Crackdown Page 12

  “You come back tomorrow?” asked the vendor, smiling at the tip.

  “Hey, with your homemade noodles from a packet, how could we resist?” teased McPhail.

  The irony was lost on the noodle vendor and his pregnant wife, who dipped the farangs’ bowls in a plastic tub of soapy water. The couple were an important set of eyes and ears in the neighborhood, well positioned to give the first warning alarm in the event of trouble. They’d be gossiping about the two farangs for days.

  First Munny strolled out of the barbershop. He looked like a day laborer—long legs, lanky arms that swung as he walked. Calvino snapped several photos. Nothing in the photos captured the real Munny, the artist, the Khmer tattoo genius who lived in an abandoned building, where his wife and family, along with others, farmed fish in the basement. Or Munny’s son, Sovann, waiting for his father to return home to help him with his homework. Nor could Calvino read Munny’s thoughts as he passed by their table without giving the two farangs a second glance.

  Munny in his mind was already home. Sovann helping his mother like a good, respectful boy, doing his studies under a fluorescent light connected to the generator. The picture clouded as he thought of the Eight-Niners. There was no future for him and his family in the squatter’s building. Now that he had some money, things would be different. After the hate campaign against the Khmers, Chamey had packed up their stuff, three old roller-wheel cases that remained beside the bamboo mat where they slept. They could move out on short notice. They had a few things—clothes, some old family photos, Sovann’s schoolbooks, identity papers, good luck charms and eight boxes of cheap noodles. When the time arrived to run away, their belongings wouldn’t slow them down.

  He regretted having to leave behind the electric generator, but he thought that before they got to that point, he’d try to sell it. News of the generator being for sale would alert the Eight-Niners that Munny was up to something, though, and that was sure to cause trouble. Munny went back and forth in his mind about how best to get his money out of the generator. Chamey, always the practical one, had said they’d better leave it behind. They’d had a fight about it, another regret he felt as he walked along the street. He looked around. He was in a foreign land. He laughed, he had money in his pocket and, inside his head, that thing pigeons had, a built-in navigation system to guide him home to his roost. Instinct was the original mapmaker. Munny’s father once told him that people, like birds, lions and zebras, had a map imprinted in their minds. Soon it would be time to go home.

  Oak emerged next from the barbershop. The barber in the Panama hat nodded and said something as he passed. Oak pointed behind. Palm and Fah walked into view. The large plate-glass window turned the barbershop into live street theatre. Calvino saw Fah dip a hand into her bag and hand over money to the barber. He counted it as a customer sat in the chair, watching Fah and the barber in the mirror.

  As Fah and Palm appeared in the street, Calvino snapped a series of photographs of them talking in front of the barbershop as they waited for a taxi. After a few minutes a taxi pulled up and they piled into the back.

  “Another bowl of noodles before we go?” asked Calvino.

  “I thought we were friends.”

  THIRTEEN

  “Don’t you know, if you don’t step outside yourself, you’ll never discover who you are.”—José Saramago, The Tale of the Unknown Island

  “I HAVE GOOD news and bad news,” said Calvino. “What do you want to hear first?”

  Osborne pursed his lips, trying to decide. He examined Calvino’s face for some clue. There was none to read.

  “Let me have the good news.”

  “When Fah disappears, she’s not hiding away with another man to cheat on you.”

  Osborne looked physically relieved.

  “Okay, now give me the bad news.”

  “Let me show you. You can see for yourself.”

  “Show me what? Why do you have to be so mysterious? If she’s not cheating on me, how bad can the bad news be? She’s not seeing another woman!”

  Calvino shook his head as he opened an app on his phone.

  “Not another woman.”

  He opened a photo folder with Fah’s name on it. Osborne watched the screen. Calvino scrolled through dozens of photographs of Fah, Oak, Palm and Munny as they walked out of the barbershop, waited for a taxi and climbed into it, as well as a close-up of Munny, who had left first and walked right past Calvino’s table on the street.

  “What were they doing in a barbershop?” asked Osborne, mystified.

  “Nothing. They use a room upstairs.”

  “A gambling den.”

  Calvino thought how a twisted mind might draw that conclusion.

  “No gambling.”

  “It’s looks like a slum. What would Sky be doing in such a place?”

  “They’re producing political art to protest the coup.”

  “You’re telling me this is all political and not sexual?”

  Calvino nodded.

  “That’s some relief. They are silly students.”

  “Alan, there’s been a coup. The army could detain her if they found out about her activities. They’re not messing around. Dissent and you get an attitude adjustment. That’s how it works.”

  “Do you have pictures of this illegal artwork?”

  Calvino showed him half a dozen shots of the soldier, the dog and the lettering: “By Junta Order, THIS WALL IS A DESIGNATED HAPPINESS AREA. REFORM UNHAPPY PEOPLE. Help Line: 911189.”

  Osborne studied the images and text that had been spray-painted on the wall.

  “Sky’s always been a rebel. And who are those young men she’s with?”

  He took Calvino’s phone and held it in both hands, his eyes darting between Oak’s face and Palm’s.

  “That’s Oak. And this is Palm. They’re her university classmates.”

  “I recognize them, the Tree Brothers from her study group. They’ve been in my house.”

  Calvino had run the photos through a facial recognition program that linked to Fah’s university database. There’s no place left to hide once someone has your picture, thought Calvino.

  Osborne stared at the screen on Calvino’s phone, shaking his head and sighing.

  “And that third, sinister-looking man? I’ve never seen him before.”

  Nothing in the university database had turned up for Munny. Calvino had relied on the data dump he’d downloaded from Fah’s phone, including the voice recordings of their conversations. She’d called Munny by his name as he worked in their room above the barbershop.

  “His name is Munny. He’s not a student. Munny’s a Cambodian tattoo artist.”

  “An illegal migrant. That could be trouble. And what’s this nonsense about him being an artist? He looks like a laborer. She told me this was a group project for her class. Why would they have an illegal tagging along?”

  “They give him directions and he draws the artwork they describe.”

  “Of course, Fah and her Tree Brothers are exploiting him to get a good mark. Is he also writing their paper? Disgraceful little weasels, don’t you think?”

  “Have a close look at his artwork, Alan. What do you see?”

  “He’s cheating them. He’s ripped off Banksy. You do know Banksy? He’s a famous English street artist.”

  “Fah hired him precisely because he’s mastered Banksy’s style,” said Calvino.

  Osborne rubbed the bald spot on top of his head as if he expected to find hair there.

  “I once lent Banksy’s dad money. I remember even then his son was spraying graffiti on walls in Bristol, and I was thinking what a waste of a young man’s talent. He should get a job. But he was right and I was wrong. Once the right people discovered Banksy, his art sold for a bundle at auction. Sotheby’s got him millions of pounds for graffiti images of rats. He became rich defacing other people’s property. A criminal, an outlaw, and now you’re telling me that my sweetheart is pirating his graffiti in Thailand? Now
my beloved is stealing with Banksy? Why does this always happen to me?”

  “Did he ever repay the loan?”

  “Who?”

  “Banksy’s father.”

  “He gave me one of his son’s paintings. It was a picture of a rat in a matador’s outfit, fighting a bull. I kept it and forgave his old man’s debt.”

  “I listened to their conversation as they worked on the art. As I told you, the ideas came from Fah, not from this guy,” Calvino said, pointing at Munny.

  Calvino sat back in Osborne’s large sitting room, thinking that Fah hadn’t stumbled onto Banksy through some random Google search. Her interest must have come after a bottle of wine, with Osborne all relaxed and bragging about how he’d pulled off a once-in-a-lifetime deal.

  “Do you still have the Banksy painting?”

  “I just told you that I kept it.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  Osborne rolled his eyes.

  “Follow me. It’s in the guest bedroom.”

  He led Calvino into one of the other bedrooms, and on the wall over the king-sized bed was a large framed drawing of a rat in a matador’s outfit, waving a red cape at a charging bull. Calvino stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the drawing. The bull’s flared nostrils emitted a blue smoke that stopped just short of the cape.

  “I’ve been offered ten million baht for it. I told the Chinaman to piss off.”

  “Does Fah know the background to this painting?”

  “Sky. Please call her Sky. Of course, she’s seen it. She lives here. How could she not see it?”

  “You told her the story about the loan to Banksy’s father?”

  “I told her that one of Banksy’s artworks, far inferior to this one, sold for four million baht. Her eyes lit up. What is it about the Thais that a discussion of big money makes their eyes go all shiny and electric? And she said to me, ‘Darling, you are giving me five million baht to have your baby.’ She must have thought that I was cheating her. A street artist of rats was getting almost as much for a painting that took him a couple of hours as she was getting for nine months of hard labor. Thank God I didn’t tell her I’d turned down ten million baht for this one. If she thought a Banksy picture of a rat and bull was worth double what I was paying her to produce a baby, there would have been a scene. I hate having a scene with a woman I am trying to artificially impregnate. Their emotions can pollute the environment where egg meets sperm.

  “And you know what she asked me? ‘Darling, how many drawings can Banksy make in one day?’ And I said, ‘I don’t know. He might be able to do two. He has a big studio and all kinds of people working with him. It’s big money.’ And then she says, ‘Christina Tangier is even more famous as an artist. I like her. She would like Banksy’s rat. Elite Johns were all photographed with a teddy bear, not a rat, but same, same.’ I asked her to stop talking in fucking code. And I said, ‘Just explain, who is this Christina Tangier?’ And she looks at me like I’m from the Stone Age, and she says, ‘She’s super-famous, a woman artist. And I love what she’s done.’ She told me the story about the teddy bear. Have you ever heard of this artist or about the teddy bear?”

  “All I know is Tangier photographed some very rich men sleeping nude with a teddy bear,” said Calvino.

  “Did she tell you the teddy bear used in the photos was an exact replica of Alan Turing’s teddy bear, the one they have in a museum at Bletchley Park? Turing was a brilliant mathematician. He broke the Nazis’ secret code in World War II, and in his spare time he practiced delivering lectures to his teddy bear. Apparently he was a shy man. After saving us from the Nazis, as his reward we castrated him because he was gay. We can be quite nasty about sexual enigmas. Apparently Christina Tangier destroyed the lives of twenty-nine men because they were rich. I’ve met one of them: Oliver Ballard. Do you think this Christina Tangier might be saying he’s gay?”

  “He’s no Alan Turing,” said Calvino.

  “No, he isn’t.”

  Calvino smiled, thinking of Ballard and the idea that no one is more than six degrees of separation from anyone. Sky wouldn’t have been the first woman inspired by Christina Tangier’s rags to riches story.

  “None of this seems to come as a surprise to you,” said Calvino. “I thought you’d be shocked when I told you that Sky was making political art,” said Calvino.

  “The day you shock me, Calvino, is the day they push my coffin into a crematorium and you light the fire with the wrong end of a Roman candle.”

  “I’ll be sure to wear gloves.”

  Osborne cracked a smile.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Calvino. Of course it’s not political. She’s Thai. They don’t understand their own politics. It’s all guns and uniforms and medals. They love saluting and waiing each other. Why would anyone protest? What’s the point? There’s nothing to say. It’s stupid, all of this protesting. Just salute and move along. That’s what I’ve told her. She listens to me, Calvino.

  “As far as I know, Sky loves guns, uniforms and medals. And an English artist named Christina Tangier. So I’m sure she’s in it for the money. Like all the Thais I know, she wants to break into the financial big league, and she’s using these three amateurs to do her heavy lifting.

  “In a way I’m quite proud of her, but in another way I want her stopped. She can’t become pregnant and stand near all of that paint and paint cleaner. All this trouble I’ve gone through to select the perfect sperm, and then they get polluted with chemicals? Sky’s engaging in criminal conduct isn’t the point. But her exposure to these dangerous fumes is a problem. My child might be born retarded. Or deformed. Or turn out to be another Bristol City thug, one who can’t paint or draw anything beyond rats.”

  Only a blurry line separated Osborne’s world of horror and tragedy from humor. That was not unexpected. After all, he was English. Calvino made for the front door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “We’ve finished our business.”

  “I haven’t paid you.”

  Calvino’s eyes narrowed.

  “We’re square. The books are closed.”

  “Come, Vincent. If you don’t want money, what do you want?”

  Calvino tipped him a hint of a smile. There was something he wanted from Osborne.

  “How do you know Ballard, and what are you doing arranging a yacht deal for him?”

  “You know Ballard?” said Osborne. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  “His name never came up until today.”

  Osborne’s wily smile flashed.

  “Don’t be secretive. It’s one of your highly unattractive traits—except I suppose that in a private investigator it’s an asset. But we aren’t finished. I need more information about Sky. To tell you the truth, I’d rather that she was seeing another man than going political, if that’s what’s happening. I can handle another man fucking her. That’s nothing. She’s already pregnant, so what can it matter? But politics—that’s inside her head, it’s likely genetic, something she’ll pass along to our baby. That would only mess him up, like Rob, and he’d end up before some firing squad before he’s turned nineteen or found dead in some squalid guesthouse in Rangoon. Follow her for a few more days. That’s all I ask. After that, I’ll answer any question you have about Ballard and my little ship deal in Phuket.”

  Calvino figured that was as much as he would be getting out of Osborne for now.

  “That’s blackmail,” said Calvino.

  “In the time of email, do people still go around using old terms like ‘blackmail’? I am surprised. But you’re not that young, so that means you’re the wrong person to ask. I’ll ask Sky. I sense she may be something of an expert on blackmail, judging from what you’ve found out so far. The Thais are a sinister lot. But your colonel friend must have taught you as much.”

  “He’s a general now.”

  “There you go. He’s made ‘sinister’ a career path.”

  On the way out of Osborne’s
compound, Calvino thought about whether to forget about Osborne and his young wife. There were clients who screamed “mission creep” from the moment they walked into the room and opened their mouths. No matter what information you brought them, the lies and dead ends never stopped with people like them. There was always a new angle, some other problem that came up, sometimes related, sometimes not, until they started to hand over every loose end in their life. It was like finding a tailor and giving him a wardrobe of suits to alter and then asking if he would paint the house and fix the air conditioner while he’s at it.

  The reality was Calvino wanted something. He wanted an answer to his question about Osborne and Ballard. Their personal connection gave him a feeling he was being played.

  FOURTEEN

  “All men who repeat a line from Shakespeare are William Shakespeare.”—Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths: Selected Stories and Other Writings

  CALVINO HANDED A wrapped gift to the steely-eyed security detail, who viewed him with a combination of disdain and suspicion. A farang bearing a gift at police HQ was unusual. The officer stared at the wrapping paper. Calvino had special-ordered paper with hundreds of rows of identical images of Shakespeare in his finest Elizabethan splendor. Just the right touch for Pratt, he thought.

  “A gift for the General,” he said to the police officer.

  “What kind of gift?”

  The officer held the package, looking at thousands of cloned Shakespeare images.

  “Something for the General’s office.”

  The officer frowned, wondering what this farang could possibly bring for a police general’s office. The security guard pointed a finger at Shakespeare.

  “This looks like Osama Bin Laden.”

  “William Shakespeare.”

  The officer examined the beard.

  “Terrorists have beards.”

  “So do bards. Shakespeare was an English farang.”

  The name rang no temple bell inside the security guard’s head, but the idea of an English farang seemed to register. He looked Calvino up and down, squeezed the package, turned it over and squeezed it again with both thumbs pressed against Shakespeare heads. He lightly tapped the gift against the side of a metal desk. It was as solid as a brick. The image of the Happy Bar tacos flashed across Calvino’s mind, and he smiled as the cop turned the package over, trying to look professional but losing the battle. The scanner behind the cop wasn’t working. That meant he had to make a decision. Should he make this farang unwrap his gift for the General?