“He’s right about the film,” the headman said. “We all watched it. I remember the scarves too.”
“Who was wearing the scarves?”
“The motorcycle yobs. There were about six of them, nasty pieces of work as far as I could see.”
“They arrived after the Mercedes, or before?”
“About the same time. They surrounded it.”
“You see any of them open the door?”
Old Tou laughed. “No, they did the same as you and your partner. They got off the bikes, went to the car and kind of ogled and grunted, then they started jabbering. I don’t think they were as tough as they made out. Then they all got together for some kind of powwow, and ran back to their bikes and left.”
“Were they speaking Thai or Khmer?”
“Too far away to tell. Anyway, how the fuck would I know if they were speaking fucking Khmer or Chiu Chow Chinese?”
“Was any of them female?”
“Give me another drink, asshole.” I motioned to the headman, who poured some more whisky down Old Tou’s throat. “Female? No, these were swaggering boys, you know the type, probably on yaa baa or ganja, no true manhood, they couldn’t stomach the scene in the car. After they’d gone I went over to see what all the fuss was about. That black farang was being eaten alive by that python. There were cobras, too.”
“What did you do?”
Old Tou licked his lips. “Well, I couldn’t be sure, you know.” The way he said it made some of the audience crack up. Several squatted in order to laugh harder.
“Couldn’t be sure? How’s that?” More laughter.
“I get visions.” Hilarity now from the audience. Two men and a woman lay down in order to enjoy a really good laugh. Some people leaned against a hut, overcome by giggles.
The headman grinned broadly. “He hallucinates a lot of the time. He sees snakes, mostly.”
“That’s right. That’s why I couldn’t be sure. When they told me I’d seen real snakes I had to have a drink.”
“There was no woman in the car?”
“Don’t be an idiot. If there’d been anyone else in the car they’d be as dead as that black man.”
“You didn’t see a woman at all, tall, half Negro, half Thai, maybe leaving the car before the motorcycles arrived?”
“No. A woman I would have remembered. I never hallucinate women. Why should I, I haven’t had an erection in thirty years.” Guffaws, people shaking their heads, the headman turning away to laugh.
“Okay.” I turned to the audience. “Anyone else see the motorcycles?”
People directed their gaze at the headman. “The motorcycles were real, he didn’t hallucinate them, but nobody wants to give evidence. They think this was a gang killing, they don’t want to get involved.”
“Generally, do people anonymously agree with what he just said, strictly on a nonattributable basis?”
“Nonattributable sounds good, whatever it means. Anonymously? Yes, quite a few saw the bikes, and Old Tou walk to the car and look in the window and then he started banging his head against the car. We all watched that. A group of people walked over to the car. You saw them when you and your partner arrived.”
The headman poured more whisky down Old Tou’s throat. The man’s capacity was amazing. He drained the plastic bottle of moonshine before the headman judged him drunk enough to be untied. As a precaution, though, they placed another bottle nearby and stood away after the ropes were loosened. The old man made straight for the bottle and upturned it into his mouth.
I thanked the headman.
“So you won’t be sending the FBI to investigate us? Moonshine is our main source of income, we’d be destitute without it.”
This was the first sign of weakness and I needed to exploit it. It took only an exchange of glances and a jerk of the chin on his part for me to follow him back to his hut, where the whisky was distilling, trickling slowly out of its cloth filter into an urn. The headman took a bottle from a corner and found a couple of plastic cups. We wished each other good luck, then the raw alcohol hit the back of my throat and wormed its way into my stomach. It was cozy in the hut, with the fumes from the mash cooking over the charcoal embers.
“You’re from District 8, aren’t you?”
I gazed steadily at him. “So?”
A shrug. “Your Colonel is famous. Vikorn, isn’t it?”
“You know him?”
A cautious pursing of the lips. “No, not personally. Like I say, he’s very famous.”
“Do you want to talk to him directly?”
A disarming smile. “I wasn’t insinuating anything. Look, we don’t want this FBI, whatever it is, coming round asking questions. The people really don’t know anything. They were either drunk or playing cards. Old Tou hardly has a brain cell left in his head.”
“Maybe you saw something?”
A hesitation. “Well, I did happen to be near the top of the slip road when the Mercedes arrived.”
“When I asked you before, you said you weren’t here.”
A shrug. “I was returning from business on the other side of town.”
“And?”
“It was more or less as Old Tou described, except that the Mercedes stopped at the top of the slip road, then some bikers arrived. Someone got out of the car and onto one of the bikes, but it was on the far side of the car so I couldn’t see so well. One of the bikes rode off with this passenger.”
Only more moonshine would develop his story. I’d had less than one-third of a cup, but already the fumes were filling my head. He poured two more cups, knocked some back like a professional and smacked his lips. I tried to maintain concentration while I gazed at him through a blur. “What else?”
A wry grin. “You’re good, aren’t you?” He finished the cup. “The bikers had guns. They looked like those little automatic machine guns you see in movies. They were pointing them at the car. It looked as though that black farang was being hijacked.” He engaged my eyes. “Naturally…”
“Naturally you turned away. The last thing you needed was to be a witness to a crime and have to give evidence.”
The headman detected no note of irony. He beamed with obvious relief. “Thanks for your understanding.”
I finished the whisky and stood up. “I don’t think the FBI cares about your moonshine. They might come. If they do, set Old Tou onto them. Don’t worry.”
“D’you want money?” the headman asked. “I can give you a little from the sales last week. The people will understand.”
I shook my head. “Good luck to you, brother.”
The headman gave his most convincing smile. “Thank you, brother. May you avenge your partner and live in peace.”
I acknowledged with a nod.
I had told my motorcycle chauffeur to wait, and I could see him loitering by his motorbike near the bridge. I could not put it off any longer. It was time to face the Colonel.
17
A Third World police station, which is to say a two-story reinforced concrete structure festooned with our flag and busts of our deeply beloved King, with a large reception area occupying most of the ground floor, open for the length of the building as if one wall had been left out. In this open area there are many rows of heavy-duty plastic chairs joined by beams under the seats; the business a citizen may have here is infinite.
You have to remember we’re Buddhist. Compassion is an obligation, even if corruption is inevitable. The poor come for money and food, the illiterate come for help with filling in forms, those without connections come for character references and help in getting jobs, tourists come with their problems, children come because they are lost, women come because they are tired of being beaten by their husbands, husbands come because their wives have deserted with the family savings. Prostitutes come with problems with their mamasans, feuding families come with complaints and threats. It is not unusual for an avenging brother or father to tell the police of his blood vow to kill the bastard who caused offense to wife or sister, perhaps seeking some indication that in the circumstances the police will turn a blind eye to the proposed assassination, for a fee of course. Sometimes young people come to try to find out who they are, for we are often a polygamous society in which babies are sometimes given to close relatives or friends for life and it is not always clear who belongs to whom. Drunks and beggars come to sit in the chairs, a monk in saffron robes waits his turn for help and advice.