Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat

all the time – but if you’re an old cynic like me you’re more likely to suspect foul play and less likely to be disappointed. I know from experience how easy it is to lose your old ID card and apply for a new one. You slip the typist a thousand baht and her finger skids on the keyboard and, voila, you’re somebody else. Nothing from your past appears on a computer security check. So, I ran a background search using the old spelling, and what do you think I found?”
    “Jail?”
    “You’re good at this. Songkla Correctional Facility, 1979 to 2002.”
    “Ooh, that sounds serious.”
    “Manslaughter. Negligent homicide. And do you know why he’d had to serve the complete term? No pardon, no early release for good behavior? Because he killed a tourist couple.”
    “What? That’s great. I mean, not for them, but, you know.”
    “I knew you’d be pleased.”
    “It evidently wasn’t serious enough to get him a criminal murder rap.”
    “The prosecutor was certain. He pushed for life.”
    “Sissi, you’re…”
    “I know.”
    The day couldn’t have started any better. Two leads and I hadn’t even started breakfast. I showered and dressed and stepped on Gogo on my way out of the hut. She shrugged as if being stepped on was her lot in life, and fell in behind. I wanted to know why she was sleeping in front of my room but, well, she’s a dog and I didn’t know how to find out. Apart from our five ‘luxury seaside cabanas’ (small conjoined concrete boxes with no refrigerators or ambiance) there were four less luxurious huts off the beach where our family lived. One apiece. According to Kow the squid-boat captain, the way the monsoons were chomping at the coastline every year, it wouldn’t be long before our back cabins were beachside and our cabanas were floating somewhere off the coast of Vietnam.
    I didn’t see any movement in the other three huts. I was usually the first one up in the morning but that day Mair was in the shop working on what she called a display. It involved piling sardine cans into pyramids and putting a ribbon on the top. I pointed out that customers were less likely to buy the sardines because they’d be afraid of disturbing the ribbon. She told me that was nonsense.
    “Ed came by again,” she said.
    “Do I know Ed?”
    “He’s the tall man who does the grass.”
    He sprang to mind immediately: lanky with big untrustworthy eyes and a mustache that looked stuck on. Far too young.
    “And?”
    “He was asking about you.”
    “Asking what?”
    “You know. If you’re single.”
    “But you told him, right?”
    “Told him…?”
    “What I told you to tell any man who starts to ask personal questions.”
    “Well, I…”
    “You didn’t, did you?”
    “I can’t, child. It’s not nice. And you aren’t.”
    “Mair, it doesn’t matter whether I am or not. It’s what they believe that counts. Men are worms, maggoty worms. They’ll keep on chewing away on you unless you put a bad taste in their mouths.”
    Sometimes metaphors let me down when I need them most.
    “He’s a nice boy.”
    “I’m sure he is…a boy.”
    “It’s not right, child. You’re still young. You should be having fun with men. A bit of a kiss and a cuddle would cheer you up.”
    “Mair, do you really want to get into the ‘You need a man’ routine? Because I can play that as well, you know? So, did you tell him or not?”
    “I might have said that you weren’t particularly interested in men at the moment.”
    “Great. That’s not really the same as saying I’m a lesbian, is it now?”
    “All right. I’ll try.”
    “Thank you.”
    “He has his own palm field.”
    “Every man and his cow has a palm field. I wouldn’t call it financial security. You need ten hectares just to make enough money to pay the men to come and cut down the berries.”
    Mair did her Titanic smile.
    “What?” said I.
    “It’s nice to see you developing an interest in the local markets,” she said.
    I walked behind her, turning over all the tins she’d placed upside down.
    “Come on, Mair. We aren’t catering to bats, you know.”
    She stopped.
    “Your father kept a pet bat.”
    Hallelujah. My father, at last. I couldn’t believe he’d snuck in. How was I to react? What should I say not to nudge her off the track?
    “What kind of bat?”
    “Oh, you know. The usual ugly, hairy little bastard. It used to scare the daylights out of me. He let it stay in the bedroom.”
    “What was his