‘You’re a betting man, Hatch,’ Wilkie yelled as he entered the Longhorn. ‘Better hop up there and get in on the fun.’
‘What’s going on?’ Hatcher asked, entering the Tombstone inner sanctum.
‘Tigers!’ Prophett said with a touch of awe in his voice.
‘Tigers?’ Hatcher said with surprise.
‘A tiger, to be precise,’ Earp said polishing his rifle with a chamois cloth. ‘A rogue tiger running crazy down the peninsula. Killed a couple of kids and an old man. Max Early has put together a hunt.’ He seemed in a more friendly mood than he had been the day before and obviously was excited by the thought of the excursion.
‘Kind of sudden, isn’t it?’ Hatcher responded.
‘This is a man-eater,’ said Potter. ‘He’s not going to sit around waiting for us to rent tuxedos for the affair.’
‘It goes down tomorrow morning whether we’re there or not,’ said Earp. ‘And we’re gonna be there. This is one bad animal.’
‘Everybody kicks in two purples, killer take all,’ Wonderboy said. They were like kids planning a holiday.
‘Sweets will hold the wagers. He has to stay here and mind his store,’ said Corkscrew.
‘How about the rest of you?’ Hatcher asked.
‘We’re declaring a holiday,’ Gallagher said brightly.
‘We’re taking the dawn plane to Surat Thani,’ said Earp. ‘Leaves at five A.M. Takes an hour. Max’ll pick us up, takes another hour to drive to his place. We’ll be tracking the bastard by eight. With any luck we’ll be back on the seven o’clock flight tomorrow night. It’ll sure perk up your vacation. Interested?’
‘This an official invitation?’ Hatcher asked.
‘Why not?’ said Riker. ‘The bigger the pot the better.’
‘How about a weapon?’ Hatcher asked.
‘Max’ll fix you up,’ Corkscrew said with a wave of his hand.
Max Early was the only one of the regulars Hatcher had not yet met. The tiger hunt was a perfect opportunity to get closer to these men and particularly Prophett. Thus far, his only glimmer of a lead was Prophett’s mention of Taisung.
‘Pai-tio, soldier, great sanuk,’ Corkscrew said with a grin. The Thais tended to divide everything in life into two categories: mai-tio, which was serious stuff, like work, and pai-tio, which was sanuk—fun.
‘You’ll love it, Hatch,’ said Potter. ‘Give you something to talk about when you get back to the World.’
‘Why not, maybe I’ll get lucky and pay for part of the trip,’ Hatcher said.
‘Great! How many’ve we got now?’ Wonderboy asked.
‘There’s you, Melinda, Johnny, W.T., Corkscrew and Potter, Gallagher, Ed Piker, Hatch here, and Max, of course — that’s nine,’ said the Honorable, who was keeping a list.
‘Are you the official referee of this operation?’ Hatcher asked with a smile.
‘I’m treasurer and chief logistician of this little club,’ the Honorable said to Hatcher. ‘I’ll take one purple for the plane ticket and put your change in the ledger.’
‘Fair enough,’ Hatcher said, handing him the purple note.
Riker rubbed his hands together eagerly and said, ‘Not a bad little pot. Five thousand bahts.’
‘Give Sweets two more for the bet and you’re officially in,’ Earp said. ‘And be at the airport by four-forty- five or you may not get a seat. This is one game you don’t want to miss.’
And a strange game it was, thought Earp. We’re watching him while he watches us. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that the Honorable was right — they had to isolate Hatcher and find out what his game really was. And now Max had provided the perfect solution to the problem. For if Hatcher was as dangerous as Earp suspected, what better way for him to die than chasing a killer tiger.
A TOUGH GAME
Hatcher arrived at the small boxing arena a little after seven. It was mid-city at the rear of one of the stunning Wat Suthat. Although the main event did not start until ten, Sy was a preliminary fighter and was scheduled to fight at about eight o’clock.
This was not a big-time Muay Thai match but was like a tank-town fight in the United States, a testing place for young Thai fighters looking for a place on the big-time cards held four times a week at the Lumpini or Rajadamnern stadiums.
Noise, heat and confusion greeted Hatcher as he entered the small arena, which was surrounded by betting windows and Thai bookmakers. The betting was frantic. It was still daylight and it was hot, and the Thais, who gambled with great passion, were a noisy and frenetic mob, sweating and screaming and waving their bahts overhead looking for a bet.
Added to the general confusion was the music that accompanied the fights, a traditional but cacophonous blend of woodwinds, banjo like stringed instruments, a semicircle of tuned gongs, and several different kinds of drums. The overall effect made a cat fight sound melodious by comparison.
Since two Thais had won the flyweight championship of the world a few years earlier, both traditional Muay Thai and Western boxing were featured on the card. The fans stood around a large garden at the rear of the arena, like the paddock at a racetrack, watching the boxers warm up and making their choices. The Muay Thais worked almost in slow motion, like ballet dancers, while the American-style fighters jogged about the grass paddock like American fighters warming up. But if the Muays practicing their ballet-like moves seemed somewhat dainty, nothing could have been further from the truth; they were by far the more ferocious battlers. There had been a time in the past when these Thai fighters had bound their hands with hemp on which ground glass had been sprinkled and fought until one of them collapsed. Now they wore lightweight gloves — no glass permitted — and there were five three-minute rounds. The referee could also stop the fight in the event of an injury.
It was well known in martial-arts circles that a good Thai fighter was a vicious opponent and almost unstoppable.
Sy was wearing a dark blue jacket with a green and red cobra coiled on its back, its white mouth open and threatening. He took it off and handed it to his trainer, a hard-looking box of a man with a crushed nose and thick eyelids. Beneath the jacket, Sy wore red silk boxing shorts with his name printed across the leg in blue Sanskrit. He was also wearing a cord around his head and his left bicep, traditional trappings for Thai boxers. The band around his head was tan and white with a stiff ponytail that stuck straight out in back with a strip of blue silk dangling from it. The thong tied tightly around his left bicep hid his good luck amulet strung to it. His feet were bare.
Sy moved with incredible grace, his eyes almost hypnotically fixed, standing on one foot, then on the other, spinning slowly as the music played at twice the normal tempo in the background. Then suddenly as he spun around he lashed out with several ferocious kicks, slashing his arms in a series of one- two punches, then spinning around again and ending in a slow-motion pirouette.
Hatcher was impressed. He went back to the betting area, weaving his way through the yelling, gesturing crowd, keeping an eye out for Wol Pot, although he realized the odds of spotting him in such a crowd were far greater than the odds against Sy winning his match. Hatcher bet a purple on his driver, the underdog in his fight, taking the long end of a five—to-two bet. If the little Thai won, Hatcher stood to gain 750 bahts, about thirty-seven dollars, which he planned to give to Sy as a bonus.