LAUNDRY MAN (A Jack Shepherd crime thriller) (15 page)

At five minutes to ten I looked around for Tommy, but he was nowhere to be seen. Helpless to resist the intrigue, I abandoned my empty glass on a nearby table and headed toward the club’s front entry. Anyone who saw me would probably assume I was going to the toilet, but instead of turning left I turned right just past the bowling green and went through the door to the squash courts.

Only a single dim light was burning, so I flipped on the big overheads and looked around. All three courts were empty, of course, as were the wooden bleachers that rose a half-dozen tiers behind each of them. Feeling a little silly I sat down in the first row behind the court furthest from the door and waited. The bright lights glared off the white walls, throwing my reflection into high relief on the glass back wall of the courts. I thought I looked a little fuzzy.

After a few minutes the door opened and a young, well-dressed man stepped inside, quickly closing the door behind him. He was tall for a Thai and lanky, and he moved with a confidence that made him look a little dangerous. I had never seen him before, I was sure of that, and the expression on his face suggested that he had probably never seen me before either.

“You Khun Jay?”

The man’s voice was polite, but he seemed a little twitchy. He had such a thick accent that I saw it was going to be difficult understanding whatever it was that he wanted to tell me.

“Jack, not Jay. It’s Jack Shepherd.”

“Arai na krap?”
What?

“I said I’m Jack Shepherd. Not Jay Shepherd.”

There was a hint of puzzlement in the man’s nod.

“Krap.
You wait please.”

The man stepped back outside, but just as I was standing up to follow him the new minister of finance walked in.

“Mr. Shepherd,” he nodded pleasantly. “Sit down. Please.”

I sat down.

The minister stood in the doorway studying me for a moment, a half-smile on his face, and then he walked over and sat a few feet away on the same bleacher where I was. He settled himself comfortably, crossing his legs at the knee, and then he leaned forward slightly and laced his fingers together, resting his hands in his lap.

He was an average-sized man, probably in his sixties. His patent leather shoes gleamed even in the low light and he wore his tuxedo like a man who was accustomed to wearing a tuxedo. He had a full head of silver-gray hair, hard black eyes, heavy-rimmed glasses, and the patient air of a traveler forced to camp out temporarily with barbarians.

“It is a very dull party, isn’t it, Mr. Shepherd?”

“It was until about thirty seconds ago.”

The minister chuckled appreciatively, then he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted a black leather Dunhill cigar case. Pulling off the top he held it out to me and I saw the brown and white bands even before he spoke.

“Cigar, Jack? Montecristos are your brand, aren’t they?”

I glanced from the cigars to the minister’s face, but he was expressionless.

“No? You must have picked up all you needed when you were in Hong Kong.”

The minister selected a cigar for himself, closed the case, and returned it to his jacket. Then he dipped into a side pocket and removed a cutter and a box of matches. He inspected the Montecristo, clipped the end, and lit it. I noticed he took his time about doing it.

“I think I’m getting the message here, Minister,” I said quietly as he drew on his cigar.

“No, Mr. Shepherd, we haven’t gotten to the message yet. All I’ve done is convey that we know a great deal about what everyone around here is doing. Including you.”

“Who’s we?”

The minister took another puff on his Montecristo, then resumed, ignoring my question.

“We know, for example, that you made some inquiries in Hong Kong concerning the Asian Bank of Commerce. May I ask why you were you pursuing that particular line of inquiry up there, Mr. Shepherd?”

“I thought you already knew what everyone around here was doing. Including me.”

The minister laughed, apparently genuinely.

“We do, Mr. Shepherd, but sometimes we have a little trouble understanding why they do it.”

I said nothing.

“Actually, Mr. Shepherd, I don’t suppose it matters. My message to you tonight is the same regardless of your motives.”

The minister took another puff on his Montecristo, but he kept his eyes locked on mine.

“You must stop asking questions about the ABC.”

“And why is that, sir?”

“You might embarrass someone, Mr. Shepherd. If names happen to come up in the course of your inquiries—names of people who are, let us say, politically prominent and might have had some small, perhaps even accidental involvement with the ABC—you might cause them to lose face. You know Asia well, I am told. Surely you must know how bad a thing it is to lose face.”

“Accidental involvement? I don’t understand.”

The bleachers squeaked as the minister shifted his weight.

“You Americans have become obsessed with what you insist on calling transparency in government, Mr. Shepherd. But those of us who actually do the work of governing understand that we must occasionally engage in undertakings that we would not particularly like to become public. Frequently, those activities involve financial arrangements, and naturally those arrangements are generally routed through helpful banks like the ABC. It’s just the way things are done in Asia, Mr. Shepherd. It has always been so, and it
will
always be so.”

“Just for the sake of conversation, Minister, what do you suppose might happen if some of these arrangements you’re talking about looked as if they might become public?”

“Oh, I don’t really know, Mr. Shepherd.”

The minister waved his Montecristo in a little zigzag motion.

“But we have a saying here in Thailand that you might do well to remember: When the elephants move, the grass is trampled.”

The minister slowly stood, rolling his shoulders and stretching slightly.

“I always thought that was an African expression,” I said, watching him.

His eyes flickered for a moment, met mine, and then looked away. With his left hand in the front pocket of his jacket and his head tilted down, he walked toward the door that led back out of the squash courts. When he reached it, he took his hand out of his pocket, put it on the knob, and looked back over his shoulder.

“Actually, Jack, I think you’ll find it’s an old Icelandic proverb.”

Then he pushed through the door and was gone.

I DIDN’T SLEEP
sleep very well that night and predictably woke up way too early on Saturday morning. I lay quietly for a while, one hand resting lightly on the smooth skin of Anita’s thigh, replaying in my mind the way her body felt under my hands the night before. Anita was still sleeping deeply so I slipped quietly out of bed and padded into the kitchen to make some coffee.

My meeting with Dollar was looming in only a few hours and I pushed Barry Gale and the ABC into an unused corner of my mind while I dumped coffee into the filter and filled the coffeemaker with water. Before I saw Dollar I had to decide what I was going to tell him. Was I going to ask him about my conversation with Jello and the suspicions Jello had voiced about what Dollar and Howard might be doing together, or was I just going to let the whole thing slide?

While the coffee dripped I went back to the bedroom and pulled on some running shorts and a T-shirt and laced up my Nikes. Then, after draining two mugs and flipping half-heartedly through the
Post,
I drove over to Lumpini Park in the mood to do a little running and a lot of thinking.

I parked the Volvo on Soi Sarasin just in front of a strip of bars shuttered tightly against the morning but still smelling vaguely of cigarettes and spilled beer. It was the beginning of another cool day and I wondered vaguely if some kind of cosmic invoice for our pleasant weather was going to be presented to the city later in the year. If it ever arrived, I figured it would be a doozy.

Crossing the street and threading my way among the food venders half-blocking the park’s north gate, I broke into a lope on the broad walkway just inside. In front of me, off through a gap in a grove of banyan trees, patches of early morning sunlight were glistening on the lake and a light breeze rattled the fronds of the spindly palm trees that lined the walkway. In a few minutes I reached the edge of the lake and moved onto the grass. I found my rhythm quickly and I adjusted my stride and paced myself for a longer run than usual since I had a good deal to think about.

I knew I either had to tell Dollar immediately what Jello had said to me or I could never tell him at all. If I kept quiet today and then said something about it later, Dollar would read my hesitation as having at least half-believed Jello in the first place—and of course, he would be right.

I had done a fair amount of work with Dollar and I had never seen anything that would suggest he was involved in money laundering; but I didn’t know Howard nearly as well and I could hardly claim to have the same conviction with respect to him. Either way, Jello had put me in a real bind. If what he said turned out to be true and I somehow ended up helping Dollar and Howard do their laundry, no matter how inadvertent my participation might be, Jello would be able to point out that I had done it in spite of being on notice as to what they were involved in. That would put me a long way up my own personal shit creek, and I would unquestionably be lacking the proverbial paddle.

The more I thought about it, the clearer it became that was exactly what Jello had in mind. He knew the position he was putting me in when we had our conversation at Anna’s. He was squeezing me. There was no nicer way to put it.

Although I doubted Jello knew anything specific about my meeting this morning with Dollar or about any of the frequent appearances Howard had been making in the conversations Dollar and I had been having recently, he would still no doubt have surmised that Dollar would eventually ask me to help out with Howard’s work again—and then I’d have no choice but to ask Dollar if there was anything behind Jello’s story. Jello had boxed me in with consummate skill. I couldn’t see any path out of the trap he had so carefully constructed, except of course for the one he obviously wanted me to take.

A major attraction for me of running in Lumpini Park was that the joggers there generally included a significant number of tanned, athletic-looking young women pushing gracefully around the lake with firm, confident strides. Just trying to look good for them usually kept me going pretty well. This morning, however, the pickings were slim. I was a little early and the only other runners I saw were two local men pumping doggedly along together without much apparent enthusiasm. I passed them easily. A few minutes later, just after I had crossed a narrow metal bridge over a tiny sliver of water, I glanced back to see how the two men were doing, but I couldn’t see them anymore.

I was still wondering where they had gone when a woman suddenly appeared from a stand of banyan trees near the edge of the lake and fell into stride right next to me. When I glanced over, I did a long, slow take.

It was the woman who had been with Barry Gale at the Foodland.

She was wearing black shorts, a white halter-top, and a black baseball cap that said Oakland Raiders over the light gray bill. She ran easily, gracefully, her feet springing off the grass as if they were touching down on hot coals. Other than describing her features as Asian in a general way, I still couldn’t put a specific place of origin to her. The bone structure was too fine—high, wide cheekbones and a rounded European-looking nose—and now that I studied her closely I could see that none of the separate parts of her face really looked Asian at all except perhaps for the slightly tilted, deep brown eyes.

The woman neither turned her head toward me nor spoke.

Running shoulder to shoulder as we were, I could see that she was actually a little taller than I was, and since I was an even six feet that made her pretty tall for a woman. She was slim, but with distinct muscle definition, and she looked strong. Her complexion was the color of cinnamon, although her arms and legs were darker, burnished by strong sun to the color of
café au lait
, and her smooth skin glistened in the morning light as if it had been polished. She had pulled her shiny black hair back into a ponytail that, in scale with the rest of her, looked two feet long, and it rotated behind her head as she ran like a little propeller driving her forward.

“I was born in Hong Kong, Mr. Shepherd.”

The woman’s eyes stayed forward when she spoke.

“My mother was Chinese, but my father was American. He could never manage the tones in Cantonese, so we always spoke English at home.”

Her accent was half British and half American, and her diction and phrasing were those of someone well-born or well-educated, perhaps both.

“Should I tell you the answer to the other question that everyone asks me?”

“Sure.”

“It’s, no, both of my parents were rather short, actually.”

I chuckled and waited for the woman to go on, but she fell silent again. We ran on like that for a while, not speaking, the rhythmic slapping of our shoes against the grass the only sound marking our progress.

Eventually my curiosity overcame me and I wiped the sweat from my face on the sleeve of my T-shirt.

“This obviously isn’t a coincidence,” I said.

She let a dozen strides go by before she answered. “I thought this might be the best way for me to talk to you without attracting attention.”

Off to our right, three boys who couldn’t have been more than ten were practicing martial arts under the watchful eyes of an old man sitting on a folding stool, a straw hat low over his eyes. Each boy was carefully turned out in a white robe with a belt tied around his waist, and they all stood facing the old man in a neat row, concentrating with remarkable intensity for such small boys.

“Then I figure you’ve got about eight minutes to say whatever it is you want to say,” I said, raggedness creeping into my voice. “After five miles I generally drop dead, and that lamppost we just passed was my four-mile mark.”