Bangkok Haunts

say, “whatever.”
    “Just do what he wants, check whatever contract they offer, translate it yourself, don’t use any official translator, and report back.”
    “Certainly, sir,” I say. “Can we talk law enforcement for a moment?”
    “Sure,” Vikorn says, not missing a beat. “You mean the raid last night? How much of a cut were you thinking of for yourself?” He asks this question ironically, knowing I won’t take the money.
    “I wasn’t,” I say. “Did you know the man you were just talking to is an active member of the Parthenon? He had an affair with Damrong. He’s the john in the other blackmail clip, the one that does not star Tanakan. He’s some kind of enforcer for a snuff movie gang—did you know that?”
    Vikorn freezes for a telltale second. “We need to stay focused on our core industries,” he explains. “We don’t need to concern ourselves with minor distractions.”
    “Just tell me one thing. Is Tanakan a member of the Parthenon? Is his name on the member list?”
    He resorts to a serious tone, usually reserved for matters of life, death, and money. “If I were you, I wouldn’t go there, Sonchai. Let me handle Khun Tanakan.”
    A tiger grin tells me the interview is over.
     
    At about eleven o’clock that morning a document appears on my desk. It is a computer printout of about a hundred and fifty names. The name in question is Thomas Smith, and the only other detail on the Parthenon’s member list is his credit card number. I take out Smith’s business card. The firm’s name is Simpson, Sirakorn and Prassuman. When I check the Net, I see its webpage emphasizes private international law, corporate law, real estate, and trade. It is particularly skilled in facilitating import and export projects and can obtain letters of credit even in the most difficult circumstances. I’m on the point of picking up the phone to call Simpson, Sirakorn and Prassuman when my cell phone starts ringing. It is Tom Smith. In the friendliest, humblest, and most unctuous way, he more or less orders me to go see him at his law offices, where he has scheduled a videocon. The urgency is a function of a difference in time zones, he explains.
    At reception I pick up a copy of
Fortune
and exchange it for
House and Garden,
then settle for the
International Herald Tribune.
There are a few Thai newspapers, but they are out of date. When Smith emerges from the secure area, he greets me warmly and shakes my hand again. His French cuffs with gold links slide back, revealing a handsome elephant-hair bracelet which I had not before noticed. He catches me admiring it. “You were not wearing it yesterday,” I observe.
    He smiles. “You’re a real detective. That’s right. Weirdest thing, I was catching the Skytrain at Asok when a young monk bumped into me. He gave me this as a kind of apology.” He holds up the burnished hairs that have been twisted together. I do not wonder aloud why a monk would be handing out virility talismans at a Skytrain station. On the other hand, I think such a charm would be irresistible to a man who valued his erections as highly as Smith.
    He takes me into the heart of his firm’s suite of offices: a windowless room with a small boardroom table, a desktop computer, and a large flat-screen monitor on a stand at one end of the table. Smith is an expert on the gadget; at least he knows how to switch it on and adjust the controls. Now he picks up a telephone. “I have a videocon scheduled with Mr. Gerry Yip for—exactly now…. He’s on the line? How long has he been waiting, for chrissake? Okay,
now
make it happen.”
    He barely has time to sit me and himself in front of a digital video camera on a miniature plinth on the boardroom table before the screen brightens to reveal a short, skinny Chinese fellow in his fifties with a potbelly, wearing only a pair of swimming shorts. He is standing on a beach with his legs apart looking bored. A strong Australian accent: “Am I on or not, for fuck’s sake? On? Well, why didn’t you say so? Tommy? You there, mate?”
    “I’m here with Mr. Sonchai Jitpleecheep, as arranged, Mr. Yip.”
    “Good on yah. Trouble is, I can’t fuckin’ see yer.” Hitching the shorts. “Right, now I can. G’day, Mr. Jitpleecheep, thanks for coming.”
    I say, “Not at all.”
    “Good, right. Listen, ’cos there’s not a lot of time, I’ve got the fuckin’ prime minister first thing tomorrow, and I ’aven’t prepared, so this is the