Paying Back Jack (48 page)

“Why would he go to the trouble?”

Harry smiled much the way Tracer had. “He wanted to fuck with us. It could be as simple as that. Look what he did for a living. And that was certainly part of his stock in trade.”

“You're saying we don't know?”

Harry nodded. “It comes down to that. We've got a gap in our information big enough to fly a C-130 through. We don't know if MacDonald ever told Cleary what happened that night.”

Jarrett thought his old man had lost it. “That's crazy. MacDonald was scared shitless. They'd burned him with cigarettes.”

“What if I told you I had information that they were back in business? Another thing, you remember the guy with the gold earring?”

Varley. Jarrett would never forget killing him.

“Seems that he was Cleary's nephew. We thought at the time that those two guys weren't professionals. We got that part right.” Harry stared at the dead fish, tapping the gaping mouth with his toe. He looked up, not smiling, not frowning, but with his worried look. “Maybe they got loaded on Perth bud and MacDonald said, ‘What if I told you I know who did your nephew and his friend?' Cleary would have been all ears, don't you think?”

“That's conjecture?”

“Varley was his nephew. That's a fact.”

“I can't believe MacDonald would do that.” Jarrett sat back hard on the deck chair.

Harry shrugged, opened the sunblock-lotion bottle and started applying lotion to his face. “What about this guy Calvino?”

“What about him?”

“Another MacDonald? Another loose end to deal with in the future?”

Jarrett cracked a smile. “You said it was conjecture about MacDonald.”

“I did.”

“Calvino saved our ass.”

“Like we saved MacDonald's?” Harry wasn't smiling. He missed sunblock on his left shoulder and the skin was already turning red.

Jarrett watched as several seagulls swooped down, following the boat, looking for more guts and blood. “It's about the odds.”

His father made a face as he touched the sunburnt shoulder. “It's always about the odds. You got to figure him right. Even then, you got to ask yourself, ‘Am I willing to lose the bet?'”

Jarrett fired up the engines and headed back to Hua Hin. The boat smelled of fish. He looked up and saw the seagulls following behind. They were also playing the odds.

CHUCK BECKWITH, the cheating husband Calvino had photographed at the Washington Square—a few seconds after his first encounter with Jarrett and Tracer—barged into Calvino's office and threatened him. The man didn't understand he was in the wrong weight class the moment he'd stepped into Calvino's ring.

Calvino sifted through all the Bangkoks within Bangkok that he knew and couldn't come up with anything as lame as Beckwith. The man was a loser, one of the emotional cripples that yings learned had one essential function—they were reliable cash machines. Calvino had seen the spouses of clients like this before, bullies with American wives whose attack folded at the first sign of resistance. Pale, shaking with rage, Beckwith rushed him, throwing a sloppy, loopy punch. The fist flew out like it was the first time the man had ever tried to hit another man. Calvino deflected it with his forearm and swung hard, hitting Beckwith in the mouth and then again, hard, in the flabby midsection. Instead of a brick wall, Calvino's fist hit a pillow. There was no need to hit him again. Beckwith emitted a sound like air escaping from a puncture. His eyes bulged like an insect with its guts run through by a long, sharp pin. Calvino pushed him over and onto the floor with his foot. Beckwith doubled over and vomited on the floor. What came out was scrambled molten lava of bacon and eggs that smelled worse than the diapers of Ratana's kid.

“That's a bad diet for someone looking to pick a fight,” said Calvino.

The outraged husband tried to raise himself up but failed and sat down hard on his ass with his legs sprawled out. His intention to be a tough guy was there inside his head. He'd seen it all in movies and television, but in reality nothing ever worked so smoothly. His right hook was pathetic. He was an out-of-shape, middle-aged farang who'd forgotten he was no longer in high school or beating up on his wife.

“Don't come around with threats, Mr. Beckwith. I don't like threats. You can understand that. Your wife hired me. I did the job. You take the consequences. Don't come along and try and lay your problems with your wife on me. Now get the fuck out of my office. I'm meeting my tailor.”

Calvino helped him to his feet and escorted him through the reception area and out the door.

“What time is my appointment?”

Ratana looked at her diary. “After your lunch with Colonel Pratt.”

She handed him a computer printout. There were several pages, and the color printer made the sports jackets as attractive as a full-page ad in
Vanity Fair
.

“I recommend Armani.”

Calvino sifted through the printouts and liked what he saw. “Armani?”

“The Brioni didn't last long,” she said. “It's time for a change.”

“The problem has been the fabric. This time I want the right material. Something that's easy to dry clean.”

Baby clothes hung along the side of the playpen. “Blood's hard to get out unless you rinse it right away in cold water.”

“I'll remember that.” He folded up the prints and put them inside his jacket.

Colonel Pratt arrived for lunch a few minutes after Calvino had sat down. The Italian restaurant off Asoke had only been open for a few months. The décor was suitable for a colonel, and the homemade lasagna was worth the visit. Calvino was studying the Armani sports jackets in the printouts when Colonel Pratt pulled back a chair and sat down.

“Nice-looking jacket,” he said.

Calvino had a mellow smile. “Ratana showed you these pictures of the Armani?” He knew the answer to the question. The two of them had conspired to upgrade his tailoring, but so far they'd been faced with unforeseen challenges that would test the limits of any brand.

“I liked the Brioni, but it wasn't all that durable,” the Colonel said.

Calvino liked it when the Colonel tried his hand at farang humor.

“Speaking of durability, Apichart's now an adviser to the new government.”

“It's his advertising background they want.”

“He's also not bad at shuffling up a makeshift hit team,” said Calvino.

“Isn't that what advertising agencies do?”

Calvino took out the newspaper clipping from New Jersey. There was a photograph of Waters's body wrapped in a tarpaulin in the trunk of a Buick. “Here's a present,” Calvino said, handing the Colonel the clipping.

As Colonel Pratt sat back in his chair, he put on his reading glasses, and read the article. When the Colonel looked up, removing his reading glasses at the same time, Calvino said, “Remember that Thai proverb, the one about the fish with the big mouth? Here's one who should have kept his mouth shut.”

“I thought you might have some news about Casey.”

“I recommend the lasagna,” Calvino said. “And the rocket salad. And half-a-liter of house red. That should do it.”

“No one seems to know where to look for Casey. With all the resources of the American government, I find that strange,” said Colonel Pratt.

Calvino smiled and folded the clipping, putting it back in his jacket. “What if I told you the Colombians and the Americans were wasting their money looking for him?”

“They wouldn't believe you.”

Calvino had a broad grin. “Exactly right. They'd just keep on looking.”

“If he's alive, they'll find him sooner or later. These people don't give up.”

“That would be good,” said Calvino. “I hope they can put the pieces together.”

The waitress came to the table, and the Colonel ordered the lamb chops and pumpkin soup. Calvino wavered for a second before sticking with the lasagna and salad.

“Some people think Casey might have copied the video of some interrogations. That could prove embarrassing for the government,” said Colonel Pratt. “I had a strange dream last night. Casey was in it. Only he was in the distance, lying still on a raised platform. From a side door a man appeared and came straight up to where I stood. He pointed at Casey and said, ‘I spoke with someone who saw him die, and he said that Casey openly confessed his treasons, begged for forgiveness, and repented deeply. He never did anything in his whole life that looked as good as the way he died.'”

“Isn't that Shakespeare?”

“
Macbeth,
” said Colonel Pratt.

“Pratt, sometimes dreams are real.”

“You think my dream about Casey is a sign?”

Calvino shrugged as his salad arrived. “Casey's like a picture that fell out of the frame and disappeared.” Pratt had some idea that Calvino was holding back.

“Out of the frame as in dead, or on the run?”

Calvino shifted his weight as their main courses arrived. Calvino eyed the lamb chops as he inhaled hot steam rising from his own plate. “Maybe. But there's a whole range of possibilities. Take the Chinese deity, Guan Yu. He's the god of war and literature. In Singapore and Hong Kong the locals have shrines to him. Guan Yu's the god of the police brotherhood. And the Triad and other Chinese gangsters, he's their god too. The gangsters, cops, and poets all put their faith in the same god.”

“Guan Yu isn't going to find Casey.”

Calvino tasted the lasagna, wishing he'd ordered the lamb chops. “This is a little salty. But it's good.” He wiped his face with the cloth napkin, took a sip of wine. “Of course Guan Yu won't find Casey. That's okay. The people who are looking would be better off hunting for Santa Claus.”

A grin came across Colonel Pratt's face. “He's dead.”

Calvino held his fork suspended over his plate. “He's dead.”

“Next time you should try the lamb chops,” said Colonel Pratt.

“Did you really have that dream about Casey with a ghost who channeled Shakespeare?”

“You're starting to sound like a wife,” said Colonel Pratt, cutting into the lamb chop.

Calvino stared at the lasagna going cold on the end of his fork, still suspended midair. He thought about Marisa and how, for a moment, he'd asked himself if she could be a wife, could be his wife. They'd sat across a table in a restaurant, and she'd told him that what she wanted more than anything was to go home. She knew he was already home.

Colonel Pratt raised his wine glass. Getting no reaction from Calvino, he reached across the table and clinked the rim of Calvino's glass where it stood. “I'd like to make a toast.”

Calvino lowered his fork with the cold pasta and raised his glass.

“To the Java Jazz Festival,” said Colonel Pratt, grinning.

Calvino's jaw dropped. “You got an invitation?”

The Colonel nodded. “Yesterday.”

“Why didn't you phone me?”

The waiter refilled the wine glasses. Calvino sat back in his chair at a loss for words. Witnessing a friend's dream come true is a rare event.

“To the bonds of brotherhood and honor,” said Colonel Pratt, raising his glass and touching the rim on Calvino's. “May those bonds never stop running in our blood.”

“Shakespeare?”

“Guan Yu.”

After lunch, Colonel Pratt dropped Calvino at his office. He walked up the stairs, unlocked the door, and closed the door behind him. Downstairs at One Hand Clapping, clients slipped in and out of the door, clients with their neckties unknotted, staggering down the small sub-soi. Calvino closed the blinds on his window, turned around, and used a key to unlock his desk drawer. Casey's DVDs were inside an envelope. He slipped one into his computer and waited until it loaded. Resting back in his chair, he watched Casey and a hooded man in a small room. Casey appeared on the screen wearing his sunglasses and baseball cap, circling the man like an animal closing in on
helpless prey. The feeling of absolute power and absolute powerlessness coalesced in the frame. Hope had gone out of the frame, and in the emptiness was raw, unrestrained terror.

He'd asked himself what the right thing to do was with the DVDs. Hand them over to Colonel Pratt, and suddenly his friend's life would be turned upside down. Send them in an unmarked envelope to
The New York Times
? Or send them to a congressman on the committee looking into illegal CIA prisons? He'd been through all the possibilities.

He understood how the world worked if you were small-time with a big story; it worked against you. And how no matter whom he sent the DVDs to, in a matter of days or weeks the authorities would trace them back to the point of origin. The DVDs, like homing pigeons, would fly back to their roost above One Hand Clapping. Then what would happen? That was all too predictable. His life would never be the same; it would be forever turned upside down. Not even Pratt could help him if it were found out he had something to do with the DVDs. He tried to imagine the loss of face, the officials who would call for an inquiry. Men like Apichart and Somporn pointing a finger at the bad farang. With no Casey at hand, someone else would have to take the fall. A farang whistle-blower would fit the bill.

He played the video again, watching Casey take the bearded man, who couldn't have been more than in his mid-twenties, through a brutal interrogation. The man was around the same age as Casey's son. In the background were a couple of Thai officers. That would have been enough to cause an entire government to lose face, and disclosure could end only one way: bad for them, bad for him. There had just been an election. They'd have to start over. The bad publicity coming from a thousand lead editorials around the world would shift the spotlight from murderous thugs who happily strapped on a suicide vest to blow up innocent civilians to the American government and the secret prisons. But what was to be done with the killers in suicide vests? No one had the answer, but everyone had an opinion. Warehousing them was one thing, torture another. There was no simple solution. No matter what he did with the DVDs, something like Guan Yu had been unleashed across all lands, and those wanting jihad had fallen in love with death and blood.