“Muay Thai,” I correct as we get in the Mercedes.
In the back of the car, Jones says: “They’re both Harlem boys, William and Elijah, who chose radically different paths. Elijah has run ice, snow, crack, smack-big-time. He started as a teen and by the time he was twenty he was a millionaire with his own gang. Somehow William wasn’t even tempted. A very private personality, very straight. It seemed like he would use sport to get him out of the slum, but he was one of those men who are brilliant all-rounders but don’t have a specialization. He was just too big and slow for heavyweight boxing, not lithe enough for professional basketball, too big for anything else. He joined the army at age seventeen and seemed to find his element. He was one of those men who just naturally take to the military life when young, maybe without foreseeing the downside. He was ashamed of big brother Elijah and we think they didn’t communicate for more than a decade. William mellowed, though, got disillusioned with the Marines. They talked over the telephone a lot the past few years.”
“Elijah is under surveillance?”
“More or less full-time. I managed to get some of the transcripts by e-mail this morning.”
“But there was no e-mail between the two on Bradley’s files.”
“I know, which makes me all the more suspicious. The telephone conversations are mostly bland and carefully nonincriminating. They were up to something. They probably used e-mail addresses we don’t know about through Internet cafés. There are just a couple of moments in the telephone conversations when Bill lets his guard down. That guy was seriously worried about income after his retirement. He talks a lot about how expensive his lifestyle is, wonders how he’s going to make ends meet-there’s a very authentic tone of worry in the early conversations which reaches a pitch when some loan sharks start to threaten him. Then the fear disappears. It’s the voice of a man who sees why his big brother did what he did. A man very very disillusioned with the system he’s served all his life. Then all of a sudden the tone changes, the sun has come out, William Bradley is happy again.”
“Did that coincide with contact with Warren?”
She nods her head slowly and profoundly. “Pretty much.”
It takes more than an hour to reach Kaoshan in the traffic. As we approach from the river side I say: “Doc, Happy, Sneezy, Dopey, Bashful, Grumpy, Sleepy.”
“Good,” Jones says, distracted.
We force our way down Kaoshan and slip into the narrow soi which leads to Bradley’s house. I’m impressed that Jones knows to take off her shoes on the outside steps, and even more impressed that she has a key to the downstairs. She opens the door softly and motions for me to follow her inside. We pad across the room, which is in near-total darkness, and arrange some cushions on the floor. She props herself up against a wall while I squat, waiting for my eyes to adjust. A click when Elijah Bradley switches the lights on.
I take in the big Negro, then my mind automatically discounts him as it focuses on his two companions, who wear red checkered headscarves around their necks. Bradley is seating himself uncomfortably in one of the leather chairs after crossing the room from the light switch, while the two Khmer squat on either side. One of the Khmer is holding a machine pistol which could be an Uzi, the other stares at Kimberley Jones. Jones is staring at Elijah, who is staring at me. Slowly Elijah reaches into his enormous shirt and takes out a stiff brown envelope, which he throws to me. I open it and pull out a legal document in Thai script, which I read. Jones glances at me.
“It’s the last will and testament of William Bradley, who bequeaths all property located in Thailand, including this house, to his brother Elijah.”
“Which means you all are trespassing, right? Don’t you think a little explanation is in order, before we throw you out?” His voice is deep and heavy. I’m surprised at the mild note of hurt.
In Thai I explain to the man with the Uzi that I’m going to reach into my pocket for my police ID, and wait for a consenting nod before I do so. I show Bradley. “And who’s the lady?”
“FBI,” Jones says.
Elijah nods slowly, frowning. “Well, well, well. I just knew you were all wrong the moment I set eyes on you at the boxing. You don’t have any legal right to be here at all, do you?”
“No, no I don’t,” Jones admits.
“The Thai cop don’t have no right either, except a cop can do anything he likes in this town.”
I’m fascinated by the cultural divide. For Bradley and Jones I’ve ceased to exist, just as for me the two Americans have no immediate claim on my attention. I do not take my eyes off the Uzi except to check the other Khmer, who has undressed Jones about twenty times already. Elijah spends a long moment thinking, staring at Jones, biting his lower lip, shaking his head.
“Okay, here’s what we do. The cop leaves, you and I have a good old American-style rap and see if we can explore some common interest. Right?”
“Okay,” Jones says.
“No,” I say. The two Americans gaze at me.
“It’s all right,” Jones says. “He’s saying you’ll be my security. Who’s going to try anything with you on the outside? You could have an army of cops here in ten minutes, and you know who this man is.” She explains the situation kindly, as if to a child. “There’s no danger, really.”
Culture clash. “How long have you known your friends?” I ask Elijah. “A couple of hours?”
He glances at them slowly, on either side. “I don’t need to know them more than a couple of hours, they’re my late brother’s loyal employees.”
“Or jailers. Khmer don’t work for anyone except themselves.”
“In that case, I let you go and you come back with a couple of your colleagues and arrest them, if you feel so strongly about it.”
“You don’t understand.” My eyes revert to the Khmer who is devouring Jones’ legs. Elijah follows my gaze with a frown. “It’ll be all over, and they’ll be back in the jungles of Cambodia while you’re facing a charge of rape and murder, assuming they leave you alive.”
Light illuminates Elijah’s eyes. He looks at the man with the Uzi, whose boredom might be reaching the limits of tolerance. “They kind of picked me up,” Elijah admits. “I know who they are, though.”
I am concerned because of where these two have come from, spiritually speaking. There are pits, and pits below pits, pits so deep only the unspeakable survives there.
“Maybe you don’t. These are fanatics from out of the jungle who believe history started at year zero in 1978. The worst things you ever saw in Harlem would be light comedy to them. There’s nothing I’ve got that would scare them. A Thai jail is like a five-star hotel compared to what they’re used to.”
The man with the Uzi yawns loudly and exchanges a glance with his companion, who nods and slides a knife out of a sheath under his shirt. “Aw,” Elijah says.
“Don’t think you want that kind of rap, Elijah,” Jones says. She is holding herself together, but the blood has drained from her face. “They’re your boys and the Bureau will extradite you.”
“Their English ain’t worth a dime,” Elijah says. “Not if we talk fast. I can’t make enemies of them, though. I have business in this town. Maybe Miss FBI here leaves and you and I talk?”
“That would be a much better idea.”
Jones shakes her head and makes a face. “Sure hate to be the girl.”
“It’s a function of biology,” Elijah explains, “and this ain’t an equal opportunity situation. Better skit. I don’t want the heat and I don’t reckon I can control these guys, now that your man has explained them to me.” Elijah’s eyes have begun to dance from me to the Khmer, to Jones. “Don’t suppose you all had the foresight to bring a firearm, did you?”