Bangkok Haunts

prods at the gun in my pocket.
    “Why don’t you kill me? I would consider it a favor.” I stare into his anguish. He swallows hard. “My wife and daughter are both servants in his mansion. He treats them well. They’re not beautiful, so he never lays a hand on them. But I’m his slave. I hope you understand.”

20
    “A body fitting the description you gave last night arrived at the morgue at six this morning,” Dr. Supatra says. She has called while I’m getting dressed. Chanya is at the
wat
begging the Buddha to overlook her former profession and provide a healthy, happy, and above all lucky baby.
    “Who brought it?”
    “Detective Inspector Kurakit.”
    “Where did he say the body was found?”
    “At an apartment rented by the deceased.”
    “You were not invited to investigate the scene?”
    “No.”
    “Thanks,” I say, and close the phone.
    I call Manny, Vikorn’s secretary, to ask her to put me through to the boss. I can tell by her tone that she’s been primed already. “He’s out at a meeting.”
    “No, he’s not.”
    “He’s very busy, Detective. I’m not sure he’s got time for you today.”
    “I want to know why I’m not on the new murder case that came in this morning.”
    “Do you want me to ask him for you?”
    “No. He’ll say it’s because I have my hands full already. I want to speak to him.”
    “I’ll see what I can do.”
    No call comes, of course. Our protocol is of such rigidity that he might as well have taken a trip to the moon—there is no way of getting to him if he doesn’t want to see me. I guess I’ll have to try to deal with Kurakit. It would have to be him, of course.
    We don’t hate each other, for the simple reason that to hate another person you have to understand them on some level. Kurakit is as baffled by me as I am by him. From his point of view, I’m an idiot who should never have been recruited in the first place. A devout Buddhist and a former soldier, to Kurakit and millions like him, life is very simple: find a billet, identify the boss, do whatever he tells you to do, and accept the promotions that follow. To him, my complicated psychology is a sure sign of insanity. He has, of course, been warned that I might call.
    “How are you?” I ask with as much bonhomie as I can muster.
    Suspiciously: “Okay.”
    “I hear a new case came in early this morning.”
    “Who told you?”
    “Is it a secret?”
    “It’s
my
case. Colonel Vikorn called me at home at four o’clock this morning. You’re too busy to deal with it.”
    “I’m not trying to steal it from you. It might be connected to something I’m working on—maybe we should brainstorm together.”
    “Brain what? What are you talking about? It’s not connected to anything you’re working on.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Vikorn said so. He said if you called, I was to tell you it’s not connected.”
    “Did he tell you who did it?”
    “No.”
    “But he told you who didn’t do it?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Did he tell you a certain senior banker named Tanakan had nothing to do with it?”
    “Yes. No. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
    He hangs up. I call again. “At least let me have the address where the body was found.”
    “No. I’m not allowed to.”
    This time
I
hang up. I call Dr. Supatra instead to ask her for the address on the admission form that Kurakit must have completed. She’s too busy to deal with it right now but promises to fax the form to me, which includes Nok’s ID number and her original address in her home village. While I’m waiting for the fax, the FBI calls.
    “Sonchai, d’you know I think what you’re doing is evil? I’ve thought about it—there’s no other word. It’s so medieval, like castrating choirboys or something. He’s only doing it to sell his body, isn’t he?”
    “I told you why he’s doing it.”
    “I don’t buy it. It’s an Oriental cover-up. You people, I’m starting to get the picture here, you still play this game of making ugly things look pretty so you can sell them.”
    “Advertising is a Western invention. Ever watch a cigarette advertisement? They used to feature pure mountain streams, so they could sell poison that gave people lung cancer. I was bombarded with them throughout my youth. So were you, probably. You’ve just got a dose of culture shock, that’s all.”
    “It’s so grotesque. Cutting everything off like that, then giving him a phony vagina. Ugh!”
    “Do you feel the same way