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  “I don’t think the old gang from the Lonesome Hawk will like this place.”

  He would try for his own misdirection.

  “No more than they’d like the Happy Bar.”

  “Come on, they’d love the Happy Bar, only it’s too far away. But I’ve got some good news, Vinny. The army released Noi from detention,” said McPhail. “I talked to him. He said three soldiers, all of them officers, drove him back in a van to the Happy Bar and he bought them drinks.”

  “Did they give him the Borgia treatment with spiked drinks?”

  “That didn’t happen. One of officers became Noi’s close friend and protector.”

  Calvino sipped the single-malt.

  “Another Boston Red Sox fan?”

  McPhail tipped his head and shook it.

  “Not that I am aware of. Noi said they talked politics for about twenty minutes until he couldn’t take it anymore, and then he emptied his soul about how the katoeys who worked for him had done him wrong. How he’d given them a job, lent them money that they never paid back, and when the money ran out, what did they do? They phoned the junta and said he was a troublemaker. They were told by whoever answered the hotline to rat out assholes who said bad things against the coup. They said that Noi was a Red activist. What other reason would he have for wearing a Red Sox baseball cap? That was a total lie. In fact, Noi told any of his customers who would listen that the coup was a homerun over the center-field fence, one that had cleared the bases.

  Lucky for Noi, the main soldier in charge of interrogating him had a katoey in the family. His younger brother had saved up enough money dealing drugs to check into a hospital for the chop. The two of them spent hours talking about what it was like adjusting to a katoey’s way of thinking. The officer didn’t want to let Noi go. Not because of his politics, but because here was a man who thought along the same lines as he did about the transgender mentality. After three days Noi convinced the officer to let him go so they could continue their discussion at the Happy Bar.”

  Calvino’s mind was elsewhere, recalling what Ballard had said and what Pratt had said about Ballard being fished out of the river.

  “Are you listening?” asked McPhail.

  “Yeah, I was just thinking, did the army make Noi sign a release?”

  McPhail nodded.

  “He didn’t give a shit about that. It was just a piece of paper to him. But when he returned to his perch at the Happy Bar, his heart nearly broke.”

  Calvino’s mind was racing. Ballard had set up everything. Just as Osborne had said, he didn’t work for anyone but himself.

  “Vinny, I said it nearly broke Noi’s heart.”

  “Another katoey story?”

  McPhail shook his head and drank the Laphroaig like a man who needed an inch more of courage in the final stretch of a marathon.

  “You remember that big fish in the tank at the Happy Bar? I went around to the bar. I saw the tank was empty. I asked Noi what happened to it, and guess what he said? That wasn’t just any fish; it was a Banjar red Asian arowana. I’d never heard of that kind of fish. Noi said it was rare. When he returned to the bar, he found it floating belly up and smelly. No one had fed it. Mr. Banjar Red Asian Arowana died of starvation. That broke his heart. Noi loved that fish—though I’m not certain how you can love a fish, but Noi did.”

  McPhail headed down the stairs for another Laphroaig. When he came back, he sat on the sofa.

  “You should write a book and put in the history of the Happy Bar, including Ballard and Noi, and of course I’ll be the star. You know that? Write about the katoeys who double-crossed Noi, too. What else? Yeah, Patterson and Glover are a couple of characters you could only find in Bangkok. You could call it Another Kind of Man or A Fish Named Banjar Red Asian Arowana.”

  The third glass of Laphroaig had made McPhail lyrical, and he began humming the theme song from The Third Man.

  “You tell me to write a book. Yoshi thinks I should draw a map. Osborne says I should take up bullfighting. Ratana’s on a fashion binge. And spooks at the US embassy are rifling through my medical files.”

  “No money in map-making, and picking a fight with a bull isn’t gonna bring you happiness.”

  “That’s not the point. Everyone has advice.”

  “What do they say?”

  “Get out of Bangkok.”

  “ ‘Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown,’ ” said McPhail in a half-assed Jack Nicholson impression.

  “Movies end, but life goes on,” said Calvino.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Find some answers to a couple of questions. What was Ballard really doing in Bangkok, and why did a body they say was Ballard’s end up in the river? When will the army release Osborne’s girlfriend? Is there a replacement for the old Lonesome Hawk, or are we wasting our time? After I have the answers to those questions, I plan to retire.”

  “You tried that.”

  “I want to do nothing. No drama, no looking into cases where someone has gone missing, no hitting the street to locate people who have disappeared and don’t want to be found.”

  “What’s Ballard to you?”

  “Just another mystery man that life steered over the dividing line to smash into me. People don’t accidentally crash into your life. I want to know why it happened. I get this uneasy feeling that I’ve been set up, like being photographed nude with Alan Turing’s teddy bear.”

  “You shouldn’t drink in the afternoon, Calvino. You start speaking in tongues.”

  “I don’t like it, McPhail, and neither would you. I waited for Ballard for forty minutes at the restaurant. I phoned his hotel. He’d booked into the Oriental.”

  “You need big bucks to stay at the Oriental.”

  McPhail hiccupped, reached for the fresh pack of cigarettes, shook one out and lit it.

  “First time I laid eyes on him, something told me that he was loaded,” said McPhail. “Someone killed him for money. Why look any further?”

  “It wasn’t his money they were after. When I phoned the hotel, I was told he wasn’t answering his room phone. His cell phone was switched off, too. I thought, why does a man skip an appointment, one he’s insisted on making? There’s a reason. There’s always a reason, whether the reason is any good is the question.”

  McPhail slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke.

  “The army officer said something like that when he asked Noi to explain why he’d hung a picture of Che Guevara on the wall of the Happy Bar, because that photograph didn’t make him happy. You know what Noi told him?”

  Calvino had no idea.

  “That he liked his style. Che Guevara’s beard and hat appealed to him. It had nothing to do with politics. It was a fashion statement. That explained the katoeys working the bar, too. More fashion. Just like the phase Ratana’s going through.”

  “What are you saying, McPhail?”

  “You and the junta are on the same wavelength. You’re suspicious of the wrong people. You can’t distinguish a rebel from a fashion hound.”

  He burst out laughing.

  “I’m joking, Vinny. You’re tuned to a station broadcasting from Alpha Centauri, and the aliens are listening.”

  McPhail had turned cosmic after his third Laphroaig.

  “What are they hearing, Ed?”

  “A lot of chatter from a sad bunch of people who are deceived by appearances.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  “We never get accustomed to being less important to other people than they are to us.”—Graham Greene, The Third Man

  CALVINO WALKED TOWARD Pratt’s office, escorted by Lieutenant Pim, who smelled of rose water, and another officer with a steel jaw like a bank vault door.

  “We have to stop meeting like this, Lieutenant Pim. People might begin to talk.”

  “You are the General’s friend,” she said. “If not, you wouldn’t be in this place.”

  “We could always meet at my place or your place.”

  “Next life,”
she said.

  “That’s something to look forward to. Or Saturday night, if you’re free.”

  “Let’s stay with next life.”

  He nodded.

  “I wanted you to come around to my condo and show you my map collection. But I guess it’ll have to wait.”

  He walked into General Pratt’s office, rehearsing in his head how to explain the feeling that he’d been set up to take the fall for Ballard’s death. Not only had he not killed Ballard, but the possibility was growing that maybe Ballard wasn’t dead. It was someone else that they’d dragged out of the river, and they wanted people to believe it was Ballard. They needed someone to pin the murder on, so they opened a file and went through the motions of an investigation.

  Ballard had left The Quiet American behind as a calculated act of misdirection, and Calvino had bought it. So had Pratt. The Americans had their reasons. Or was it that Ballard, like Harry Lime, guarded his secrets about a crooked sideline and that was a good enough reason to disappear? Which of the two Graham Greene storylines fit his case? Or was it an entirely new genre?

  Calvino said, “Who identified Ballard’s body?”

  “The American embassy sent a doctor and a lab specialist.”

  “Your forensic department didn’t perform the autopsy?”

  “They assisted the Americans. The embassy had their reasons. They asked for this privilege, and frankly with things the way they are, a decision was made to cut them some slack in the official protocol.”

  “And the big bosses thought the Americans would reciprocate,” said Calvino.

  “Welcome to the world of cold-blooded politics, Vincent.”

  “Okay, I’ve got that much. But why would they fret so much over the apparent suicide of a citizen? Americans die here all the time. Does the embassy send a crack team of doctors to take over the autopsy for them? Exactly. Why did it happen this time? We’re told he was murdered in Thailand, then the Thai police turn over the autopsy to the Americans, and then the embassy send two agents who look like black-belt waterboarding certified goons to my office asking questions about Ballard’s murder.”

  “Like I said, these are extraordinary times. Irregular things happen. There’s been a coup. An American official dies. It raises eyebrows. There’s not always an answer, and that is the most difficult of all things to accept. Unless you’re saying that you do know. Is that what you’re saying, Vincent?”

  “Ballard wasn’t playing out the role of Alden Pyle, he was playing Harry Lime, and he had some powerful people in Washington helping him.”

  General Pratt sat back in his chair.

  “I don’t know these farang. Playing parts? Who are these two foreigners?”

  “Pyle and Lime are characters from two Graham Greene novels.”

  He’d spent the previous evening rereading both books.

  The only Englishman worth reading in General Pratt’s opinion was William Shakespeare. He dismissed this Graham Greene as another diversion that foreigners used to escape reality.

  “You’ve been under a lot of stress, Vincent. It wouldn’t hurt if you made an appointment with Dr. Apinya.”

  “Should I make the appointment under the name of Thomas Fowler or Holly Martins?”

  “Your literary references again? Since when have you taken up reading?”

  “Pratt, listen to what I’m saying. Ballard may not be dead.”

  “Then who was pulled out of the river with his ID and fitting his description?”

  “I have no idea. Or why Ballard would want to fake his death. I’d like to see a picture of the body fished out of the river.”

  Turning around to face his computer, Pratt searched through a folder, and a photograph appeared on the screen. A man with his face eaten away lay on a gurney, the nose, mouth, cheeks, eyes a twisted gnarl of shredded flesh.

  “That stiff could be anyone. Any race, any age.”

  “Why would the Americans tell us it was Ballard if they weren’t sure?” asked Pratt.

  “Why did Ballard leave behind a copy of The Quiet American in my condo guestroom? Why did he insist on dinner near the pier not far from where his body was found? Something just like that happened to Fowler.”

  “Who’s this Fowler you keep talking about?”

  “You’ve memorized all of Shakespeare, and you don’t know Graham Greene? Thomas Fowler’s a journalist in The Quiet American. Pyle takes his girl away, but he gets killed. In The Third Man Holly Martins, a pulp fiction writer, finds out that Harry Lime has faked his death.”

  “And you think that Ballard is Harry Lime?”

  “Pratt, it’s a reference to a book. I’m not crazy. But something isn’t right about Ballard’s death. None of it adds up.”

  “You’re making a convincing case for being crazy. Didn’t Kukrit Pramoj play the prime minister in The Quiet American?”

  “That was The Ugly American, the movie starring Marlon Brando,” said Calvino.

  “Ugly American, Quiet American and Crazy American—the titles all have ‘American’ in them, and the first word is a blur.”

  Lieutenant Pim slipped into the office, her perfectly pressed, tight-fitting uniform showing off her small waist and long legs. She carried two cups of coffee on a tray that she set on a table beside Calvino. He turned in his chair and winked at her. She pretended not to notice his attempt to flirt. All long hair and full lips, Lieutenant Pim had the look of a serial heartbreaker. As she left, Calvino pulled out the printouts from Glover’s website and placed them on Pratt’s desk.

  “Secretly, Lieutenant Pim is in love with me,” Calvino said, picking up one of the mugs and handing it to Pratt. “But she keeps it out of the reports she files about you, so it doesn’t compromise her.”

  “She’s too busy to file reports other than the ones I assign to her. Of course, she talks about you all the time,” said Pratt, drinking from the mug.

  Calvino gestured for Pratt to read the printouts. Pratt glanced at one page, turned to the next and the next, before sitting back and cupping the coffee mug in his hands.

  “There’s more. Ballard sent the emails to a expat website called Farang Lost in Thailand.”

  Calvino drank from his mug of coffee. Pratt watched him.

  “These are from one of the two novels, right?”

  “No, it’s not from the novels. They didn’t have email when Graham Greene wrote books. I’m serious, Pratt. Ballard sent these emails that go out of their way to provide cover for a man who wants others to believe that he’s ready to kill himself. It’s not from a novel. It happened. Here, in Bangkok.”

  He clenched his jaw, looked agitated and sat erect, his hands gripping the edge of General Pratt’s desk. He noticed something was missing. The plaque he’d given General Pratt as an office-warming gift was nowhere to be seen. Calvino had had the plaque engraved with a couple of lines from Othello: “The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.”

  Pratt waited, thinking that Calvino wanted to say something.

  “Are you okay, Vincent?”

  “They’ve stolen the truth and replaced it with a lie.”

  “Who is they?” asked General Pratt.

  “Howard and Davenport. Before they left my office, I smiled at them. You can steal a wallet, a passport, a car, but you can’t steal the truth, or a man’s dignity. That’s the unique thing that makes him. No one can rob it from you. That’s the true meaning of being free. A knowing smile robs the thief.”

  “About the plaque...”

  “It doesn’t matter, Pratt. What matters is what Shakespeare wrote. Someone can take everything from you, but if you smile at them, they’ve failed to rob you. You’ve won. They haven’t broken you. Your spirit isn’t violated. They can’t steal it. It belongs to you, and the smile says that what has true value can’t be taken.”

  Calvino paused, looked at Pratt and smiled.

  “Like friendship, Pratt.”

  General Pratt
wondered if he should call Dr. Apinya and asks her opinion about signs of erratic behavior by one of her former patients. He remembered how Calvino had gone to her office every week for sessions to work through the post-traumatic stress after his missing person case had gone so terribly wrong in Rangoon. She had reported to Pratt on his progress. They had both been worried about his state of mind. The two men had been in Rangoon together when the wings of death had fluttered, brushing against Calvino’s cheek. As with the agents attached to the US Embassy, he’d cut Calvino a lot of slack. But there was only so much slack, and then the rope was no longer a rope.

  Pratt studied the text on his screen and scrolled through more photographs of the autopsy. It was highly unusual that the Americans had asked so few questions after reviewing the autopsy report. They’d confirmed to the Thai police that the body matched the DNA samples they had from Ballard.

  “The embassy says murder, you have evidence that suggests suicide, and at the same time you think the evidence is a plant and that Ballard’s still alive.”

  “Yes, I believe the body belongs to a John Doe.”

  Pratt tapped his fingers on his desk. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out the plaque and put it facing Calvino.

  “One should never hide a smile,” he said, “especially a teaching smile from Shakespeare.”

  Calvino rose from his seat.

  “I’ve taken enough of your time.”

  “I thought you were coming to see me about Osborne’s girlfriend,” said Pratt.

  Calvino tried to read the General’s face, and Pratt took some pleasure in letting Calvino run through the scenarios.

  “And?”

  “She’s been released. Osborne didn’t tell you?”

  “When?”

  “This morning. None the worse for wear. She’s learnt her lesson, from the report I saw.”

  “What lesson is that, Pratt?”

  “We live in irregular times, and rocking the boat is a good way to drown.”

  “Maybe Ballard was a boat rocker.”

  From his condo perch Calvino watched the sunlight burst into supernova brilliance through the great pillars of gray clouds hanging like a Greek temple roof over Lake Ratchada. He thought about how things had been left with Pratt two days earlier. At the door Pratt had said he’d talked to the US embassy. Lieutenant Pim had stood with the door open, waiting for Calvino to pass through. Calvino gave Pratt a two-finger salute, “Thanks, General.”