The referee started counting. On six Tan was on his side. On eight he had both feet under him. On nine he shoved himself to his feet.
The referee stepped back.
Sy moved like a shot. He zigzagged across the ring while Tan tried to get him in focus. lie never saw the last two blows.
The first was a kick to the top of the stomach, which doubled Tan over.
The second was a blistering right hand that had all of Sy’s 120-plus pounds behind it. Tan’s head snapped like a punching bag. He fell straight to the canvas, bounced on his knees and fell face forward to the never-never land of the deck.
Angels couldn’t have awakened him.
Sy was leaping around the ring, holding his hands over his head, a picture of pure joy. His trainer charged into the ring, lifted him up in a bear hug and danced around the square with him.
The crowd was going crazy, throwing programs, hats, amulets and bottles into the ring,
Hatcher started to laugh as he applauded. That, he said to himself, was one helluva fight.
Hatcher waved his winning tickets over his head, yelling, as best he could, to Sy as his trainer hopped around the ring with him. ‘Seven hundred and fifty bahts, pal, seven hundred and fifty bahts!’ At that moment, Sy could not have cared less. Buddha had believed him. He had taken down the big man. And the crowd was cheering for him.
In his excitement, Hatcher did not notice the old Chinese watching him. The main was tall, but stooped. He had gray wispy hair and a white beard, and was wearing a silk cheongsam. As Hatcher left the arena the old man followed him.
Hatcher made his way back across the arena floor and went outside to one of the five pay-out windows. He felt the first cool splats of rain. Thunder and lightning were bare seconds apart. Hatcher stood in the line checking out the crowd.
He noticed the ears first. They were big and stood away from his head. Then the nose. In profile, the man’s nose was long and slender, almost a hawk nose.
The man, who was two rows away and slightly behind him, was the right size. Five six, 150 pounds. His head was shaven clean, but hell, anybody can shave his head, thought Hatcher. Besides, Hatcher was really only interested in the area from the man’s forehead to his upper lip. He called up his ch’uang tzu-chi, remembering all the details in the photograph of Wol Pot. The nose and ears matched the picture.
Now for the eyes. That would tell Hatcher for sure, those eyes would do the trick. But the chunky man was wearing sunglasses and in profile Hatcher couldn’t see his eyes that well.
It began to rain a little harder. More lightning with the thunder right on top of it. The man caught him staring. Hatcher turned away, monitoring him through his peripheral vision. The man stared hard at Hatcher but did not take off the glasses.
The stooped old Chinese lingered under the rim of the arena, out of the rain, watching Hatcher.
Hatcher reached the window, and the cashier counted out his winnings. He walked back through the crowds around the window and stood near the back of the arena, watching the man with the big ears as he collected his winnings.
Hatcher stared straight at him until he was sure the man saw him, then slowly moved back into the shadows of the arena. It began to rain harder. The man was wearing black pants and a white shirt, and he huddled his shoulders against the rain and leaned forward, peering toward Hatcher.
He took off the glasses and squinted toward the shadows.
Hatcher got a clean view of the eyes. Cold, lifeless, ruthless eyes. Big ears. The aquiline nose.
It was Wol Pot.
A crack of lightning coursed through the sky and struck somewhere nearby, accompanied by a deluge.
Hatcher stepped back out of the shadows and started through the crowd toward Wol Pot, who wheeled and headed for the exit. Hatcher bolted, threading his way through the crowd that was lining up to bet on the next fight.
He raced after the Vietnamese traitor, so surprised at actually finding the POW commandant that he failed to notice the stooped old man who was watching him.
The rain was coming down in driving sheets that acted like a veil. In the rush of the crowd to escape the rain, the old Chinese lost sight of Hatcher; he ran into the rain, frantically searching the crowd. He rushed to the main entrance and stepped out into Thi Phatt Road. Crowds of people rushed by seeking shelter from the rain. Neon signs glowed in the early darkness. Desperately the old Chinese turned and hurried toward the alley that ran beside the arena.
Hatcher had kept Wol Pot in view, muscling through the scattering crowd as he raced after him. The chunky Vietnamese turned abruptly and darted through the side entrance of the stone wall surrounding the practice grounds and into an alley off Thi Phatt Road. He huddled against the stone wall as the storm gained in intensity and lightning streaked the darkening sky.
He heard the door open behind him and he started to run.
Hatcher was two dozen feet behind him as Wol Pot ran toward Thi Phatt Road. He decided to try a bluff.
‘Hold it right there, Wol Poi,’ he yelled hoarsely so he could be heard above the din of the rain. ‘I don’t want to have to shoot you.’
The ruse worked. Wol Pot s1owed down, then stopped, moving back against the wall again, seeking the shelter of the jasmine and orchid blossoms that spilled down the wall. He slowly raised his hands shoulder- high, afraid of what might be behind him. Who was this farang? he wondered, but did not turn around. Wol Pot was a devout coward. If he was to be killed, he did not want to see it coming.
Hatcher walked up behind him and stuck his middle finger in Wol Pot’s back.
‘Bang,’ he whispered in Wol Pot’s ear.
The stubby man whirled, realized he had been duped and started to bolt, but Hatcher grabbed him by the throat and slammed him back against the stone wall, back among the wet jasmine blossoms. Water poured down Hatcher’s face, and he could feel it seeping into his shoes. Then as suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped. Heat broiled up from the hot pavement and turned to steam around them.
‘I came halfway around the world to talk to you,’ he whispered. ‘Now you’re going to answer some questions for me.’ Hatcher quickly frisked him.
‘I don’t speak English,’ Wol Pot stammered in Thai.
‘We’ll speak Thai,’ Hatcher snapped back in Thai.
‘W-w-what do you want?’
‘I want Murph Cody.’
The old Chinese turned down the alley adjacent to the arena and walked through the swirling steam caused by the brief, intense rainstorm. In the red glow of the nearby neon signs the steam looked like the fires of hell. The old Chinese peered through the steam. Somewhere in front of him he heard voices. He reached under his robe and drew out a silenced .38.
‘Cody!’ Wol Pot stuttered in English. ‘Who are you?’
‘A friend of Windy Porter’s, the man who was killed trying to save your hide on the klong -‘
‘I don’t know —‘ Wol Pot began, but Hatcher took the passport out of his pocket and held it in front of Wol Pot’s eyes.
‘Don’t lie to me, you miserable do-mommy, you were there, with the girl.’
Wol Pot’s snake eyes squinted with fear. He began to cringe, shrinking deeper among the damp flowers. Neon lights from the nearby street cast a red glow across his face.
‘Why do you want Cody?’ he whined.
‘You wanted to trade him to Porter for a visa, isn’t that right?’
Wol Pot’s eyes lit up. ‘Are you from the embassy?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Just let me ask the questions.’
‘I didn’t know about Porter until I saw it in the paper. I didn’t know it was him,’ Wol Pot whimpered.
‘I’ve got a deal for you,’ Hatcher’s shattered voice hissed. ‘You give up Cody and I won’t turn you over to the American military for your war crimes.’