Vulture Peak, page 2
I stared at him. “Why me?”
“Who else? You speak English. You are the half-farang bastard son of an American serviceman and so can pass for near white. You are also accustomed to international travel. That’s already three qualifications not owned by anyone else in District Eight. If you must know, there is a fourth.” Predictably, he paused with his eyebrows crooked. When I refused to rise to the bait, he added, “You’re actually interested in truth and justice. I had a feeling that might come in useful eventually.”
I was not in the mood for those kinds of games, so I scowled instead of smiled. This modest symptom of insubordination used to be enough to get you traffic duty at the Asok/Sukhumvit interchange in the old days; it still was in most cases, but when the Master has bigger fish to fry, he can be amazingly tolerant. Now he was grinning into my bad mood; not a good sign. Still standing, he reached down to pull out the top drawer of his desk, from which he extracted what looked like a scroll about eighteen inches in width. Now he was holding one edge of the document in his left hand next to his left cheek, while unrolling it with his right. Okay, now I saw it was not a document. It was a poster showing him in a brilliant white military-style uniform with brass studs, which is the identity of choice for any Thai man who needs to make an impression on the community. But it was the caption underneath his picture that was drilling holes in my psyche from every direction.
I went gray, because all the blood had drained from my face and an attack of nausea had begun rolling something around in the depths of my stomach. “No,” I said, “you can’t be serious. Please tell me this is an elaborate joke to humiliate me, I can live with that. Just put that damned thing away before I puke.”
Even these strong words failed to dent his amused stare. “It’s official. You can check with the electoral commission if you like.”
“You as governor of Bangkok? You’re really going to run?”
“That’s what it says, isn’t it? There’s going to be one of these on every third lamppost in the city. I’ve already booked and paid for all the television time I’m allowed under the rules.” He rolled up the poster and threw it on his desk. Now he was rubbing the left side of his nose with his left index finger, a sign of unadulterated triumphalism. “Actually, I can hardly lose. None of the other candidates has the dough to beat me. My political counselors tell me there is only one element missing, only one minor flaw that could trip me on the way to the top.”
Now I was beginning to understand. “In twenty years as a colonel in the Royal Thai Police, you have never done a single thing to fight crime, while doing a great deal to contribute to it.”
My words really should have had him in a rage, but instead the grin just got bigger. “That’s not entirely true. I have done one very important thing to fight crime, something that has cost me dearly over the years.” He paused for effect, then continued, “And now it’s payback time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You. I’ve put up with you and all your sniveling, bleeding-heart conscience, your holier-than-thou posture that gets up everyone’s nose and has had half the payroll moaning to me about you on almost a weekly basis for the past ten years. I’m not just talking about your monk manqué attitude, I’m talking about the number of man-hours you’ve wasted on forensic trivia when you could have been earning your keep. I’m talking about more than a decade of mollycoddling at considerable expense, taking into account how much money you would have made if I had listened to other voices. But I didn’t, did I? You’re still here, aren’t you? I knew I’d find a use for you in the end, though even I never thought it would take a whole decade.”
I was flushed, now; raging blood and a thumping heart replaced gray with near crimson. Suddenly the words were out: “Fuck you. I resign. Right here and now. You’ll have it in writing as soon as I get back to my desk.”
I was stunned that I still had not penetrated his impossible complacency. He was even shaking his head while smiling tolerantly. “Oh, no you don’t. You can’t.”
“Why can’t I?”
“Because this is your big moment as well as mine. I’m giving you the highest-profile criminal campaign in the country, and your goody-two-shoes Buddhist conscience will drive you till you drop. All I ask in return for bestowing upon you such glory, such cosmic opportunity to mend and improve your karma to the point where, if you’re obliged to reincarnate at all, it will be as a prince or captain of industry or even, Buddha help us, a holy and revered abbot of a great monastery—all you have to do is tell the truth.”
“Which is?”
“That your soon-to-be-world-famous crusade to put an end to the nefarious practice of illegal trafficking in body parts, which is so vilely exploiting the poor and the helpless, et cetera, is driven by me. You don’t even have to confine yourself to Thailand—the Philippines is a world center for organ trading. You can even extend beyond Southeast Asia—in Moldova human kidneys are the staple of the economy. They grow them for cropping the way we grow rice. You’re going to be our first World Cop. It’ll put us on the law enforcement map like never before—we’ll get to be more self-righteous than Western Europe and the States put together. We’ll be the Mr. Squeaky Clean of organ sales.”
My jaw dropped. “You’re going to plaster it all over the media, aren’t you? I mean, the international media? You cunning bastard. The surest way to get the respect of the Thai people is to get the respect of the rest of the world first, especially the Western world. You’re going to give exclusive interviews to CNN and the BBC, which will run endlessly on Thai TV. Damn it, you can’t lose.” I was scratching my jaw furiously. “And you get to nail Zinna into the bargain. It’s two birds with one stone.”
“Right.”
I slumped. “And it’s true, I can’t refuse.”
“See, you agree with me on every point.”
“It’s also an easy way to get myself killed.”
“There is a risk factor, I agree. But how long do you think you would live if you resigned from the force?”
Stress now had me all curled up in my chair—if I were alone, I would have been in a reality-denying fetal position on a bed somewhere. Of course, he had anticipated this moment, just as he had stage-managed the whole interview. Now in one seamless action, he took out his wallet, extracted something small and black from it, sat on his chair, leaned back, and chucked the credit-card-sized black object across the desk. It landed in front of me. I refused to pick it up or even look closely at it. “What is it?”
Now he showed the first sign of irritation. “What does it look like?”
“A credit card.”
“What a genius detective you are.”
“A black one?”
“If you pick the bloody thing up, all will be revealed.”
Correction: if I picked it up, it would be a symbolic act of defeat. Well, he’d already defeated me, so I picked it up. “Amex? They make black ones? Is it for people with poor repayment records?”
He smirked. “You jerk. If you had one atom of street sense you would know you could buy a jumbo jet with it.”
I turned it over a couple of times and shrugged. “So congratulations, I already know you’re filthy rich. What’s it got to do with the price of human testicles?”
“Look again, mooncalf.”
I looked again and gasped. “It has my name on it.”
“You’ve no idea how I had to lie to get them to put you on the account. They checked you out—they told me things about you that were truly shocking, but I battled on. It’s a supplementary card. Just don’t tell any of my wives—they’ve been on at me to get them one ever since they found out what it is.”
“You mean—”
“Of course, I put a limit on it—a very generous one, actually.”
“How much?”
“Not telling you. Let’s say, if you find out, it will be because you’ve gotten uncharacteristically extravagant—or because the case has taken one of those turns that only money can control.”
All I could do for the moment was to stare, as if the sinister black piece of plastic had arrived from a distant planet. “But why do I need it? If the case requires cash, I can just come and ask you for it.”
He sighed. “You’ve missed the main clue, Detective.”
“Okay, I’m just a dumb monk manqué—what clue?”
“In the old days you would have got it in an instant. I deliberately let it drop early on in this interview. I’m very disappointed. And don’t say ‘fuck you’ again—you only get to play that card once in a lifetime.”
Now I shrugged and made myself look even dumber than he was making me out to be. I let my jaw hang and gave him a slack-eyed stare.
“The United Arab Emirates,” my Colonel said with heavy patience. “That’s where you’re going. Start with corneas, and work your way down till you get to testicles. I want the list of contacts as it develops.”
“The UAE? I can’t just land in the middle of the Arabian Desert and start selling corneas.”
“I know. I already told you I looked into the trade a few years back. I have contacts who will be interested in taking on a Thai apprentice organ hunter.”
I scratched my head. “What are the names of the contacts?”
“D’you know the Chinese for ‘Old Hundred Names’? Never mind. Just say ‘the Vultures,’ and everyone in the business will know who you’re talking about.”
“Where are they based?”
“Everywhere. The ladies speak a thousand languages, own a thousand faces. I think you’ll have a lot of fun with this case. Don’t worry if you have to do things that threaten your marriage. I’ll corroborate it’s all in the line of duty.”
3
My first thought after leaving his office with shoulders slumped was to rush home to my partner, Chanya, a former whore who’d worked in my mother’s bar, the Old Man’s Club, where we fell in love. We’re not legally married but went through a Buddhist ceremony, which is what counts in the country area where Chanya hails from. A few years ago our only child, a son, died in a traffic accident, and the event changed my darling forever. She grew serious, studied sociology from a distance-learning institute, followed up with a master’s in the same subject, and now works day and night on her Ph.D. thesis, which, naturally, is all about prostitution in Thailand, with a special emphasis on Bangkok. Let me be specific: she conducted almost the whole of her research in Soi Cowboy, where my mother’s bar is situated. All was going well until the university in its wisdom replaced one of her Thai supervisors with a farang woman, with whom Chanya did not get along. For a year it had been one long High Noon between the two of them, each trying to outresearch the other. I didn’t think I was going to get the reception I needed by going home right now.
Instead, I checked the open-plan office where I have a desk to see if my assistant, Lek, was still there. But it was six-fifteen in the evening, and he’d long since left work. I doubted that he’d gone home, though. I pressed an autodial number on my cell phone. When he answered, I could hear a plaintive Isaan folk song in the background and a lot of semifemale voices. When he is among his own kind, Lek turns pretty much totally fag.
“Where are you, Lek?”
“Master, darling, is it really you? Soo wonderful of you to think of me.”
“Lek, I have a new case you’re going to have to help me with.”
“Anything, Superman, anything you say.”
“Be serious for a moment. You have a good connection in the army, don’t you?”
A snigger. “I do love your discretion, master.”
“There’s a General Zinna angle to the case. I need to talk to you.”
Lek dropped his fag performance. “Zinna?”
“Just tell me where you are, I’ll come.”
“I’m in the Lonesome Cowboy in Nana Plaza. Do hurry, I can’t wait to show you off to my friends.”
Now I was outside the police station, facing the long row of cooked-food stalls, which would be illegal if they didn’t cater to cops, and I was of two minds about whether to grab a cab or walk to Nana. I knew that if I decided to walk, it would start to rain, and that if I grabbed a cab, it would not. Just to prove that I could predict the future, I started to walk. By the time I got to the end of the soi, the heavens opened; call me Nostradamus. The drops were light enough at first, and of course it was about thirty degrees Celsius, but this was the remnant of a typhoon that had been lashing Vietnam for four days, and now the sky had turned black and all of us on the street were hit with great plashing drops of warm water that soaked you from top down and also from bottom up because the rain bounced off the sidewalk to a height of maybe twelve inches.
By the time I reached the Sukhumvit/Soi 4 interchange, the calves of my pants were wet rags. The roads had started to flood and turn into shallow brown rivers. I decided to wait in a doorway with a clear view of the traffic jam. Cars, trucks, and buses pumped carbon monoxide into the warm rain; an old diesel bus with no air-conditioning stopped right in front of me. Rows of Thai faces stared implacably into the bad weather. A couple of whores and a katoey who were hanging around looking for customers had also taken refuge in the doorway, so it was quite cozy. The katoey was by far the most beautiful of all of us, but given to pouting. By the time I decided to make a dash for it, I had offended all three of my new friends by declining to hire any of their bodies.
I reached Nana soaked through. Farang don’t like to get wet, not even in the tropics, so the plaza was almost without customers, the outside bars awash with water, the girls huddled together under the extended roofs that are supposed to look like country pavilions. I knew the rain wouldn’t last long, though, and even if it did, lust and loneliness would bring the white men out to play sooner or later; anyway, these were mostly Isaan girls, conditioned from childhood to take a contemplative attitude to life: they have a hundred ways of passing the time, mostly by grooming one another. At the Crazy Elephant three girls were looking for lice in the hair of three other girls, and the remaining “waitresses” were making up in mirrors. The Isaan hairdresser in the corner was doing a roaring trade as usual, and as the girls wandered in for work, they waied the Buddha shrine next to the Forbidden City bar, sometimes bringing lotus and other offerings to lay under the saffron-robed statue. As recently as five years ago there were only heterosexual bars here, but the katoey market has grown inexplicably in recent times. Is something happening in farang land you need to tell me about, DFR? Don’t you like girls so much anymore? Is it feminism that has turned you off or something latent in the soul, so long denied, that is emerging in this new century of enlightenment?
I’d not been to Nana for years, so for me this was a trip down memory lane. When I saw that the Lonesome Cowboy was on the ground floor at the back of the plaza, I had to smile to myself. It used to be called the Catwalk; my mother, Nong, worked there when I was about twelve years old. I used to take a motorbike taxi early in the evening to come and ask for money for food; sometimes, when I got lonely, I would arrive in an emotional mess as late as one or two in the morning. If Mum was with a customer, her friends would take care of me. According to the head experts, I should have quite a few problems, shouldn’t I? Well, I can report that in my case I do have one unusual quirk: I adore whores. Generally speaking, they are the most honest and generous of women, and the only ones who have a clue about men.
The entrance to the bar was covered by a red velvet curtain and guarded by four katoeys (in shimmering silver body gloves or gold one-piece swimming costumes with white daisies at the bosom). They gazed upon me as a prospect and undressed me in their imagination as they let me in; I saw about twenty more katoeys in bikinis and faux-ermine shawls busy eating their evening meal. They were using the stage as a table and discussing silicone inserts with reference to the price/quality tradeoff. There was no sign of Lek. I nodded at the mamasan, a katoey in his midforties who remembered my mother from the bar’s earlier incarnation; he nodded back.
Now I saw that Lek was sitting at a table in a dark corner and had been watching me with an excited grin on his face since I walked in. The other katoeys watched jealously as I strolled over, just as Lek intended. He was right to be discreet—all katoeys are compulsive gossips; but they are also a sub-subclass: no one listens to them, no one accords them the right to be taken seriously. I’m fond of Lek, perhaps I love him, but I don’t appreciate his fag persona, so I went stern, just as he started to tease me about being in a katoey bar.
“General Zinna,” I said, and he immediately got the message. He nodded humbly. Now he was a doormat who would take any punishment from the master he loved. “I only heard the story about his accident tenth hand. He’s into body parts, all of a sudden?”
“It was such a terrible shame,” Lek said with a sigh. “That young fellow was tall, strong, and handsome like a dream.” Lek shook his head. “The most beautiful soldier in the army, they used to say. And an ace marksman.”
“Zinna was driving?”
“Of course. He used to love to drive his Ferrari down lonely country lanes with his latest beautiful boy by his side. He doesn’t do that anymore. They say he sold the Ferrari.”
“A cement truck?”
Lek nodded. “It was all General Zinna’s fault, he admits it himself. He didn’t lie or punish the truck driver—he just paid off the cops. They say he really was broken up about it. He tried to buy the boy a new face, even went up to China to arrange for the surgery, because there was that case in the news in Beijing where they transplanted a whole face from a brain-dead person to some guy who got attacked by a Rottweiler—but you can see from the pictures the surgery didn’t really work. He still looks like a monster.”
