‘They probably don’t have much anyway.’
‘You’ll be dealing with a major named Ngy. I’ll be tied up making the arrangements to get Windy back to the States. If you need me, call Flitcraft, he can always get in touch.’
‘Is this Ngy going to give me a bad time?’ Hatcher asked.
‘They don’t call him the Mongoose for nothing,’ Sloan answered.
THE MONGOOSE
When Hatcher left the Oriental, he checked out the taxis and limos in front of the hotel. It was his custom to hire a car for a week at a time so it would always be available at a good price. And he also looked for a driver who was street-smart, somebody clever who knew where to get answers.
The Mercedes and Rolls-Royce limousines were lined up first, followed by more conventional cars, Ply- mouths and Toyotas. The drivers, all smiling, held open the doors and motioned him inside. They were all too clean, too civilized and uniformed. He looked past the row of limos and cabs to a small, wiry Thai standing beside a three-wheel tuk-tuk near the end of the line. The little man appeared to be exercising. He stepped back suddenly and thrashed his arms in a series of hard jabs, sparring with an imaginary opponent, then jogged forward, threw a hard kick that was shoulder-high and turned back, jogging in place. He saw Hatcher watching him and smiled.
The little man jogged past the big expensive cars to Hatcher and bowed. He was wearing cutoff jeans and a white t-shirt with ‘Harvard Drinking Team’ on the front in dark blue letters.
‘Sawat-dii,’ he said, a general greeting in Thai that could mean anything from ‘Hi’ to ‘Good-bye’ and bowed again to Hatcher.
‘Sawat-dii, khrap,’ Hatcher answered. ‘Phom maa jaak Muang Saharat.’
He was about five five and in his mid-twenties, with a flat nose and a wide face. A mixture of Thai and Chinese, Hatcher thought. Like many Thai men, he wore a tattoo on his shoulder. Hatcher recognized the tattoo as Kinnari, the half-woman, half-bird goddess, a harbinger of good luck.
‘I know you are American, I speak English,’ the lad said proudly.
‘Sabai-dii. What’s your name?’
‘Tsi Tei Nyk. Everybody call rue Sy.’ He exhibited two ragged rows of ruined teeth. ‘You name?’
‘Hatch.’
Sy pointed back and forth between them. ‘Sy, Hatch.’
‘You got it right.’
‘Good stuff.’
‘Yeah, good stuff,’ Hatcher agreed. ‘You exercise like that a lot, do you?’ He threw a couple of playful punches to make his point.
‘I am a boxer,’ Sy said proudly, sticking out his chest in an exaggerated show of pride. ‘I drive tuk-tuk until I get money to quit.’
He jumped back and thrashed his arms in another series of jabs, threw another hard kick, and jogged in place. ‘I practice every morning at dawn for two hours. And thirty minutes each afternoon I practice my moves.’
‘You want to work for me for about a week?’
‘A week? Do what?’
‘Translate for me.’
‘Everybody here speak English. And you speak Thai,’ Sy said.
Hatcher nodded. ‘Yeah but not Sabai-dii. You get me around, tell me about people. Help me get things done. No problems.’
‘Ahh. No problems,’ Sy said, and suddenly he understood what he was being hired for. ‘Mai pen rai.’
‘That’s right, mai pen rai,’ Hatcher agreed. ‘So how much?’
‘Every day. All the time?’
‘I sleep late,’ Hatcher said with a smile.
Sy chuckled and nodded slowly. ‘I gotcha. Sleep late, stay up late.’
‘That’s about it.’
Sy, his hands folded behind his back, paced back and forth in front of Hatcher, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. ‘I will have a fight tomorrow night, so I cannot work then.’
‘Okay.’
‘And I must do my moves each afternoon.’
‘I understand,’ said Hatcher. ‘Where do you fight?’
‘Everywhere. Tomorrow at the Royal Park near Wat Phat,’ he said proudly. ‘If I get good enough, someday I will become a member of the King’s guard.’
‘That’s what you want, huh, to be a King’s guard?’
‘Yes. I have asked Buddha for that gift every day for twelve years. I wear the hai-huang and tattoo to guide me to that job.’
He reached inside his shirt and took out a circular brass ornament on the end of a silver chain. A reclining Buddha was engraved in its center. The Thais were big on amulets, which they called hai-huang, meaning ‘worries away,’ and some had amulets for every occasion. There were stalls and shops that specialized in amulets near all of the four hundred wats in Bangkok.
‘That’s a handsome hai-huang,’ said Hatcher. ‘Okay, I’m sure we can find thirty minutes for you to practice every day. Maybe I’ll even go to the fights with you.’
‘I will get you ticket,’ the driver said excitedly, thrusting his leg out to the side in two hard kicks.
‘Okay, so how much?’ Hatcher asked again.
Sy stopped and held out his hand, the fingers splayed out. ‘Fi’ dollars, American bucks.’
‘An hour?’ Hatcher said.
‘All day.’
‘Five dollars a day?’ Hatcher said with surprise.
‘And I eat.’
‘Right. Five dollars a day and meals.’
‘Chai,’ the little Thai said.
‘You’re worth more.’
‘More?’
‘Twenty bucks a day.’
‘A day!’ Sy said, his eyes growing twice their size. Hatcher nodded.
‘I am rich man,’ said the delighted Sy. ‘I will rent a car.’
‘Can you drive a car?’
‘Sure, okay.’
‘Okay, I’ll throw in the car,’ said Hatcher.
‘Throw in?’
‘I’ll rent the car.’
‘A jeep?’ Sy said excitedly.
‘No, something better.’
‘Jeep is good. Take bumps good.’
‘Too hard on the ass,’ Hatcher whispered. ‘And too hot.’
‘Merkedes?’ Sy said, coming down hard on the c.
‘How about a chevy?’
‘Chevy? Ah, Chevrolet?’
‘Chai,’ Hatcher answered.
‘Okay,’ Sy answered with a shrug.
‘Okay, here’s what we do. We’re going to the police station. Then we’re going back to my hotel, rent a car and then I’m going to study some reports for an hour or two. You can practice. There’s a small park across from the hotel. Then you and me, we’ll check out Bangkok.’
Major Tan Ngy stood behind the desk, his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask, staring at the memorandum that lay in front of him. He was annoyed, annoyed that the chief had ordered him to cooperate with the Americans, annoyed that the Americans had even asked to interfere with the business of the Bangkok police. And that’s what the American was coming for, to interfere.
Why was it that the Americans always felt they could step in and take over? No matter where they were in the world, they expected reports — and authority — to be handed over to them, just like that. The death of the American intelligence officer, Porter, was a local police matter, a homicide on the streets f Bangkok. It was not the business of the United States Army or military intelligence or this Hatcher. It was his business. Ngy was head of the homicide division of the Bangkok police and he had nothing against Americans in general, but he did not like their interfering in his business.
Ngy was an excellent police officer, tough, resilient, uncompromising and honest, all of which had earned him the nickname the Mongoose. The Mongoose did not need Americans snooping around, implying that his investigative abilities were inferior or inadequate.