“Tell him I want the whole bag of dope in the joint.”
Ferral’s eyes darted from Ruamsantiah to me to the stick, which remained thick and black on the table. Ferral stared at it. I felt a sinking in my own stomach, though nothing that could compare with Ferral’s fear, which caused a cold sweat to break out on his face. He was thinking exactly what I was thinking. To be beaten up is one thing. To be beaten up stoned is a whole other experience. Pain and terror magnified by a factor of hundreds.
“Better do as he says,” I told him.
Ferral went back to work without the comfort of irony. His hands started to shake.
“You’ve already squashed him,” I murmured in Thai.
“Not enough. He’ll be laughing at us as soon as he gets back to his buddies in Kaoshan Road.”
“You’ve got him so scared he can hardly roll the joint.” In addition to the shaking, a periodic juddering caused Ferral’s hands to spill grass over the table.
“Okay, tell him I promise not to hurt him if he does as he’s told.”
This news calmed the kid somewhat. He even returned to his earlier presumption that we were going to party together, the three of us, and this of course would make great copy on the Net. On the other hand, his eyes could not stop sneaking glances at the stick.
When he’d finished rolling the joint it resembled a crooked white chimney. He glanced at Ruamsantiah for permission to light up and the sergeant nodded. Ferral took only one toke before offering it to Ruamsantiah, who declined. I also declined, which left Ferral holding the gigantic joint with a deeply puzzled expression on his face.
“I want him to smoke all of it,” Ruamsantiah said, rolling his stick to and fro under his palm, generating a kind of muffled thunder. Ferral stared at me, then the joint, but the power emanating from the black stick was too much and he took another couple of tokes.
“He’s to inhale properly and hold it in his lungs.”
Ferral doubled up in a genuine marijuana racking cough, then carried on.
Ruamsantiah relented only when it became clear that Ferral would puke if he took one more toke. He had consumed three-quarters of the joint by this time and acquired fascination with tiny details: a fleck of dust floating in a shaft of light, the third whorl from the top on his left index finger.
Ruamsantiah picked up the lighter and waved the flame in front of the kid’s eyes. Note by note the sergeant set fire to the five thousand baht. At an exchange rate of forty-three to the U.S. dollar it amounted to about a hundred and twenty dollars. Adam Ferral was not rich. This money could keep him in Thailand for more than a week, but the wonder in his eyes told of a still deeper anguish. The West dominates through wealth; for a poor Thai cop to burn it with a look of contemptuous indifference on his face was a magical act which challenged accepted reality, especially if you happened to be young and very very stoned. Worms of fire ate through the bills, sending off weightless particles of gold; Ferral saw miniature bodhisattvas riding carpets of flame. Ruamsantiah had all his attention now, his respect and his awe. The sergeant could have stopped there and Ferral would have been smart enough to absorb the lesson, but the suggestion that he was using the Royal Thai Police Force as a platform for some frivolous literary exercise had sent Ruamsantiah into a cold rage. “I’m putting him down the hole.”
“Do you need to do that?”
Ruamsantiah turned his rage on me. “Not compassionate enough for you? Okay, give him the choice, eight hours in the hole or a fair trial and Bang Kwan for five years. Ask him.”
The question hardly needed to be put, but Ruamsantiah’s fury had even me in awe. “The Hole?” the kid asked, giving it a capital and leaving his mouth open in an O as the sinister word wrought havoc in its progress through his psyche.
Ruamsantiah stood up and walked around the desk to grab Ferral by the back of the neck to march him out of the room. The last I saw of him was a wild and desperate backward glance at me, an inadequate link to civilization surely, but the only one in the vicinity. I sat in the interrogation room for a moment regretting my wiseass guesswork. I wished I hadn’t mentioned the web site. Ruamsantiah has broken hard men in that hole of his, and Ferral is neither of those things. Stoned too, on enough dope for ten joints. May Buddha help him.
A glance at my watch reminded me that the FBI had been waiting for forty minutes and was probably working herself up into a rage of her own. I decided not to tell her about Ferral in the hole. It was going to be a difficult enough trip without that embellishment.
The smile on Jones’ face where she sat in the back of her car was slightly unnatural, being the product of will, but I gave her full marks for effort.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve got more than one case, right?”
Slightly surprised by her generosity, I agreed. The FBI was in an unusual mood. When she saw how subdued I was she became touchingly solicitous: Was it something she said yesterday? She realized she can come across as arrogant and abrasive, especially in a polite, manner-conscious Buddhist society such as ours. Or was I offended that she frankly admitted how attractive she found me? That was very American, wasn’t it, to be so up-front about such a thing? People in most other cultures, especially women, would never just come out and say it like that. Or was there something else bothering me?
The Royal Thai Police tow stolen, impounded, illegal and wrecked vehicles to a fenced and guarded wasteland on the river not more than a couple of miles from my housing project. Over the years small satellite businesses-metal stamps, scrap iron dealers, car repair shops-have grown up around the compound so that anyone ignorant of Thai ways might think it a well-planned industrial zone. A stranger might even be impressed by the dedication of the police guards who patrol the perimeter with M16s at the ready, protecting citizens’ property until due legal process has determined true ownership.
The FBI has brought along her own kit for lifting prints, poking behind and under upholstery, which she has dragged into the small prefabricated office. Catching sight of a door which leads to a toilet, she takes out her coveralls and disappears, returning a few minutes later alight with luminescence.
Sergeant Suriya has reigned in this riverside kingdom for longer than I can remember; he is famous for the dexterity of his paperwork, the discipline of his men and the accuracy of his memory. He is enormously popular and generally considered one of those selfless individuals who live only to help others. His face possesses an extraordinary mobility as he checks and rechecks my own.
“Mercedes E-class hatchback you say?” I nod miserably. “Impounded I think two weeks ago?”
“About that.”
“Number?” I tell him the registration number in a stilted voice, like a character in a pantomime.
“And you want to inspect it this morning? Has it not already been inspected by a forensic team?”
“I believe so, but the FBI wanted to look themselves. Their forensic equipment is so much more advanced than ours.”
“I see. The thing is, the forensic team moved it around a bit, you’ll have to look for it.”
I explain this to Jones, who shrugs while Suriya studies her face. “Okay, let’s go look for it. How difficult can it be to find a new Mercedes hatchback in a police compound?”
“It’s hot.”
“I know. I might have to take off the coveralls and get all dirty. That’s okay.”
“You don’t want to come back when it’s cooler?”
“You mean in the middle of the night? I’ve been here more than three weeks now, and I haven’t seen a cool day yet. It’s always hot. You want to stay here in the air-conditioning? That’s okay. Just lead me to the car, then I’ll check it on my own.”