The maitre d’ turns and talks to the cop. I think he’s asking if there’s anything he can do.
But the cop wants no part of it. He raises his hands in what appears to be some form of surrender, smiles, shrugs his shoulders, turns on his heels and walks out as quickly as he can without looking like he’s running.
The big guy’s had enough. He starts toward me, his hands out. Taking apart a farang in front of a whole restaurant and a muckraking reporter and editor is not a smart move. But I don’t think he’s really thought it out. He’s just itching to do something to earn his keep.
The maitre d’ looks horrified. He knows this is not good. But he’s not about to get between me and anybody’s fists or feet.
It’s fight or flight. I don’t have much time to make up my mind.
The pager on the bruiser’s belt makes it up for me. It buzzes, freezing him in his tracks. He takes a look at the display and unclips it to show the maitre d’, and the both of them head back to the office pronto.
I sit back down, wishing I could gulp my beer even if it is warm and flat. Instead, I take a small, awful sip.
In about a minute the maitre d’ has returned by himself. He leans down to whisper in my ear.
“Khunying Preeya ask to have the pleasure of your company in the office.”
It seems unlikely that she’d have the big guy work me over anywhere on the premises, but I’m not sure.
“Please thank Khunying Preeya for me, but I am enjoying the company of my friends and the hospitality of her restaurant. If she would like to come to our table, I will be happy to buy her a drink and make her welcome.”
Once again he looks like he doesn’t know what to do. I almost feel bad for him as he quick-steps back to the office.
The reporter and editor are still standing by the table, and I gesture to them to sit down. The reporter puts her cassette recorder down between us. I cover it with a hand.
“I’m not the one you want to interview.”
“Yeah, but the interview I’m after won’t talk to me.” She’s been to school in the U.S. I can hear it in her voice.
“Who’s that?”
“Who do you think? The General, Khunying’s husband. He’s the real story in this place.”
I’m sure he is. There’ve been rumors swirling around him for weeks, but there’s no way she’s going to get to him.
“Okay, but what’s going on at the moment is about my friend here, Khun Plaa. It’s her you should be talking to.” I explain the situation.
From the look on her face, I can almost see the wheels and cogs begin to spin in her brain. She smiles at me, gets up and moves to sit next to Plaa. They bend their heads together to talk.
The editor looks at me and smiles. Then he says something to Cho, who translates. The editor’s apologized for not speaking English. I apologize in return for not speaking Thai. He and Cho bend their heads together in conversation.
It’s getting late enough that I’ll probably have to cancel my next appointment as well. I’m willing to do that, but I’m not sure how long I can sit here taking the occasional small sip of a beer gone bad.
My notebook sits in front of me like an accusation. I’d got it out thinking I’d at least make some notes about something, anything that I could write an article on for the magazine. My editor makes me crazy, but I don’t want to give him any cause to fire me. How can I relate what’s going on here now to the Thai economy, which is, after all, what I’m supposed to be covering?
I haven’t got anywhere with that train of thought when the maitre d’ reappears with the boss lady herself. The big guy stands back at the entrance to the office hall. I get up as they approach the table. She holds out a surprisingly indelicate, rough hand with three of its fingers bulging on either side of garish, expensive rings. She’s wearing a severe gray silk suit, and her hair is done up in a coif I associate more with Texas than Thailand. She does not look happy.
“I am Khunying Preeya, and you are...?”
“Ray Sharp.”
“Why do you disturb my restaurant’s lunch business, Mister Sharp?”
I invite her to sit down at the table, but she ignores me. I guess she left the standard social graces in her office.
“I have eaten, Mister Sharp. You and your associates have not. I insist that you order meals or that you leave the premises. This is a restaurant, Mister Sharp. It is not a waiting room.”
“I am here, Khunying Preeya, to help my friend, Khun Plaa, recover the money and cooler that were stolen from her.”
The boss lady looks down at Plaa and flutters a hand at her, then me. “Why are the troubles of a common street vendor of any concern to me?”
I smile and gesture to the restaurant around us.
“Apparently they are, or will be.”
“Are you threatening me, Mister Sharp? Do you know who my husband is? I am going to call him.” She lifts a hand with a mobile phone in it.
Everyone knows who her husband is. He’s politically connected, but word on the street lately is that some of his ties might be coming loose. There are more than slight whiffs of scandal. But he hasn’t been talking. Generals who stay out of the public eye tend to last longer than those who don’t. He won’t want publicity.
“Go ahead. Maybe he will want to get mixed up in this. But I’d be surprised. For now, my friends like it here, Khunying Preeya. It is cool and comfortable. They could become regulars. I have a lot of friends, and my friends have friends as well.”
“What do you want, Mister Sharp?”
“It’s not about what I want.” I almost say “lady,” but you never get anywhere in Thailand by not at least pretending to be polite. “If you would be so kind as to speak with my friend Khun Plaa, I am sure you can work something out.”
“She can come to my office.” The boss lady begins to turn and walk away, and it takes a lot of effort for me to sound civil. If Plaa goes back there alone, who knows what might happen?
“I don’t think my friend will feel comfortable in your office. This is such a nice room, and there is an empty table in the corner where you can have some privacy. It would be best if you spoke out here.”
She almost loses her cool but keeps herself in check with no more than a minor harrumph. She crooks one of her heavily weighted fingers at Plaa and walks to the table that my correspondent, the editor and the reporter have left.
Plaa looks up at me, not sure what to do.
“Go, talk to her. Tell her what you want. You’ve got the power here.”
She turns to the reporter, and they whisper to each other.
They get up together and follow the boss lady to the table. Plaa sits next to the khunying, the reporter across the table but still close enough to lend support.
Everyone in the restaurant is trying to look like they aren’t trying to listen. There’s no way to hear anything, but it’s hard to be patient, especially when I’m so thirsty. I take a bigger sip and then a gulp of the terrible beer. There’s still half of it left when I put it down, and it hasn’t helped at all. It was just reminiscent enough of something refreshing to make my thirst worse.
After about five minutes the boss lady makes a call on her mobile phone. She says something, listens and then responds with something shrill, not quite a shriek, but close. She listens again and hands the phone to the reporter.
The reporter speaks briefly and then spends the next few minutes listening, taking notes and not saying anything. When she’s done, she hands the phone back to the khunying, who begins talking but then stops in what is obviously mid-sentence. When she hangs up, she looks around the room frowning. She looks at Plaa and her body sags a little in her chair.