“God help you.”
“It’s work.”
“Something I should know about?”
“Definitely not,” said Simon. “Where’s my fee?”
“Pending.”
“You said that last time. The painting’s either authentic or it’s not.”
“There’s an issue about the canvas. One test says it’s one hundred twenty years old, another three hundred.”
“So it’s a fake painted before Monet was born?”
“I’m sure things will resolve themselves in your favor. Everyone has to prove their worth. Damn experts. How much do you want?”
“Twenty grand. Dollars. Oh, and one more thing. I don’t have an ID with me, no passport, nothing. And I may be wanted by the national police.”
“That incident in the embassy…that’s not you?”
Simon didn’t respond. He heard an oath. Then: “Go to a branch of the Royal Bank of Thailand. They are our correspondent. Ask for the manager. Use the name Guy Fawkes.”
“You’re serious?”
“You’re not the first person I’ve had to send money to under suspicious circumstances. Tell them your birthday is November fifth.”
“Of course it is,” said Simon. “Guy Fawkes Day.”
“Not bad for a Yank. I’ll take care of the rest.” D’Art paused. Then a command: “And, Simon, look after yourself.”
A last call. “Hello, Ben. Sorry to wake you. I need a small favor. Maybe you can help.”
“Shoot.”
Simon made his request. Ben Sterling’s answer surprised him.
After parking, Simon walked up the main drag, relieved to see that his fellow expats were as poorly dressed as he. He wasn’t sure if he should look for the seediest establishment or the classiest. He spotted a place with a catchy name and a big footprint: Awake Till Dawn. With that much real estate, the owner was sure to be plugged in.
Simon found a seat at the bar, happy to be out of the sun. A girl joined him before he could order a beer.
“Buy me drink.” She was twenty, almost pretty, with a sunny disposition, clad in short shorts and a strategically cut off T-shirt. A hand dropped onto his thigh. No beating around the bush here. “How you today?”
“I’m fine,” said Simon, and when the waitress arrived, he ordered a beer for himself and a Shirley Temple for the lady. Actually, she wanted a shot of tequila.
“Me, Gate,” she said.
“Gate?”
She nodded. “American name.”
“NotKate?”
“Gate.”
Simon said he must have missed that one. The drinks arrived. He tipped the waitress and gave Gate a thousand baht to begin the process of legally changing her name. She asked where he was from, and he said, “Australia.” Why not? He planned on visiting one day.
“Listen, Gate,” he said. “I need a favor. I’m looking for the person who runs this place.”
