Noble Lies (13 page)

Andy stepped out onto the dock, tossing the extra lengths of guide rope back into the boat. He dug a hand into his pocket, pulling out a pack of smokes and a clear plastic lighter, shaking loose a cigarette, drawing it out with his lips, cupping his hands around the end as he got it lit. He reached over and pulled his dive bag from the captain's seat and slung it over his shoulder and started down the pier.

“I said I need to find Shawn Keller.” Mark watched as Andy approached, the man looking past him.

“And I said I don't know him, right, so piss off.” Andy looking at him now, all attitude.

Mark stepped sideways into his path, his eyes level with the top of Andy's head. “One more time. I need to find Shawn Keller.” He waited for the man to say something, push past him, watching as the man's lips twitched and his neck muscles tightened, but the man did nothing and it was over.

“Shawn Keller?” Mark said.

The man took a half step back, smirking, playing it off. “Right, and who the fuck are you?”

“A friend.”

“Bullshit. Keller has no friends.”

“Then you do know him.”

Andy drew on his cigarette, twisting his mouth so that he blew the smoke to the side. “I've heard of him, sure. But I don't know him.”

“Erin tells me you and Shawn were working on a business deal.”

“Stupid bitch,” Andy muttered.

Mark leaned forward. “I wouldn't say that again if I were you.”

Andy looked up at him. “You're an American?”

Mark nodded.

“Right, thought so. It's that whole American thing, think you can go anywhere, stick your nose where it don't belong. Fine, I might know Keller. And I might have done a bit a business with him, too. What I don't see is what business it is of yours.”

“It's not my business. I don't care what you do. You're not part of this. I just need to find Shawn Keller.”

“I tell you, take you to him, you leave me out of it?”

“That's what I'm saying.”

Andy sighed, took one last drag and dropped the just-lit cigarette to the cement pier, grinding it under his leather sandal. “Right then.” He shifted the strap of his dive bag and nodded up toward the road. “Let's go.”

At the end of the pier, miniature Toyota pickups and snout-nosed three-wheelers waited for the last of the dive boats to return. In the street-side bars he could hear divers one-upping each other's stories, while in the shops, instructors shook their heads as they recounted the ass-backward screw-ups they had to deal with on the dive. Andy stayed a stride ahead, his left hand keeping the dripping dive bag on his shoulder, the right swinging wide with every step.

“This way,” Andy said, turning down a dirt and mud path that cut between a pair of souvenir shops to join the narrow access alley that snaked behind the storefronts. It was too narrow for dumpsters but there were bikes and scooters chained up to wire-heavy utility poles and a few bags of trash piled up behind the closed service doors of the restaurants. Mark watched as Andy shifted the dive bag so it was in front of him, hidden from Mark's view, his left hand lower now, probably feeling for the zipper, his right hand crossing in front of him, digging around in the bag.

Mark wondered how he'd do it. Would he stop suddenly, letting Mark walk into him, then turn quick, pulling the dive knife out of the bag, sticking it under Mark's chin and force him up against one of the cinderblock walls? Or would he drop the bag off his shoulder, thinking that Mark would look down at the bag, then turn with the knife? He could swing the bag at him, then step in with the knife, but only if he was trying to kill him and Mark was sure it was just going to be talk, the stay-the-fuck-away speech or the who-the-fuck-are-you drill. He heard the scratch of the Velcro strap and Mark could picture the man easing the knife from the ankle sheath, figuring Andy for the kind of guy who'd carry the double-edged dagger type instead of the more practical utility knife with the blade on one side and saw-tooth edge on the other. He could see Andy tensing up so he took a breath to relax, letting it out as he watched Andy slip his thumb under the strap and lift it off his shoulder.

“Right,” Andy said as the bag hit the ground, spinning around to see Mark smiling, Mark's left hand already locked tight around his wrist, pulling him forward, Mark turning now, keeping the knife away from his body, the arm stretched out straight, Mark's right hand coming up hard on his back, Andy stumbling over the bag at his feet, going down, face first into the dirt path, his arm still held up, his wrist bent back, the knife slipping free. With his thumb pressed into the back of Andy's hand and the man's elbow locked against his leg, Mark picked up the knife. It had a titanium blade with both a sharp edge and a low ridge of rounded serrations, a deep-notched line cutter near the handle. Expensive and top of the line. He held it by the tip and tested its balance before flicking it up toward the roof of the shop, the knife sticking with a solid thud into the center of a two by four that braced a small satellite dish, twenty feet off the ground. It was a lucky shot, one in a hundred, but he wasn't going to tell Andy that.

“Right, that wasn't mine, you bastard,” Andy said, jumping up when Mark let go of his arm. He was rubbing his wrist and flexing his fingers and there was dirt on his face and dots of blood where his cheek had hit the path. They stood there a moment, looking up at the knife, the bass of a bar stereo thumping through the wall. “Bastard,” Andy said again, snatching up his dive bag and walking away, turning back when he was ten yards away, shouting, “you'll pay for that, you bastard.”

Mark smiled and waved. “Say hi to Shawn for me.”

 

Chapter Twenty one

  

“Here's to cheap drinks,” Robin said, tapping the rim of her third gin and tonic against the side of Mark's fifth Singha.

A hazy cloudbank on the horizon had obscured the sunset, but the light breeze and the heavy scent of wild orchids made it a beautiful evening. They had eaten on the beach, the owner of the Lanta Merry Huts setting out a picnic style meal, a mix of seafood and rice, a Thai-style stew that even Robin enjoyed. Pim was eager to help in the kitchen, the owner just as happy to let her. The old man and the boy had borrowed a pair of long fishing poles and spent the day on the rocks at the point. Mark was sure that even though they caught the fish and Pim had cleaned and cooked it, the full price of the meal would be added to their bill. Robin had walked the beach all day, checking at all the bungalow hotels, everyone so helpful and nobody telling her a thing. Now, with the sky turning blue-black, Pim and her family talking with the owner and her staff—their high-pitched voices cutting though the night air—Robin and Mark sat at the beach-side bar, Bob Marley's Exodus CD starting up for the fourth time.

They were the only patrons at the bar, the bartender sitting in the sand to the side, close enough to refill their drinks but far enough away to give them privacy. The bar itself was a plank propped up on bamboo stakes and gnarly driftwood, and an orange extension cord ran from the four-way plug behind the dorm fridge back across the clearing to the registration desk. On the back bar was one bottle each of gin, vodka, whiskey, and rum, and the bar napkins advertised chain hotels on other islands.

“How's this one?” Mark said, pointing to Robin's drink.

“Better than the last. The tonic's flat and there's still no ice, but he's doubled-up on the gin. Your beer warm?”

“Toasty.” He didn't know if it was the heat or if they brewed their beers stronger in Thailand, but he was feeling that buzz that usually hit after a couple six packs of American beer.

She squeezed the lime into the glass. “We could walk down to the other hotel, that Monkey Bar.”

“I like this place,” Mark said, looking around, nodding in approval. “Good tunes, good company, a crack wait staff—”

“Stupid bar name.”

Mark put his hand to his heart, “Stupid? The name is why I picked this place. As soon as I saw it in that guy's binder, the one on the boat, I knew we'd stay here. Besides, it came highly recommended.”

“By who?”

“A kindly police office in Krabi,” Mark said, remembering the parking lot encounter. “It's prophetic.”

“It's not prophetic, it's pathetic. What the hell does that mean, He She Drink?”

“He—that's me—she—that's you—drink. And that's what we're doing.”

Robin used the swizzle stick in her drink to mash the lime wedge into the bottom of her glass. “We can drink tonight, but you better remember why we're here.”

“To find your brother, I know. And like I told you at dinner, we'll find him this week or we won't find him at all.”

“I can take that either way, you know—like you're confident or like it's a lost cause.”

“I'm confident. But that doesn't mean it's not a lost cause.”

A shrill laugh erupted from the covered porch at the reception desk, the owner howling at something that had been said. Mark could see them in the tiki torchlight, Pim, her grandfather and nephew, the owner, and a few of her employees, all of them sitting close around a picnic table, Pim's bright white smile flashing as she spoke. “It looks like Pim's keeping them all entertained.”

“Good,” Robin said without looking back. “Maybe they'll give her a job.”

He started to say something and stopped, then thought, what the hell, and said, “Why do you have to ride her like that?”

Robin said nothing, licking lime pulp from the plastic swizzle stick.

“She's a good woman and she's helped us out.”

“I've paid all her bills. Ferry tickets, hotels, food…” she said, tapping out the words with a fingernail against her glass. “Not just for her but for all of them.”

“Yeah, well it wouldn't kill you to be nicer to them, too.” He took a long pull on his beer.

“You sure about that?” Robin said, her head propped up in the palm of her hand.

“You could at least be more friendly.”

“Really?” Robin looked up at the palm fronds of the bar's droopy awning. “So tell me, Mister Congeniality, what are their names?”

“Their names?”

“Old man, about a hundred, sits real straight? Cute kid, loves chocolate? Sound familiar?”

Mark wet his lips and rubbed his chin with his thumb. He hadn't shaved that morning and the stubble felt like fine sandpaper. He'd have to shave in the morning if he could find some hot water. He took another sip of his beer and wet his lips again.

“Well?”

“The old man is Pim-san, that's where Pim got her name. The boy's name is Timmy.”

“Nice try,” Robin said. “I'll give you points for that Pim-san thing. Very creative.”

“How do you know I'm not right?”

“Because the old man's name is Kiao. Pim calls him Bpuu, it's a Thai term for your grandfather on your father's side. And the boy's name is NamNgern but they call him Ngern. Sometimes she calls him lor. I think it means cutie or handsome, something like that. By the way, Pim's just a nickname. Her real name is Prisana.”

“And you know this because…”

“Because I asked.” She downed her drink and stood up, wiggling her toes into her flip-flops. “Thought you had me all figured out, didn't you? Guess I fooled you.” She turned and started toward her bungalow. “Don't forget to sign for the drinks,” she said over her shoulder. “And be sure you give the nice man a big tip.”

Mark smiled as he watched her walk away, her hips swaying with a reggae beat.

 

***

 

“If you have get more like this,” the man said, holding up to the light three sticks of Golden Thai, the potent strain of marijuana the ferangs loved, “you may can stay as long as you wished.”

He smiled. The ones from Europe? The ones with the blue eyes and thin hair? They were the best ferangs. They were the easiest to get along with and they never got mad, no matter what. And their English? It was no better than his, so there were no funny looks and they never raised their voices when they talked to him, as if they said it louder he'd understand.

“This is good. This is much good,” the man said to him, examining the buds. It should be, he thought to himself. The Chinese kid who tried to sell it to him wanted four thousand bhat for it, which was crazy because it was only worth five or six hundred, tops. But even if the kid had said three hundred, it would have ended the same. He couldn't spare even that much, and anyway he didn't know the kid, a huffer who sold weed to tourists so he could buy his cans of spray paint. He had to spend a full hour digging a hole for the kid, dragging his dead ass deeper into the tree line, digging with his hands, breaking his long pinky nail when he hit a root. The way he saw it, he lost money on the deal.

The blue-eyed guy? He spent the day smoking bowl after bowl and he even offered to share, and he didn't once try to touch him, even at night. He had first seen this ferang when he was hanging out at the pier, watching the big American waiting for the dive boats to come in, the big guy never noticing him. On the ferry from Krabi he had sat not five meters from the American, peeping through the tiny hole he had poked in the newspaper. He had watched as the tout from the tourist board signed him up for a hotel, the tout—a tall guy with floppy ears—bragging to the others that he had booked three bungalows at the Lanta Merry Huts and charged the ferang for four. And he watched as the late afternoon sun angled into the starboard windows, the big American and his tan girlfriend falling asleep. It would have been so easy to walk over, slip his knife down the man's collarbone. He could never get away, sure, but he could have done it. Besides, he needed them alive.

When the ferry arrived at the port, the American had hired a tuk-tuk to take him and his people to the hotel. It was only ten kilometers or so down the beach and he knew they wouldn't be going anywhere since, according to the tuk-tuk drivers he spoke with, there wasn't anyplace to go. It was a good walk, and he got there just as the sun was setting, the blue-eyed ferang approaching him as he sat on the beach, a hundred meters from the Lanta Merry Huts, watching the big American and his group as they ate in the twilight. It had taken ten minutes of bullshit but the guy finally got around to asking him if he had any Thai stick to sell. He didn't, but he knew he could get it easy enough from any of the tuk-tuk drivers, so they came to an agreement, swapping a safe supply of weed for a spot on the floor of the guy's less pricey hut down the beach.

That night the American stayed in his hut. Alone. That had surprised him since, when he had crept up to the hut and peeked through the open slats of the bamboo shutters, he had expected to see the American woman in there with him, too, or at least the Thai whore. But he had been alone. The Thai family all slept on the same bed. And the blonde girl, the one with the tan? He had seen her sleeping, sprawled naked face down on the bed, her tight white ass glowing in the moonlight.

The next morning he caught a ride to town on the back of a delivery truck. He needed to score enough gencha to keep the ferang happy without having to spend any more of his money. That's when he had spotted the huffer with his cans of spray paint and plastic bag out near the dump.

He was standing on line at a noodle shop, his pockets bulging with baggies of Thai stick, when he saw the American going to the dive shops, showing around that same picture he had flashed at all the bar-beers in Phuket.

This is what he knew. The American was looking for the guy in the picture and somehow Jarin was involved. The next night the American gets Jarin's whore and her family and they all leave together on a long-tail, ending up in Krabi late the next day. The American was still looking for the guy in the picture. And when he saw two of Jarin's men get off the ferry that morning, he knew that Jarin was still looking for the American.

Now, as he stood in the ferang's hut watching as the man inspected each of the bud-heavy shoots, he formed a plan.

He'd stay close to the big American, wait for him to find the guy he was looking for, then capture them both and take them to Jarin himself, and Jarin would be impressed and would hire him on, right there, make him part of the gang, something like his assistant since he would know he could trust him with the hard jobs, and then everyone would have to respect him and call him by his name because he was Jarin's man.

Well, maybe not capture. The American was huge and if he was looking for another ferang, that guy would be huge, too.

He'd stay close, find out what they were up to and get word to Jarin, let him know where they were and what they were doing.

But how? He'd only made three phone calls in his life and even though he had lived there for four years now, he didn't know anybody to call in Phuket.

Okay. He'd stay close, find out what they were doing and then figure something out. Jarin would like that. He'd say you're a quick thinker, I need smart men like you. Yeah, he'd figure something out.

It was dark, getting close to midnight. The blond ferang was happy and that meant he'd have a place to sleep for the next few days. Not that he needed it, he'd lived on the streets for years, but it was still nice and it didn't cost him anything other than offing a huffer who would have been dead in a couple months anyway. He'd take a walk down to the Lanta Merry Huts, wait for the American to go to bed, then come back and get some sleep.

But what if Jarin's men found the American first? They were already here, he had seen them near the pier, two of them, guys he'd seen all the time at the Horny Monkey. What if they got him first? Then everything he'd done would mean nothing and Jarin wouldn't hire him and everyone would still call him Spider. He had to do something, keep Jarin's men from finding the American first, but how? He couldn't talk to them, tell them the American wasn't here—they wouldn't believe him and they'd wonder what he knew, beating it out of him, then killing him. And if he went to the American and told him that Jarin's men were coming for him, the American would want to know how he knew, and he'd get beaten up and probably killed by him instead. He had to think, come up with something. He'd come too far to give up and this was it, his one chance, he knew that more than anything. Screw it up now and that's it, it's over. And then what? Go back to Phuket and get picked on for the rest of his life, or go back home and become a farmer? No, this was it, this was it.

“Hey?” the blond ferang said, looking up at him from the bed, his legs crossed in front of piles of buds and stems. “You are all correct? You are looking not good.”

 

***

 

The first time he heard the sound he thought it was part of his dream. He had been sitting at the bar in Phuket City, talking with Frankie Corynn, but instead of dark red hair, she was blonde, and then it wasn't Frankie anymore, it was Robin and they were at the Horny Monkey, and the noise was part of the dream, maybe a pool ball hitting the floor. The second time the sound was louder and it woke him up, a stone tossed up against the door, bouncing down onto the planks that served as a porch.