“You mean, in charge of bar? My boss, there.” She pointed to a faded beauty seated at a far table smoking a cigarette and doing her nails.
“I mean, the big boss. The person who owns this place.”
“First, I ask my boss for you.”
Gate hurried to the far table. The older woman—probably his age—eyed him, then, with great effort, rose and came to the table. “What you want?”
“A favor,” he said, slipping the woman a thousand baht. “Five minutes of your boss’s time. The owner.”
“Who you?”
“A businessman.”
Her look told him she didn’t believe him. “Why you want to talk to him?”
“Personal.”
“You have card?”
“Left it on my dresser.” It was apparent to Simon that he was getting nowhere. He decided on the nuclear option. “Please tell him that I’m a close friend of Sergeant Rudi.”
The woman’s eyes didn’t change, but he could sense her growing tense.
“You name?”
“Simon.”
“You wait here,” she said. “First you buy Gate drink. Me too.”
Simon ordered another round for all of them and sat back to wait. Ten minutes passed. Gate asked repeatedly if he would take her home when his business was done. Simon said, repeatedly, “Not tonight. Maybe another time.”
She asked if he wanted a boy…or a ladyboy. Simon declined each.
Gate pouted. “You buy me one more drink?”
Simon obliged, thinking they should use Gate in their employee training videos. By now he was broke. Another half hour passed. He hadn’t seen Gate’s floor boss since their conversation. He kept his eyes on the street, checking for police. An occasional uniform walked past, keeping the peace, nothing more. Simon pulled his cap lower. One morefarangenjoying Pattaya’s hospitality. He had an hour before the bank closed. If he could find a passport, it wouldn’t come cheap.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. A middle-aged man sat on his haunches, white shirt, shorts. “Mr. Simon, please come with me.” His English was good. A step up.
Simon followed the man through the bar to a suite of offices on the first floor. The floor boss waited inside a small office. “You sit,” she said. “Wait.”
Simon entered and took a seat. The woman left the room. He checked the door. Locked. The office was cramped and without windows. A desk, a file cabinet. A Buddha on a shelf with a wilted garland around its neck. This was not the boss’s office.
Some time passed. The door opened. Two men entered. Tough and Tougher. Late twenties, as thin as rails and probably as strong, wearing jeans and T-shirts, hair cut too fashionably, razored on the sides, dressed up on top. Not the boss. Not even his deputies. They were muscle, pure and simple. He’d come to the wrong place, asked the wrong questions.
Simon hit the first man as he closed the door, a sucker punch to the ribs, knuckles extended. He followed with a jab to the chin. The man bounced off the wall, grunting, otherwise showing no ill effects.
A fist struck Simon in the kidney. He spun, vision blurring, kicked at the other man’s knees, felt the kneecap give way, winced at the telltale snap of broken ligaments. A howl to alert police in the surrounding five counties as the man fell to the floor. But Simon was already turning back to the first man, blocking one punch, the other landing on his solar plexus. A hammer. Gasping, Simon threw an uppercut, connecting with bone. A tooth whistled past. The counterpunch landed wide, grazing Simon’s shoulder. Simon charged ahead, a wounded bull, lifting the man bodily off his feet and slamming him against the wall. A flurry of punches to the ribs followed. The man down, writhing.
Fifteen seconds. Over and done.
He fell onto the chair, panting, head down. He was wiped.
And then, a thunderclap of boots climbing the stairs. The door flew open. A wave of olive drab stormed the room. Angry hands hauled him to his feet and flung him against the wall. His arms were pulled behind him. Steel cuffs bit into his wrists. Someone spun him around.
An officer stood before him, ribbons to rival Colonel Tan, wearing his mirrored sunglasses, too.
The national police.
