Bangkok Haunts by John Burdett Read Free Book Online Page A

trying to take reality naked, like a dumb
farang.
    The right turn out of Asok into Sukhumvit can be tricky without
pop pong.
Our shaman screeches around almost on two wheels, just in front of a crowded bus, forcing a motorcyclist to swerve and the bus to brake. Then we’re speeding along past the Grand Britannia, way ahead of the pack. “Amazing,” Lek says, lavishing awe on the ceiling.
     
    I’m pleasantly surprised when the guard at Baker’s apartment building tells me the American
farang
still lives here and is at home this very moment. I give the guard (light and dark blue uniform, handcuffs, and nightstick; he was playing Thai checkers with his colleague sitting at a makeshift table using bottle tops when I interrupted) two hundred baht, and by the time I’m standing outside Baker’s door, I already know most of the American’s private life. Works regular hours mostly from home. Brings a girl back every Friday and Saturday night, sometimes the same one. Speaks Thai quite well. Likes to work out at a local gym. Never has any money to spare but usually pays the rent on time. Not a big drinker but smokes ganja from time to time. Has a sideline in something photographic, but it doesn’t seem to make him much money. Never seems to return to America, prefers to spend his vacations in Cambodia. He was quite an argumentative type of
farang
when he arrived about three years ago, but he’s learned local ways. He’s quiet now, respectful; he walks the walk.
    I have to decide what kind of knock to use. Too hard, and I fear I will awaken that
farang
mind-set called Thaicopsyndrome: he could start shivering in his boots and replaying every horror story he’s ever heard about our legal system, which is not what I want. Too soft, though, and I could get insolence. I opt for the middle path, which brings him to the door in a pair of knee-length walking shorts, nothing else.
    Thirty-seven, male-pattern baldness, gray in his chest hair, an iron-pumper’s physique, no tats; he experiences the usual sinking feeling when I flash my police ID. Teachers of English tend to be a subset of the backpacker nation; for us they fit into the poor-and-deportable category of foreigners and tend to think the worst when a cop comes calling.
    “I’m here to ask a few questions about your ex-wife, Mr. Baker.”
    A scowl disguises something more sinister. I think he is not surprised enough. I check Lek with a flick of my eyes. Lek is using feminine intuition, or at least practicing the shrewd, assessing look that is supposed to go with it. He purses his lips at me and shakes his head.
    The apartment is built from the same tired building plan that is used all over the world these days: in the hierarchy of concrete caves his owns a window and a toilet, which puts him two points above basic. There are other signs that he is not totally resigned to nonexistence: a laptop opened and sitting on a chair; a corny but provocative poster of a Thai girl sitting topless by a river and a poster of Angkor Wat; some books. I guess Not a Lot to Show would be his category in the global pyramid, a popular level, I have to admit. They have long been a curiosity with me, these
farang
men who come here to be nobody, as if even that role is too stressful in their utopia of origin. Now Lek and I are both staring at Baker, who checks his wristwatch, which looks to me like a fake Rolex. (The second hand jerks instead of rotating smoothly around the dial; for some that’s all you need to know during your stopover in Bangkok.)
    “I don’t want to offend a cop, but I have to tell you I have an English lesson in ten minutes.”
    “Where is your lesson, Mr. Baker?”
    “Right here.” He looks me in the eye. “A private lesson. You can get me on nonpayment of tax if you want, but it’s the only way I can survive. The school I work mornings doesn’t pay a living wage.”
    I nod. “I don’t want to deprive you of income. Let’s see how far we get before your