tabloid shockers,” said Brandon. “That could work.”

  “Did I give you my card?”

  “Three times so far. But I’m drunk. You can always give me another one.” Brandon smiled and slapped Kincaid on the back, pulling him closer. “I’m talking about taking tabloid journalism to a lower level. And you seem the man with the talent to do that,” he whispered in Kincaid’s ear. “A story with all the elements people love—conspiracy, betrayal, lions, powerful forces, exotic locale, and controversial new technology.”

  Kincaid cocked his head as if engrossed in what Brandon had to say, listening to what appeared to be the set-up for an offer of some kind.

  “Journalism that makes a reporter’s reputation, Kincaid. You interested?” Brandon asked.

  “I think I already have a reputation.”

  “Among the local boneheads. I’m offering a story that will make you an international reputation.”

  Kincaid rolled his eyes. “I’m unworthy.”

  “Yes, you are,” said Brandon, ignoring Kincaid’s smirk. “Why me?”

  Brandon sighed and removed his arm from around Kincaid’s shoulder. “You’re the only one left. That’s why. See over there? That’s the hall to the short-time rooms,” said Brandon, gesturing with his hand. “See the tyrannosaurus rex skull next to the first door? Maybe something you can work into the story.” From the number of teeth it was missing, the skull could have come from a hockey player or a betel-nut chewer.

  “Exactly what’s the story that’s going to make me famous?”

  “All in good time.” Brandon grinned; he’d hooked his man, and now he just had to slowly reel him in.

  Kincaid watched as Brandon lowered himself onto an overstuffed sofa and raised his feet, anchoring them on the sauropod’s long neck. A couple of yings massaged his legs, and Brandon hadn’t seemed to notice when Kincaid slipped down the stairs and into the night.

  At 4:30 a.m. Calvino’s phone rang. He fumbled in the dark to find it under the front page of the newspaper. When he finally answered it, Colonel Pratt asked him if he’d been sleeping.

  Calvino said, “Kinda early, Pratt. You got insomnia?”

  He fought back a yawn, sending a shudder down his body.

  “Or have you got some other reason for being up at this ungodly hour?”

  A long, aching silence filled the line. Calvino sat up, reached over, and switched on a reading light. On the mattress beside him, Tanny had rolled over, clutching the sheet close to her throat.

  “It’s Brandon,” Colonel Pratt said at last. “Vincent, he’s had a heart attack.”

  Calvino closed his eyes, rocked forward in bed, leaned over Tanny, pulled back the blinds, and stared out at the empty streets, slick with rain. “When?”

  “A couple of hours ago.”

  She smoothed his hair, ran her fingers across his shoulders and back.

  “His body’s been delivered to the morgue,” said Colonel Pratt. “I got a call a few minutes ag
o.”

  Pratt hadn’t needed to say anything more. If there was any doubt that people far removed from him in the department were using his connection to Calvino, the phone call eliminated it. Being used was the other side of using. One hand washes the other, as Calvino’s Uncle Mario said from his retirement home in Miami.

  “You want me to identify the body?”

  Tanny, foggy with sleep, slowly sat up, pulling up the sheet to cover her breasts. She searched for his eyes in the halo of light from the reading lamp. Calvino gently put his finger against her lips.

  “You said something about a body?” she whispered anyway.

  Calvino covered the phone with his hand. “Brandon’s dead. Pratt needs me to identify the body.”

  “You’re not the only person who can identify him.”

  Calvino shrugged and spoke into the phone. “Brandon’s got a houseful of people who can identify him.”

  “It’s short notice,” said Pratt. “But the American Embassy prefers having an American body identified by an American.” This appeared totally reasonable to Pratt. It never quite sank in that Americans came in all shapes and sizes and from all ethnic groups.

  Calvino switched off the phone, his hand going slack as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m meeting Pratt at the Police Hospital to identify his body. You might want to phone Brandon’s brother.”

  Her eyes were wide open. “What happened?”

  “No details. Colonel Pratt said it was a heart attack.”

  “You want me to go with you?”

  Calvino shook his head as he pulled on a short-sleeved shirt, smoothed his hair, and shook his head. He leaned over the bed and kissed her. “Get some sleep.”

  “Go,” she said.

  He reached over and kissed her again. “I won’t be long,” he said.

  “I’ll wait.”

  On the drive to the Police Hospital, there was no traffic, the city emptied of people. It might have been another place—or the same place after a virus had wiped out the population. He thought about how Tanny had pushed him. It was a woman thing, and a woman trained in due diligence pushed better than most. A discussion about his relationship with Ratana was one he’d avoided even with Manee and Pratt. He told himself that there was a kind of love that, once acknowledged, evaporated. Such a love flourished only in silence. Both of them understood that any attempt to address any feelings would have been as successful as tapdancing on gravel.