“What kind of advice?”
Elijah is not as drunk as he claims. His vast body has now absorbed twelve bottles of beer, without much effect on his alertness. “Well, I guess he’s dead, right? Nothing can hurt him now. He had some idea that meth could be safely imported into the States. What’s that crazy name you got for it over here?”
“Yaa baa.”
“Right. Great name, maybe we should call it that. He had all these detailed plans on how to smuggle yaa baa, through Hong Kong, through Shanghai, even through Tokyo. He was a real details man. He believed he had some special insight because of all his work at embassies and knowledge of how diplomatic immunity works. He talked just like any amateur who gets the bug. He got all excited because he had some contacts here, people who could bring in unlimited quantities at knockdown prices. I explained to him, I says: ‘Billy, don’t matter that you’re not moving heroin, you’re in the region of the Golden Triangle, you got more FBI, CIA, DEA per square inch out there than anywhere in the world. Not a good idea, Billy. Forget it.’ When I saw he wasn’t going to forget it, I made a few inquiries. I called him to give him some names and addresses of people out here with experience of moving stuff. I explain business to him. I say, ‘Look, settle for a five percent handler’s fee here in Bangkok, don’t get involved in the overseas shipping, just move the stuff from address A in Bangkok to address B in Bangkok. So it doesn’t make you rich overnight, you still get a good income, given the quantities you’re talking about, and you sleep better at night. Maybe when you’ve been in the business a few years, maybe then you can think about something a little more ambitious.’ I thought he got the point, but obviously I was wrong.”
“Why d’you say that?”
“Sonchai, my man, he fucked up, didn’t he? My kid brother did what any dumb, middle-aged desperado does who don’t want to go on another learning curve. He jumped into the snake pit thinking he was going to solve his cash flow problem in one fell swoop. I seen it happen so often it’s boring. The only fell swoops that work are the ones that have structure, that have been set up over a period of years, maybe decades. I know, I sat at the feet of black professors in the university of the penitentiary. But you can’t explain that to a guy who secretly thinks he’s superman, who spends his whole life looking in a mirror. And just so as we can remain friends, you and I, I’m going to anticipate your next question. No, I ain’t gonna tell you who I told him to get in touch with out here.”
“I wasn’t going to ask,” I say, hurt.
Another bottle empties into his mouth, with just a little spilling from the corners. “No, come to think of it, I don’t believe you were. Accept my apologies for offending your professional pride. Where would you recommend to eat around here? Don’t give me anything with chili, I’m a New Yorker.”
Elijah is the reincarnation of a southern planter who treated his slaves well but was unable to transcend the racism of his times. He spent two incarnations as an African American, neither of them illustrious. Deep resentment toward the system carried over from those lifetimes and drove him to crime in this one. These perceptions came to me while he was cramming some stuffed potato skins into his mouth at a diner off Sukhumvit. We’ve come all the way across the city because this is the only New York-style deli I know. It is 3:21 a.m., but Elijah’s jet lag makes him as fresh as a daisy. The deli, come to think of it, is not New York. It is sand floor and potted plants and there is chili on the menu, but Elijah has not noticed as he tucks into a forkful of quesadillas.
“See, I’m a child of the sixties. A black man in those far-off days had to make a decision early on in life: sport, religion, jazz or crime. Brother Billy was born five years later, and already things had started to change. It killed me at the time that my kid brother was a patriot. I still don’t look on my way of earning a living as criminal. Where’s the victim? I supply a demand. Can I help it if the psychology of modern America has created a demand for escape at any cost, particularly amongst the white yuppie class? Billy didn’t see it that way, and the second time I went to the penitentiary he stopped talking to me. It’s one of those things that just when I’m mellowing toward the good old U.S., Billy is developing a black power mentality. I guess he was always kinda slow on the uptake. He even talked about becoming a black Muslim. Maybe he did, he wouldn’t have told me because I don’t like Muslims and neither does Mother, who’s one churchy nigger.”
Elijah picked up a chicken leg and examined it for a moment. I said: “Did he talk to you about jade?”
He took a big chunk out of the thigh, chewed briefly and swallowed. “Jade? A precious stone, right, from Laos or Burma or something? He mentioned it. It was a kind of hobby of his. He wouldn’t have talked about it too much to me, because I never shared his taste in jewelry. That was another thing about him. Nigger can wear gold, pearls, what the hell he likes, if he does it to strut his stuff, that’s okay. But Billy was serious about jewelry from an early age. It was small, you get what I’m saying? Part of his smallness, which I didn’t appreciate.”
“D’you know who Sylvester Warren is?” A shake of the head while he’s stripping the rest of the bone with his teeth. “A billionaire jeweler and art dealer, knows presidents. He comes here once a month.”
Elijah’s face is blank. He shakes his head again before starting in on the nachos. With his mouth fulclass="underline" “We got a lot of billionaires who have to leave America to get their kicks. It ain’t like it used to be. We got media, mind police, electronic surveillance. White boy like that who knows presidents can’t afford even to look at his secretary the wrong way. They ain’t as broad-minded as us niggers. They really fucked themselves all up. No wonder he comes here every month, this Warren. Did he know Billy?”
“They exchanged e-mails.”
“Think he was the one had him killed?”
I shrug. “No one can think of a motive.”
Elijah pauses with a forkful of potato salad. “Me either. Let’s face it, Billy tried all his life to be as big as his body, but at the end of the day he was a little guy. A sergeant in the Marines who liked to hire cheap pussy out of Third World go-go bars. He wasn’t important enough for a rich white boy to kill.”
“Tell me this. Was your brother more than averagely scared of snakes?”
“More than average? I dunno. I guess every nigger in Harlem’s scared of snakes. The African jungle is quite a few generations back. Sure, he was scared of snakes, same as me. I used to tease him that if he went ahead and joined the army he would be sent to the jungles of Southeast Asia where boa constrictors roamed on the loose. Freaked him out but it seems like I was right.”
“Do you intend to avenge your brother’s death, Mr. Bradley?”
My question, perfectly reasonable to me, has astonished him. He puts down his fork and pushes his seat back a foot to stare at me. “You mean like a vendetta?” He scratches his head by way of answer. “Only time I had anyone rubbed out was because they double-crossed me. In the business, when that happens you don’t have any choice, but to tell you the truth I been regretting it ever since. I’m not a man of violence. Most of the time, being this big, I don’t need to be.”
“You didn’t love him?”
“I don’t know. He was my brother but we weren’t close. I came over to sort out his estate. I get the feeling we’re dealing with a cultural difference, here, Detective. Only Sicilians do that vendetta stuff in the U.S. We blacks prefer to rely on the rule of law. What you gonna do when you find who did it?”