Bullet Beach (28 page)

TWENTY-EIGHT

Shanahan had a sense that this was going to be an odd day. It started with the surprise visit from Channarong. After calling to make sure Maureen made it back all right and he had found some less colorful clothing, he made it back to his quarters around noon. The Germans occupied their usual table but paid no attention to Shanahan's arrival. Their conversation was quiet, intimate, conspiratorial. Even as Shanahan sat through his first two beers of the day, the usually obnoxious group was restrained.

He called Maureen.

Kowalski had picked her up from the airport, had Einstein and Casey with him, which was odd enough because they had been put in Cross's care; but Kowalski seemed distracted and somewhat evasive, she said. The animals seemed fine.

‘He's a lawyer,' Shanahan told her.

She was tired, jet-lagged she told him and he held on to that as the explanation for the lack of real personal connection. He didn't like the alternative.

The overhead fans in the bar recycled the heat but at least suggested movement. The beach was without combers, the street between beach and bar without motorbikes and tuk-tuks. The bar would have to make its rent with just the two tables of customers. Shanahan decided to make it harder on the owners. He went upstairs, locked the door. He checked his revolver to make sure it was loaded and put it on the table beside the bed. He looked out the window, which overlooked the back of the bar. It would be difficult for anyone to get to the second floor.

He took off his shoes and crawled on to the bed. He had little sleep last night, getting up early for his breakfast meeting. And he thought little was done for good or evil during the big heat of the day. He wanted to be sharp for later, sharp as he could anyway.

Though Shanahan slept for several hours, it would be hours before darkness. When he awoke he was covered with sweat. He had been many places like this in his lifetime, places so hot and humid you worked up a sweat without even moving. He'd been to worse places, he thought. He remembered one island assignment where the flies wouldn't fly. He showered, dressed.

When he came down, there were a few people taking refuge in the bar. The Germans had gone. Shanahan didn't want to eat at the bar. He found a tuk-tuk driver and had the young man drive him back over to Patong Beach so he could be among people and have a broader choice of dining options.

Once in the heart of the beach business district Shanahan
was
with people. A crush of tourists, mostly,
farang
, sat outside in various places, but these places weren't the little French or Italian cafes Shanahan remembered in his travels. The atmosphere was more like a German beer garden. And if that weren't enough, the sound of German being spoken – loudly – was all too common.

In the swirl of people entering and leaving the confines of the particular restaurant's domain Shanahan had chosen, he saw the cat paw man – the character who, in impatience or duress, splayed his fingers as cats sometimes do with their claws.

He'd only glimpsed the man, impatient to get by a couple of corpulent Caucasians. Instead of an elegant suit as before, he wore denim more in keeping with bargain-seeking tourists. Eventually the man broke free. If Shanahan had been willing to knock over a few tourists, he might have been able to follow him. He also hadn't known what that would do for him other than satisfy a little curiosity.

While he ate, he couldn't help but think that the man's presence was simply part of a gathering of interested parties. The German foursome was around somewhere. Channarong had returned. Now the man with the odd and obsessive tic had returned. Who was who? Were the Bangkok police involved? Mr White, the nightclub owner? Why had Channarong come down? Was he honor-bound to do so?

Conclusion: Shanahan didn't know who they were or precisely what they were doing here. He knew both imprecisely. At least some of them were there for the ruby. And they probably knew more about it than he did. All Shanahan knew was that his brother disappeared into the night and that the presence of all these folks meant that whatever was going to happen would be happening soon.

In the heat, Shanahan preferred the lighter Thai beer to his usual choice. He would have preferred Japanese beer to the Thai brew, but he was happy enough as the cool liquid slid down his throat. He had nearly finished when the kid who rented him the revolver appeared at the table.

‘Your brother says to meet him where you last saw him.'

‘Where is that?'

‘He didn't tell me that.'

‘Why should I believe you? You're not who you pretended to be.'

The kid reached in his pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper, on which was written:

Shanahan nodded. Fritz knew Shanahan would want verification. The kid waited. Shanahan gave him a couple hundred baht. The kid left.

The sun was falling. It wouldn't be long before it would be gone. He settled the check and went down to the beach. The tourists would be disappointed, he thought. The sky was gunmetal gray and darker shades of navy. The tropical Pacific sunset looked more like the coming of a cold Atlantic night. Shanahan feigned an accidental dropping of the gun-toting bag he carried so that he could look back without being obvious. He saw no one, but knew it didn't necessarily mean he was alone.

Eventually, Shanahan began to see a human shape form in the half-light. Walking in the sand was slow work and he occasionally had to step away from the tide that rolled in a dark, shiny mirror of the sky on the stretch of sand. For just a moment, he allowed himself to think that he was making footprints on the sky.

Though he knew he could be walking to his and to his brother's death – this was, in fact, serious, serious business – he felt a surprising lightness. One way or another all of this, he believed, was about to end. And if he survived it, he'd be on his way home, back to Maureen.

He was closing in on the dark figure ahead. And it appeared the dark figure was moving toward him. Shanahan slipped the revolver out of the bag and held it behind him as he walked.

‘Come quickly,' Fritz said. ‘I have no time to waste. None.' He motioned impatiently with his arms and Shanahan picked up the pace.

The gap between them narrowed.

‘Why did you want me to come?' Shanahan asked.

‘To say goodbye.' Fritz looked around.

It seemed like a good idea to see if there were others on the beach with them. Shanahan checked all directions.

‘You have the ruby?'

‘Of course.' He pulled a small leather pouch from his jacket pocket, plucked out a rough stone. Showed it almost dramatically. ‘I'm going out now and I won't be back.' He put the ruby in his coat pocket, without the pouch. ‘My ship is coming in Dietrich, literally and figuratively. I meet it out there . . .'

Fritz came to his older brother, hugged him briefly.

‘Take care, my brother. Thanks for seeking me out.' He saw the revolver. ‘That's not meant to . . .'

‘No. Things have been dangerous, lately.'

Fritz nodded, still looking around. He looked up at the sky and then out into the bay. He went to his black rubber raft and pulled it out. In the water he pulled the small motor out of the rubber so that it was mounted on the back. He pulled the string and it started.

Four people came down from the dune, running and falling and yelling in German. Fritz had the boat in the water and was heading out by the time they hit the beach. The Germans rushed in the water after him, but as they went deeper, the water slowed them. The raft was moving too fast. One, gun hand outstretched, fired. Shanahan shot him. The other three turned and froze in place. Only one gun among them. That was the good news of the moment. The bad is that Shanahan noticed two other boats, one large and one small, heading toward Fritz's motorized raft.

Fritz stood, wobbled a bit and fell in the boat, arms and legs flailing.

Was he shot? Shanahan hadn't heard any other shots. The boats closed in. Fritz's raft started moving in circles. Shanahan couldn't recognize who they were, but the men on the two boats shouted at each other angrily and at Fritz. The boats came closer to each other. Shanahan could see the flash from the muzzle of a pistol and the man on the larger boat dropped on the deck. The boat kept going, perhaps without anyone to steer her.

The shooter brought his tug-like craft close to Fritz's. He dropped anchor and boarded the raft and tried to subdue Fritz who, during what appeared to be some form of modern dance, fell into the water.

The man did not follow Fritz into the deep. He stayed on Fritz's raft. In the quiet night it was clear that the man was trying to start the small outboard engine and couldn't.

Shanahan kicked off his shoes and ran into the water, swimming as forcefully as he could. The very flailing that caused his brother to fall in the water was now, apparently, keeping him choking but afloat. The tide cooperated by bringing him in.

Even so, it took every bit of Shanahan's strength to get to him, leaving none to get back. It was not easy swimming and trying to hold on to someone mid-seizure. Shanahan could no longer keep track of anything other than to hold his brother, do a version of the side stroke and dog paddle, and keep the shoreline in mind.

He knew he wasn't going to make it. And the question was would he dump his brother and try to make it back or almost guarantee both their deaths by trying to go ashore. It was a decision he ended up not having to make. The motorized raft came up beside them. The man told Shanahan to grab hold of the side. Fritz's body suddenly went limp. The epileptic seizure was over. Fritz was either dead or in a deep sleep.

Eventually they made it to shore. Shanahan recognized the man who operated the raft. It was the man with the cat-paw hands. As the raft was pulled up on the beach and Fritz collapsed like a huge bag of rice, the Cat-paw man pulled a gun from his long, loose raincoat. Shanahan pressed a finger against his brother's neck, searching for a pulse. He looked around. The Germans had left, leaving their leader's body behind. There was a pulse. It was surprisingly strong. From what his brother had described, the sleep was part of the sequence of the seizure. He would shake out of control, sleep, awake in a fugue – a dull confused state of consciousness – and then to consciousness with no memory of anything after the onset of the seizure.

Cat-paw man motioned in the dimmest of light for Shanahan to move back away from his brother. The man began searching Fritz's pockets, while looking at Shanahan, who had just witnessed Cat-paw kill a man. The search became more hurried as he was running out of places to look, then frantic. Fritz was nearly naked and he had been inspected from mouth to shoes by the time Cat-paw concluded the ruby wasn't there.

Shanahan's revolver, which he had dropped on the beach when he went into the water, was gone or buried. He spotted three shapes coming toward them. The Germans coming back with weapons? The police?

It was becoming more and more difficult to see. But the Cat-paw man had gone over to the raft and began feeling around inside. He had lost interest in anything other than the search.

Shanahan recognized Channarong first and then Billy the Kid, the same young man Channarong had once described as some sort of imposter. One of the Germans was with them.

‘You have it,' the Cat-paw man said loudly, turning around, surprised by the sudden appearance of additional company. Billy the Kid pulled up a shot gun from his side and aimed it at the Catpaw man.

‘I'm going to search you, Mr Shanahan,' Channarong said. ‘Please relax and there will be no trouble.'

Shanahan raised his tired arms in a gesture that said, ‘be my guest.' And Channarong began.

‘You sure he had it?' Channarong asked the German.

‘Yes. He held it up. He had it in his hands. We saw it through the night goggles.'

‘OK, nothing here.' He took the shotgun from Billy and told Billy to search the Cat-paw man. And Channarong himself searched Fritz who continued in his heavy slumber. From there, Channarong searched the raft.

All efforts were fruitless. Channarong looked out into the bay. He shook his head.

He raised the shotgun and shot the Cat-paw man. It was quick and cold. He looked at Shanahan.

The German ran. It looked for a moment that Channarong was going to shoot him too. But he slowly lowered his rifle.

‘He won't go to the police and his little gang is all busted up. Not a worry. As for you, Mr Shanahan,' Channarong said, ‘go home.'

‘Why did you shoot him?'

‘He wouldn't have stopped. One day he would have me killed.'

‘I thought you were working for me,' Shanahan said.

‘I was.'

‘You're working for someone else too.'

‘I contracted with you to help you find your brother. I did. That's why you go free. I don't kill clients. I contracted with someone else to locate the ruby. That,' he said, ‘I'm still working on. And I will find it.'

‘And Fritz?'

‘Fritz is no threat now. He's not in control of the ruby nor does he have . . . what do you say . . . a constituency. Nor do you. I'm not an evil man.' He shook his head.

‘And the police?' Shanahan asked.

‘You don't want to wait around. If you get them involved, I guarantee you that you won't fare well. You don't know the system. You've killed a man. You'd spend years here sorting this all out.'

Channarong had his boy Billy help Shanahan get Fritz up to Shanahan's room, where he slept for a few more hours. Shanahan had gone downstairs and got an early start on a cold beer. Technically, for him, it wasn't morning, it was night extended because he had yet to sleep.