Bullet Beach (14 page)

As he clicked off his computer and switched off the lights, he wasn't sure he had found anything useful. He couldn't be sure. He reminded himself that the trail of the murderer still led to the Taupins.

THIRTEEN

The previous evening had been pleasant. More than pleasant; for the first time Shanahan felt as if he were on vacation. Even the ‘nervous' and slightly sweet wine turned out to be good. In the air conditioning they slept well. Getting up earlier than Maureen, as usual, Shanahan realized he was victim to a routine. His walk for coffee and a newspaper, a return to the room to freshen up and have breakfast in the hotel with Maureen, all were predictable. No doubt Channarong would join them in the hotel dining room. If there was anyone out there who wanted to do them harm, predictability was dangerous.

When Channarong called, Shanahan suggested they meet somewhere else for breakfast. The guide suggested a dim-sum place in Chinatown. They would meet there.

‘I have something to show you,' Channarong said before disconnecting.

‘Chinese for breakfast?' Maureen asked when she found out where they were going.

‘You don't think the Chinese have breakfast? I understand they make a delicious porridge.'

‘Porridge.' She looked at him with a Mona Lisa smile. ‘All right, bring on the porridge.'

‘To tell you the truth, it's more like an early lunch,' Shanahan said, looking at his watch. ‘They're serving at eleven.'

They found a taxi. At the intersection, a flock of motorbikes gathered in front of them, each with their lawnmower motors straining to get the go.

The restaurant was large and loud. The main room was two-stories high, with mammoth square columns every ten or twelve feet. It was grand, but sheer size had replaced decoration. The waiters, all young Chinese it appeared, wore white coats and pushed stainless steel carts built to carry a dozen trays full of small dishes. Access was from the side.

Shanahan felt as if he had stepped back in time. He had been in such places during his time in Malaysia and his trips to Hong Kong. But all of that was long ago and he wondered how many of these kinds of place – white coats in this heat – were left. Of course the cold stone of the walls and floors helped cool off the place and overhead fans that dropped twelve feet from the ceiling were keeping it as cool as possible without air conditioning.

Channarong was waiting for them at a table well in the middle of the great room. He stood, shook hands with Shanahan, and nodded graciously to Maureen.

‘What a place,' Maureen said.

‘I'm afraid I'll have to interpret for you. Most of the waiters here speak only Chinese and Thai.'

A cart was rolled up and the waiter pulled out the first of many trays he would display for inspection.

Midway through the ‘breakfast,' which included porridge, Shanahan asked Channarong what he wanted to show him.

Channarong presented a photograph. It was grainy, but clear enough for Shanahan to see a man that looked much like himself. It was a strange feeling. He hadn't remembered his brother resembling him so much during the childhood years that he knew him. He showed it to Maureen.

‘It's a little eerie,' she said.

‘Where did you get this?' Shanahan asked.

‘I got that from a friend at the police department. It's probably ten years old.' The arrival of another cart interrupted the conversation and after consulting with Maureen, he ordered shrimp and chive dumplings and turnip cake.

‘I need to tell you something else,' Channarong said. ‘I told the
mahouts
that there would be a reward for information about Fritz Shanahan. I gave each of them a copy of the picture.'

‘How much is the reward?'

‘Twenty-five hundred baht,' Channarong said, ‘about seventy-five dollars.'

‘Cheap,' Maureen said. ‘But why would they know anything about him or how to find out information? There are, what, eight million people who live in Bangkok?'

‘Money is a motivation. They know people who know people who know people. Eventually we are all connected. There are a few bars just for the expats. And we can narrow that down to English-speaking bars. Whether he speaks Thai or other languages, it's likely that he visits at least one place where English is spoken. If you are an American, you will tire of Thai food. You will want to read an English or American book. Even the people who choose to live here, need a break from Thai culture once in a while. And we know where the British go, where the Americans go and so on. It's our business. Literally.'

The food was good; but Channarong was right, Shanahan was already longing for some sausage, northern beans, potatoes. He also realized he had come to appreciate Channarong. He kept the investigation going. He understood that offering seventy-five dollars of Shanahan's money was an economically effective way of getting information. He didn't need permission to do it.

‘We still don't know whether these people trailing us are connected to each other,' Shanahan said.

‘No, we don't. And they could be connected but want different things.'

‘Then why are they working together?' Maureen asked.

‘You see, that is the way it works here. The police, the criminals, the business people, the army – they all jump sides when it is convenient. One day one is your friend, the next your enemy. It is difficult for the western mind, perhaps.'

‘I'm not so sure we're all that different. What did you tell your band of private investigators?'

‘Connections were the Kitty Club, your Mr White, rubies, smuggling, Americans in occasional trouble with the law.'

‘Key words in a Google search,' Maureen said.

‘It's our version,' Channarong said.

‘Why wouldn't the kids just make up information and we go off on a wild goose chase?'

‘They won't. But they might sell whatever information they got from us to another interested party.' Obviously noting Shanahan's disapproval, he continued, ‘Fulfilling both contracts.'

‘Whew,' Maureen said, but was distracted by the arrival of a cart and Maureen spotted the soft shell crab. Channarong translated and when he was done he told them he had something else.

‘I feel like a fifth wheel,' Shanahan said.

‘I know how things work here, that's all,' Channarong said. ‘Tonight we can hit some of the expatriate bars and see if there's anything we can learn.'

‘And what kind of bars are these?' Maureen asked.

Shanahan looked at Channarong. ‘They are discreet bars where Westerners go to drink scotch and engage in men talk.'

‘I see. Men talk. Are there women there?'

Now it was Channarong's turn to look at Shanahan.

‘No stripping, right?' Shanahan asked.

‘No stripping,' Channarong said. ‘Very discreet. Quiet, but, I'm sorry, a Western woman would discourage conversation.'

Maureen shook her head and nodded when Channarong translated the food on the tray as mango pudding.

‘Imagine a baby shower,' Shanahan said. ‘Men aren't invited . . .'

‘A baby shower? Is that the best you can do?'

‘Well really, there are places women don't want men around.'

She grinned broadly. ‘I understand, but it is fun to see you squirm.'

There wasn't a lot for Shanahan to do, other than wait. He had planted seeds in the gem district. He had apparently stirred up interest with Mr White and with the police. Channarong, using the promise of reward, had sent the
Mahouts
on an information gathering mission. The afternoon would roll out its empty hours, he thought, and he had no idea of how to fill them. He might as well give in and enjoy it.

The roof-top pool was rarely used during the day. But there were bars and lights that suggested that maybe it came to life in the evening when the heat was bearable and the darkness hid smog in the air. He swam four full laps while Maureen prepared to get into the pool. He climbed out, struggling a bit for his breath. He dried himself off and stretched on the lounge chair that looked down the length of the pool.

A shower, nap and dinner. Shanahan felt better than he had in quite awhile. The sun, an occasional swim and afterwards naps to replenish his energy. Maureen let him know she didn't mind missing the men's club and would spend the evening with rum and tonic and a good book. Perhaps a late evening swim.

‘They have a bar up on the roof. I'll mingle, you know,' she said grinning, ‘with the crowd.'

‘What crowd?'

‘I'll find a crowd.'

‘You'll create a crowd.'

‘Whatever's necessary.'

It wasn't only Western women who were rare visitors, but also Thai men. Channarong wandered about the Night Market, very close to the two clubs Shanahan would visit. The first had a handsome bar that ran the length of the front room. Occupying the other two-thirds of the room were white linen-topped tables. There were half a dozen women around tending to Caucasian guests. The women were dressed well and Shanahan thought they were available for more than mere companionship, but if so, it wasn't obvious. Discretion ruled. One would, in a sense, likely court the object of his affection and remuneration would be understood to be a gift. At bars like the one owned by Mr White, things were less subtle – the girls wore numbers.

Shanahan sat at the bar and was at once given a cool, damp towel to remove the thin layer of perspiration that had gathered on his face. The bartender was an attractive woman, who was slightly older than the other women. She also broadcasted her authority. No question she ran the place.

He ordered a beer and noticed that the back bar was filled with bottles of Scotch. There were names on them and they were marked at the level of liquid inside. It really was a club. People bought their own bottles and were served from them.

When he noticed she was between tasks, he asked her to look at the photograph. She did, looking back and forth between Shanahan and the photograph.

‘You have any idea where I might find him?'

‘Is this a joke?' she asked without an ounce of hostility, a slight, amused smile on her face.

Shanahan took a chance. He held his hands forward, touching one pinkie finger and then the other.

‘That's not me,' Shanahan said.

She nodded. ‘That's Fritz's,' she said. She shook her head to dispel the confusion. ‘I just thought you . . . Fritz grew a beard.'

‘You know where he is?'

She shook her head ‘no.'

‘When was the last time you saw him?'

‘Two weeks ago, maybe three.'

‘You have any idea where he might be?'

‘That's the way it is around here. You see somebody every day for six months then, poof.'

‘He have a bottle up there?' Shanahan nodded toward the back bar.

She pointed to it. Fritz's bottle of Scotch was three-quarters full.

‘I wondered why you ordered a beer. You never ordered a beer after dark.'

‘Thank you.' He finished his beer, left a generous tip and left, going across the alley between booths selling all sorts of trinkets, wallets, scarves, Buddhas, on his way to the second bar.

It was clear he had just entered a bar that catered to a less moneyed clientele. The table tops were not covered. The bar was slightly battered. The women were dressed more casually, more Western. But again, none of the girls pressed the clients to buy them drinks – all more polite than their counterparts in the States. The girls were there to join a table if invited. There was a woman, also slightly older than the others, tending bar. How many of these kinds of places existed in Bangkok? Would he need to go to them all?

He ordered a beer, and was given a knowing look.

‘I'm not much for beards,' she said.

‘I'm not sure I am either.'

‘If you're trying to hide it won't work. Beer tonight? You have work to do?'

She went to the end of the bar to pick up where she left off – chatting with one of the girls in Thai. Lots of laughs and nudges. He noticed the same line of bottles at the back of the bar. Shanahan waited but finally interrupted them to ask the question.

Shanahan had to show her and her friend that he had ten fingers before they believed him.

‘I thought you lost some weight,' the younger woman said. ‘You're his brother.'

‘I am. I'm trying to find him.'

‘I didn't know anything about his private life,' the bartender said.

‘Does he have a bottle here?'

‘Yes.'

‘Which one is it?'

‘You want him to buy you a drink?'

The bottle was half full or half empty. Shanahan wasn't sure which.

‘Sure. If he asks, tell him he bought a drink for his brother Deets.' He handed her a card. She put it next to Fritz's bottle on the shelf.

Shanahan, a bourbon or Irish whiskey drinker, wasn't a fan of Scotch. But this seemed appropriate.

FOURTEEN

The lead story in the
Indianapolis Star
recapped and updated what the police were willing to say about the murders. Cross sat in the middle room with his coffee, Casey asleep at his feet and Einstein on top of the table where a slice of sunlight landed. For the most part the story confirmed what he already knew, but it was the first time the public knew the police were connecting Edelman's suicide with the bodies in the trunk. They also said they were questioning someone who had ties with all three deaths. No name was given, but he knew that would be him. Also missing was any mention of the fact that the murder weapon was not your average shotgun. Homicide made it a practice to hide from the public some evidence that only the murderer would know.