“But none of those eyeballs were Thai. They were mostly Korean.”
“From the North?”
“North, South, what’s the diff? They’re more likely to speak Korean than Thai, aren’t they?”
“How would you know? They don’t talk to you.”
He pauses to look at me for a moment, he seems to hesitate, then asks, “What’s it like to be loony? I’ve always wanted to know.”
“I’m not loony. I’m suffering from aftershock. It can kill-there are farang statistics.”
“People in shock don’t hold conversations with eyeballs.”
The discussion seems to have reached a wall. Vikorn turns away to look out the window, then examines the room for a moment. His eyes come to rest on Chanya’s generic computer, her old printer, tubular steel chair, and collapsible desk. After a few beats I say, “Come on. You can tell me, whodunit? Was it Zinna?”
Vikorn shakes his head. “Unclear. That’s the problem. I need something to go on.” He shakes his head again and repeats, “That’s the problem.” He looks me in the eye. “Zinna’s even more psycho than you. He comes out with threats that make even my blood curdle. Then the next day he’s in a different mood, quiet as a kitten, keen to make peace. That’s queer love for you. I’ve never understood it, the way they get so intense-how can you be so hung up about another man’s hairy asshole? You surf the Net-what’s the explanation?”
It’s not a real question. I don’t reply. He goes to the window that looks out onto the street where his cop car is parked. “Policing,” he says to the glass, then turns to me. “You think you’ve got it tough. You don’t have any idea how it was when I joined the force. The whole cake was divided down to the last crumb. The big boss got seventy percent, and the portions got smaller as you descended the totem pole. I got maybe half a crumb. And I was damned grateful for that.” He prowls back to the chair, holds it by the back. “And no complaining. You learned to keep your mouth shut at all times- you wouldn’t have survived the first week.”
He sighs. “You see, what nobody tells you about capitalism is that it’s warlordism in disguise. That leaves the only job in the jungle worth having as apex feeder-the rest is slavery at various levels of discomfort. Socially, psychologically, we’re still in the rain forest. I feel sorry for you, but I didn’t design the system, I simply learned to win in it.” He sighs again. “I think I’ve tolerated you because you’re the opposite to me. Sometimes I don’t think you’re interested in survival at all-then the next thing you’re in bed sucking your thumb, thinking you’re scared shitless. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
“What kind of question is that? I know if I’m scared or not, don’t I?”
“No. I’ve seen you in firefights when you didn’t even break a sweat. Bad men don’t scare you. What scares you is the thought you might not be on the side of the angels. I think you’re staging this whole drama because you fear for your karma.”
“How could anyone work for you and not fear for their karma?”
“Easy. You stop believing in karma.”
“An unstructured, cause-free universe where evil always prevails?”
“Now you’re sounding like a grown-up.”
Time passes. We stare at each other for a moment; then when that becomes embarrassing, we look away. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“Sorry for what?”
“That I let you get away without the full initiation. Maybe it’s because you’re half farang, so you won’t get promotion anyway-what was the point?”
“The point of what?”
“Making you see.” He rubs his jaw. “The rule of law is just another piece of farang hypocrisy-a piece of theater designed to dazzle the masses while the movers and shakers clean up. As a cop, you are expected to participate in this theater. That’s your real job-play the game as if it’s real.”
“What are you talking about?”
“But nobody can stop you from writing your own script. That’s all we have, Sonchai. Our real privilege as cops is that now and then we get to write the screenplay. Any cop who doesn’t grab the chance while he has it…” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
“That’s what you’re using me for, to clean up?”
He gives me one of his wise-old-man looks, even makes his eyes twinkle. “You know what my own mentor told me, after I’d seen a few things that scared me? I was a lot younger than you. He said, ‘Think about it. What is the easiest crime in the world to solve?’ ”
The Colonel stops strategically. I say, “Okay, okay, I’m hooked. What is the easiest crime in the world to solve?”
“The kind you plan yourself,” Vikorn says. He puts a hand on my shoulder and chuckles as he pats me. “That’s policing. He said he got it from the British. What did they do when they wanted to impose law and order in India? They invented Thugees. Amazing. You invent a massive crime wave, then you get the kudos for suppressing it, and you end up with a docile populace and a few thousand dead down-and-outs. That’s real policing.”
He straightens himself. “All my professional life I’ve earnestly striven to do what the British did a hundred years ago: sell an opiate to make enough money to keep the peace. It may not be pretty, but as the Brits demonstrated, it works worldwide.” He stares at me. “You’ve already made the point for me. With my black Amex card and my money, you’ve found out more about worldwide organ trafficking in a couple of days than the FBI has managed in ten years. Let me be plain: the dough you spent in Dubai comes out of the smack habits of inadequate, narcissistic farang. That’s the way this world works. If you can find a better one, let me know-I’ll be right on the spaceship with you.”
“What do you want to do, exactly?”
“I’m not telling you yet.” He prowls to the window again to stare at the soi. “I want you to follow up on your contact with the Twins. They’re based in Hong Kong, right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Visit if you have to. Find out everything you can.” He nods at the street. “Your wife has come back.”
The door opens. Chanya walks in. I know exactly what has happened in her inner life. She felt disgusted with herself for running from Vikorn and has screwed her courage to the sticking point instead of having her hair done; now she is all ready to confront him in the flesh. Her eyes are twin blazes of defiance in an honor-retrieval exercise, but she is taken aback by the father-and-son atmosphere.
“Darling, would you mind booking me on a flight to Hong Kong next week?” I say.
“First-class,” Vikorn says. He turns to give her a polite wai and takes his leave. At the door he seems to remember something, looks at her, smiles: “Great hairdo.”
Chanya stands at the window with her hands on her hips and watches as he collects his goons and ducks into his car.
“I have to go back to Phuket,” I say, when his car has drawn away.
“I thought you said Hong Kong.”
“Next week. If I’m going to have any questions to ask in Hong Kong, I really need to start in Phuket. All I’ve done so far is stare at the crime scene for ten minutes and talk to Supatra.”
13
Patong, about two miles from Vulture Peak, is the down-market play area in Phuket. On the right night it’s a lot more festive than the Bangkok hotspots, which tend to have a no-frills air in comparison. Here on Bang La, Patong’s main street, you get the full farang fantasy of unrestrained orientalism. Adolescent elephants come up from behind and lay their trunks on your shoulder, begging for sugarcane, which you can buy from the mahout. In one of the pavilions you can watch some kind of snake-charming gag with a full-size cobra, which has had the venom removed, naturally. If anything, the katoeys on Soi Crocodile are even more flamboyant than in Nana, and there are girls everywhere. They don’t have to exaggerate anything, they are young, beautiful, and friendly in bikinis and will do anything you want so long as it doesn’t hurt and you use a condom.
I arrived a couple of hours ago at about eight P.M. and spent time at a few bars watching the street and deciding what to do. I came on a hunch. My reasoning is simple: Vulture Peak was built for pleasure, but it’s high on a hill, a good couple of miles away from any live entertainment. Soi Eric here at Patong is the nearest center for fun, including takeaway. What I can’t figure out is exactly who to ask, or how to frame the question. Naturally, I checked in with the local police force and received mostly a stonewall. I have a feeling the entire station has taken a vow of silence with regard to Vulture Peak. The best I can obtain is the promise of an interview with two constables before they go out on patrol tomorrow morning. Now after two hours on the street I’ve made no progress and I’m starting to feel restless, so I take a stroll.