Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat

why?”
    “Rebellion?”
    “Somebody had spray painted his hat luminous orange while he was still wearing it.”
    “He didn’t do it himself?”
    “The paint was in his eyes, around his neck. There was no sign of a can. Whoever sprayed him took it with them. And they never found the shooter.”
    It was weird and it was irrelevant and I was distressed to have been woken up so early and forced to listen to it.
    “That’s great, Siss. Thanks.”
    “You don’t sound very excited.”
    “No, I am. Tired, that’s all. Let’s keep pushing on the orange hat thing. Good job. Listen, everyone’s growling here for breakfast. I’m going to have to leave you. Talk to you later.”
    Bad start to the day: hangover, long stupid phone call, mother up to no good. It could only get better.
    It didn’t.
    Sitting in front of the kitchen block was a little man on a very old motorcycle. He weighed so little I imagined it was only his thick gold helmet that stopped him being blown off the saddle as he rode. In his hand he had a brown paper envelope.
    “Are you Koon Jum?” he asked.
    “Jimm.”
    “That’s probably it.”
    He handed me the envelope and drove off. I hadn’t had the presence of mind to ask him where he was from or why he’d ridden out at such an unholy hour to make his delivery. By the time I’d formulated all my questions he was gone. The envelope did indeed have the words ‘ Koon Jum, Lovely Resort’, written in thick felt tip. I put on the pot to boil water, then ripped open the envelope. It contained a simple black and white election flyer. On the front was a photo of a grinning candidate with a large rosette on his shirt. The flyer was very old, the paper almost separating at the crease. If the name hadn’t been written there I would never have recognized the man. It was the decidedly younger and unplasticized face of Tan Sugit beside a large, handwritten, number three. It was the type of thing poll delegates would pass on, hand to hand in villages.
    “Here’s twenty baht . This is the number you’ll vote for. We’ll know if you don’t and we’ll be back.”
    The only thing that had changed since those days was the cost of a vote. You could get up to five hundred baht for your name on a list these days. I turned over the paper and on the back in scrawled handwriting were the words, “Ask his daughter about the VW.” It was written in some watery ink that had dried brown at the edges. I really wasn’t in the mood for a mystery.
    Breakfast was a simple affair. Our guests had given up on us and driven off early to find somewhere else to eat. We couldn’t do that. We were captive. Most families would help themselves as they were coming and going from bed to work: rice porridge, a quick Chinese doughnut, some sort of dried meat, a plastic bag of warm soybean milk for the road. But Mair insisted we all eat breakfast together; sit down at one of our tables and ‘talk’. The policy hadn’t been a great success so far. Most mornings we’d just stoop over our plates and fuel up for the day. But, on this awful Sunday, Arny had an announcement to make.
    “I’ve got a girlfriend,” he said, a smile sliming across his face. We all looked at him with our spoons and forks on pause, some full on their way up, some empty on their way down, but all static. For many years we’d hoped to hear such a proclamation. We’d encouraged him. I’d introduced him to girls at school. But by the time he’d reached thirty we’d come to the conclusion there was more likelihood of America getting an African American president than of Arny having a girlfriend. We’d all secretly assumed there was something of Sissi in him that he was trying to suppress. I blamed our absent father for his lack of male hormones. We’d all given up.
    Mair dropped her spoon, leaped from her seat and threw her arms around her youngest.
    “Oh, child,” she said, “I’m so pleased for you. Well done. Well done.”
    I settled for reaching across and squeezing his hand. I was still suspicious. Granddad Jah, looking like death boiled up, stared at him in disbelief.
    “Nice one, nong ,” I said. “Who’s the unlucky girl?”
    Mair returned to her seat with a damp and shiny face.
    “Don’t be cruel,” she said. “What’s your young lady’s name, child?”
    “Gaew,” he said, still beaming with pride.
    “And what does she do?”
    “She used to be a bodybuilder. I met her at the weight room at Bang Ga. She still does