I told Pugh what Timmy had found, and he said, “Now you guys are cookin’ with gas.”
Pugh drove me the few blocks over to the Topmost. While he drove, he took a call from a friend at AIS, Kawee’s mobile phone service. Pugh learned that the digital Skype phone through which Griswold communicated with Kawee was on an account at an Internet cafe in On Nut, in eastern Bangkok, on the way to Suvarnabhumi Airport. Pugh said that within three hours he would have a surveillance team in place inside and outside the cafe, with each team member carrying a copy of the photo of Griswold that Ellen Griswold had provided for me.
“We’re on our way,” I said to Pugh.
“Ih.” This was the common Thai word, or just sound, that was somewhere between an exhalation and a grunt, and whose meaning seemed to land somewhere between “yes” and “I acknowledge that at this moment you physically exist in my presence.”
I said, “Your team will tail Griswold if he shows up at the cafe, but they won’t spook him, right?”
“Ih.”
Pugh said he needed an hour or two in his office, about a mile away on Surawong, to bring his team together and get photos of Griswold copied and distributed. I said I would stay at the Internet cafe until he picked me up, that I needed to check my mail. And anyway I wanted to do some online digging.
The Internet cafe was a small storefront family operation, with eight or nine computers and farang tourists and Thai teenagers seated at several of them. Two of the owners’ kids were snoozing on straw mats in the middle of the floor, and a middle-aged Thai woman sat operating a sewing machine just inside the front door. Here was an Internet cafe where you could check your MySpace or Facebook accounts and have your hemline lowered at the same time.
My Hotmail account was up to here with the usual crap, but my eye snagged on EllenG1958, and I clicked open the message. It read:
Dear Don,
This is to thank you in advance for everything I am assuming you have done to locate Gary, but it turns out that all your good exertions have been unnecessary. We have heard from Gary, and he is perfectly okay! Isn’t that terrific news?
Gary is fine, his assets are intact, and he is just incredibly embarrassed over his being out of touch and with all the fuss that’s been raised. You must have been closing in on him, because he heard about your being in Bangkok and your searching for him on Bill’s and my behalf. Gary is feeling like such a dope at this point, in fact, that he would rather not see you personally and urges that you settle up with any expenses incurred in the course of your investigation and just come on home to Albany — where spring is finally showing signs of breaking out!
94 Richard Stevenson
Look, I know. You’re saying, what kind of BS is this? So let’s just cut to the chase. What I’m saying to you is, I accept Gary’s explanation for his freak-out — it had to do with a personal rather than financial crisis — and Bill and I are choosing to wrap this up.
It’s my money, so it’s my cal. Enjoy a few more days in the Land of Smiles, if you like, on my nickel. And be assured that the terms of your contract with me will be honored in all respects.
Let me know, please, that you have received this message, and reply with an Albany ETA when you have one.
Thanks again for your professionalism and for your keen interest in my incorrigible ex-husband’s continued well-being.
Fondly,
Ellen Griswold
I closed and saved the message, logged off, and then sat there, the meter running at sixty baht an hour, about a buck seventy-five. One of the kids asleep on the floor behind me moaned, in the grip of a nightmare, I guessed. I sat for a while longer. The air-conditioning was far preferable to the pounding heat outside, though the cafe smelled of German underarm deodorant and Thai fish sauce.
I got up, paid my fee, and went outside. Now Bangkok felt not so much molten as molting, as if, in the heat, the city was shedding its skin or other outer layer in my presence, and what was now exposed was formless and incomprehensible to a wandering and lost farang like me. I loved Bangkok, but it seemed to be making a fool of me. I wished I knew why. What had I done to it?
Oh, but wait a minute. Now I had a rational thought. The thought was this: No, it’s not Bangkok that’s jerking me around in some cruel and unusual way. Nuh-uh. It wasn’t the place. Bangkok itself was just a large, traffic-choked Asian city full of basically nice Thai people — drive-by shooters notwithstanding — who loved to laugh and believed in ghosts and ate great food. No, it was not Bangkok making an ass of me. Of course it wasn’t.
What a silly thought. It was the Griswolds.
I looked around and then ducked into an alleyway leading to a couple of laundry service holes-in-the-wall. They were closed on Sunday and the area was relatively quiet. I had Ellen Griswold’s cell number and dialed it, 001 for the US, then the area code and number. It was six fifteen p.m. in Bangkok and — swiftly doing the math — seven fifteen a.m. the same day in Loudonville, New York.
“This is Ellen. Please leave a message.”
Beep.
I cut the connection and put my phone away. I walked out and stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes — or was it fifteen? — and then walked over to the Topmost. I retrieved the room key, took the elevator to the unlucky sixth floor, went into 606, and lay down on the bed with a mild headache. I lay there for half an hour or so. Then I took an aspirin and walked back over to the Internet cafe.
When I Googled Khun Khunathip, the Thai soothsayer, I got over a thousand hits. The man was indeed a big deal. There were news photos of him at Buddhist New Year outdoor gatherings bestowing tidings of good luck on the throngs. In his company on other occasions were ministers of state, princesses, movie stars, industrial magnates. Several news stories reported Khun Khunathip’s acumen in forecasting the military coup of a few years earlier that sent the thought-to-be-corrupt but still democratically elected prime minister into exile and installed the junta that had run the country until recently. You had to wonder if the seer’s prescience about the coup came from charting the heavens or from a discreet phone call.
Although Khun Khunathip seemed to be the foremost figure in the pantheon of Thai soothsayers, his was a crowded field of practitioners. One survey said about a quarter of Thais regularly sought life guidance from a mo duu, or “seeing doctor,” on matters ranging from family to love relationships to money to auspicious dates for marrying or having children. Some of the seers were neighborhood men and women, often with humble stalls outside Buddhist temples, who charged several dollars for a consultation. Others were big-time operators who advised the high-and-mighty and collected substantial fees for 96 Richard Stevenson themselves or for temples whose abbots were in a position to dispense next-life merit points to present-life sinners.
Among the other celeb seers was one Pongsak Sutiwipakorn, who had failed to predict the last military coup but had made headlines much more recently when he had publicly forecast yet another — upcoming — coup by the end of April. A third popular seer, Khun Surapol Sutharat, got the press’s attention by insisting that his charts offered incontrovertible proof that there would not be a military coup anytime soon. A fourth seer, Thammarak Visetchote, had recently been making a name for himself by advising a group of younger army officers who were known to be fed up with their older commanding officers and with the old guard’s corrupt ways. Seer Thammarak’s specialty was numerological forecasts.
Again, I wondered how much these guys had in common with Nostradamus and how much with Karl Rove.
I printed out some of the data on the seers and stuffed the pages into my pocket before venturing outside and walking around the corner to the food stalls on hectic Rama IV Road.