Paying Back Jack (49 page)

He looked away from the screen to Colonel Pratt's drawing of the fish on the wall and thought about the Thai proverb,
pla moh taay praw pak
—or in English, the fish is dead because of its own mouth. Being a quiet American wasn't such a bad thing.

He turned up the volume on the computer, listening to the screams of the man who thought he was drowning. It was that kind of world. Men like Casey were the last line of defense against men whose basic wiring was not that different from Casey's.

Calvino had a rich Thai friend who had a starscape on his bedroom ceiling. It showed the exact configuration of stars and planets in the sky at the hour and minute of his birth. Calvino had once seen the ceiling and imagined what it would be like to lie in a bed under the sky of the night of your birth. He turned down the volume on the computer. The screams became muted and distant. And he wondered, in the world of men under that huge, infinite sky, how the influence of stars had ever resulted in secret prisons, sniper teams, drug dealers, and crooked politicians. He checked his email before closing down for the day. There was a message from Jarrett, asking if he were interested in hiring a boat and going out fishing next week.

Calvino leaned back in his chair. He glanced at the open-mouthed fish drawing on the wall. He saw something he'd not seen before. The fish wasn't dead because of its big mouth; it died because it lived in a world that dreaded the truth. Calvino emailed back, saying he'd think about the invitation.

Calvino's tailor had promised that the Armani jacket would be ready next Wednesday. He'd sworn the new material had been treated to be resilient to all elements. He'd demonstrated by smearing ketchup on a piece of fabric, and it had wiped off neatly. It was durable enough to wrap the Shuttle as a heat shield. Only time would prove how it would handle the first splash of blood splashed off the mean Bangkok streets.

Over the many drafts of
Paying Back Jack
, a number of readers provided useful and insightful comments and suggestions. Joe Glazner, Bob Fitts, and Bill Ellis. Norm Smith and J.C. Cummings kindly once again came through at the crucial time with advance information about sniper rifles and ammunition along with how to blow stuff up expertise. For the Spanish scenes, inspiration in abundance was provided by Marta Oliva, Claudia Casanova and
Paco
Ignacio Taibo II. They took me under wing and gave me the chance to discover and explore Gijón, Spain.

I am fortunate to have a group of dedicated people who have been generous in sharing their knowledge and experience. I am grateful to John Miller, Peter Dennis, Richard Diran, John Muller, and Jim Gulkin who provided inspiration for the Bangkok setting.

I rely on them. Everyone, not just writers, needs that. They point out something that is right in front of me but I had missed altogether. That said, the remaining errors and omissions should be pinned to my chest.

At Atlantic Monthly Press, Jamison Stoltz, my editor, has the uncanny ability to catch the unintended collateral damage arising when either a character or element of the story missed the mark. Like a Navy Seal, he dove over the side into dark waters, suggested ways to fix the problem. If it meant setting a depth charge or two to remove obstructions, he knew how to delicately explain what need to be done. Not to worry, what was blown sky high is the kind of
stuff you'd never want to read. I thank him for that and would award him a medal if it would in my power to do so. Martin Townsend's copyediting skill unearthed potholes and cracks in an early draft. And Rich Baker's editorial assistance provided a sure guide to find and repair the problems that lingered.

Bridget Winter, my literary agent at Sagalyn Literary Agency, should be running the country with her diplomatic skills, business acumen, and publishing market sense. Fortunately for me, she remains a literary agent and has managed to excel in her roles as coach, priest, dealmaker, friend, strategist and advisor. If the Americans ever get really stuck for a leader, as she works in Washington, D.C., I strongly urge that they draft her for the job.

My wife, Busakorn Suriyasarn, to whom the book is dedicated, read with patience and care, and as usual provided her insights into the hidden mysteries of Thai culture and language, making certain the Thai aspects of the story were true to life. She reminds me that I have a life apart from writing, and that includes time for our family and five dogs.