Fong walked casually to the center of the room and, facing Dao, pressed the palms of his hands together and bowed in a wai to show his respect for the Hsong leader and the brewer of magic powder. Dao answered the wai and then the Fan took his place facing the old cook and put his black bag at his feet. Kot stood behind Fong.
‘I would like to introduce my bing yahn, Billy Kot, to the general,’ Fong said. ‘He will soon take my place as White Palm Red Pole.’
A look of concern crossed Dao’s face. ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.
‘No, no,’ Fong answered hurriedly. ‘I am to become san wong of the Chiu Chaos. From this day on, Billy Kot will be my eyes and ears and voice. He will speak for me and he will negotiate fairly with all the tribes that supply us with powder.’
Dao looked at Kot for several seconds, studying the young man’s smooth features. He had eyes like his boss’s, hard and glazed with abstract menace.
‘So he is learning?’ said Dao.
‘Hai,’ Fong answered.
The general appraised Kot once more and nodded curtly with a smile.
‘Ho,’ Dao answered, slapping his right fist into the palm of his left hand, a sign of acceptance. They did not shake hands, because to touch another in Thailand is considered an insult. He sat cross-legged on the mat in front of him. Fong did the same, followed by the Fan, the new Red Pole, and the fai thaan. It was only after they were seated that Dao acknowledged the Fan.
‘Are you well, Phat Lom?’ he asked. The old man nodded and smiled faintly as he opened his bag and took out an abacus. He placed it in front of him.
‘Hai, hai,’ Dao said, nodding briskly. Then he slapped his hands together and smiled broadly. ‘So, now it is time to deal,’ he said, arid nodded to the fai thaan, who carefully unfolded the leaves from the package. The white brick branded ‘999’ gleamed on the mat before them. He picked up the snow-white square with both hands and offered it to the White Fan, who took it, held it in one hand, and weighed it by feel, first holding it on its side in the palm of his hand, then turning it on end. He nodded once, curtly, indicating the weight was proper. He stood and walked to the window and held the brick in the sunlight and studied it for several minutes, blowing gently on the surface. He scraped up a fingernail full and, holding it to a nostril, slowly inhaled it. He waited for another minute or two for it to take effect, then he scraped up another fingernail full and put it in his mouth and tasted it. Finally he returned and placed the brick in front of General Dao.
He held up three fingers to Fong.
Khuna-phaap di thi soot. First quality.
‘Excellent as always,’ said Fong. ‘How much did you get this year?’
‘Ninety hundred and thirty-five joi,’ Dao answered, obviously proud of the yield. Fong, too, was delighted. Almost fifteen hundred kilos of gum, a hundred fifty kilos of heroin.
‘That is fifty kilos more than last year,’ he said.
‘A very good year,’ answered the general.
On the previous buy, Fong had paid nine hundred dollars per kilo. He looked over at the Fan, whose fingers were shooting the small colored balls of the abacus back and forth. The Fan held up two fingers, then three, then one, then a fist. It was a simple code, which only Fong and the Fan understood.
Although Kot did not understand the code, he made some quick calculations in his head. Not bad, he thought. A mere $135,000 for 15 keys of pure smack.
Fong turned to him and asked him what he thought the price should be. It was an unexpected test. Actually the price was immaterial. Considering the Chiu Chao profit margin, they could easily afford to pay Dao four or five times the normal price and hardly feel it. But this was business, and a dollar was a dollar.
Kot tried to think like the Red Pole. He had to weigh two things: first, whether to raise the price at all and, second, if so, how much to raise it without spoiling the general. Upping the price fifty dollars a joi would not hurt them that much. It would be significant enough to impress the hill chief and still not appear overly generous.
‘Fifty more a joi,’ Kot answered.
Kot knew from the slight twinkle in Fong’s eye it was a good answer. Fong turned back to the general. ‘My bid would have been twenty-five,’ he said with a smile. ‘The new Red Pole is more generous than I.’
General Dao was obviously pleased. The Fan showed no expression. His fingers were busy working the colored marbles on the abacus. He held up another combination of fingers.
The entire package would cost $142,500, or 2,850,000 bahts.
‘How does two million eight sound?’ Fong asked. ‘I am most pleased,’ Dao said, slapping his fist into his palm. The deal was concluded. Fong reached into the black bag and took out several packets of purple baht notes and stacked them neatly in front of Dao. When he had stacked the entire two million plus, he did a wai.
‘The entire amount as agreed. When can Mr Kot expect delivery?’
‘Will three days be satisfactory, starting in the morning?’ Dao asked.
‘Excellent.’ And he, too, smacked his fist in his palm. ‘And if it will not offend the general, I would like to make the Hsong a gift of two new trucks, to celebrate the new Red Pole.’
Dao was both surprised and pleased. Two new trucks in the bargain! ‘You are very generous, my friend,’ he said. ‘The Hsong will be most happy to work with Mr Kot.’
‘Mai,’ Fong said with a nod and rose. They left the hooch and Soon joined them as they walked back to the truck.
Fong was pleased with his choice of Billy Kot and he slapped his new Red Pole on the arm.
‘You did very well in there,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I do not think you will have any problems.’
‘Mm goi,’ Billy Kot said with a wai.
‘One hundred and fifty kilos of pure for a hundred forty thousand dollars and two trucks,’ Fong said. ‘What does that come to, White Fan?’
The Fan had already figured up the profit, based on the morning street price in Manhattan. He flashed his fingers in the code. ‘Three million, seven hundred thousand dollars,’ Fong said, beaming. ‘Fair work for one day.’
Wherever there were human beings, there were dope traders ready to prey on them. In the Hotel Vitosha in Sofia or L’Hotel Pique in Marseilles or the Garden Hotel in Amsterdam, Syrians, Turks and Lebanese met with Chinese, Sicilian and American gangsters to trade in heroin, cocaine and marijuana. They were the power bosses of the dope trade. They had developed the shipping routes from the Orient to Amsterdam, London and Rome, and from there to major ports in North America, where one thousand kilos — 2,200 pounds — of heroin went for a billion dollars and change before it was even cut for the Street.
Their partners were the Sicilians, for in the years since the end of the Vietnamese war they had made their agreements with the American mobsters and spread their deadly powder to most of the major cities in the United States.
The drug lords had turned smuggling into a bizarre art, a deadly game of hide-and-seek between ‘mules,’ the couriers who did the actual heroin smuggling, and drug and customs agents. The lethal powder was smuggled in hollow gemstones, icons and statues. In Tampax and condoms. In dolls, books, diplomatic pouches, and major shipments of coffee, soybeans and bamboo. It was dissolved in water and then suitcases, paintings, rugs and clothing were soaked in it and carried or shipped into the United States. Smugglers buried it in the desert until they made their deals, then sent it across borders by feeding it to their camels, addicting them, and training them to follow specific routes in order to get more.