The 38 Million Dollar Smile - Stevenson Richard - Страница 33

“Bicycle. Mr. Gray go out on bicycle. His bike not here.”

I said to Pugh, “So he’s likely to be back, right? He won’t be

biking to Cambodia or anything like that, it looks like.”

The guard said, “Bangkok not so good for bicycle. Too

much car. Too much motorbike. But Mr. Gray, he like bicycle.

He go fast around cars. I think he come back later.”

Pugh indicated to the guard that he’d like to speak with him

privately, and they walked over to an alcove.

Nongnat said to me, “Kawee okay? I worry Kawee. Kawee

say Mr. Gary good man, but why he hide? Why he change

name? Farang not change name, just Thai.”

“These are exactly the questions Khun Rufus and I hope to

have answers to soon. Within minutes, with luck.”

Nongnat wrinkled her elegant nose. “Mr. Gary he trouble. I

tell Kawee he big trouble.”

“Why did you think Mr. Gary was trouble?”

“No fuck, just pray. I tell Kawee be careful this type.”

“Yes, that is a universal basis for caution.”

Pugh and the guard came back and Pugh said, “This

gentleman has refused us admittance to Mr. Gary’s flat. It seems that one of life’s most challenging quests is finished for us, Mr.

Don. We have found an honest man. This dude won’t let us

into Griswold’s place even in exchange for a substantial

consideration. Well, fuck ’im if he can’t take a bribe. Meanwhile, however, he is granting us permission to hang around here and

146 Richard Stevenson

nab Mr. Gary when he turns up again. Which my

disappointingly ethical friend here expects to be soon. Mr. Gary normally takes his bike out for no more than a few hours. So I

suggest that we position ourselves discreetly and wait.”

It was mid-evening now, with daylight gone and less than

twenty-four hours left before the kidnappers’ deadline. Pugh’s

driver stayed behind in the lobby, and the rest of us went out

front, and Pugh and I got into the air-conditioned van. Nongnat

went down the street for some food and came back with

jasmine rice and yellow curry with fish and bamboo shoots. We

ate it eagerly — I was hungry by now and so no longer found

the local food smells off-puttingly indifferent to our plight —

and Pugh spelled his man in the lobby while he came out and

also ate with steady concentration. This man observed his food

admiringly as he ate it. It seemed as though any second he

might actually speak to the rice and curry approvingly, even

tenderly. The food was Thai all the way, and so was he.

At ten thirty Griswold still had not returned, and we were all

wondering about that. What was he doing out riding his bike

around Bangkok this late at night? But a call came in from one

of Pugh’s operatives, reporting that the list of abandoned

partially constructed buildings at least fourteen stories high was on its way to where we were stationed. The list was expected

within fifteen minutes, so Ek was summoned and told to wait

up the street with his SWAT teams.

When the list arrived in a shoulder bag carried by a tiny

young woman on a motorbike, Pugh and I got out and carried

the bag up the soi to meet Ek. He had a convoy of three large

four-by-fours, the type of swaggering road hogs Timmy would

have immediately labeled socially irresponsible. Timmy,

however, was not there to complain.

Some of Ek’s small army of muscular guys in T-shirts and cargo pants got out of the SUVs and stood on the sidewalk

looking formidable, even menacing, just as a male farang on a

bicycle rounded the corner from Sukhumvit Road, approached

our assemblage, seemed to take in the scene at a glance, and

quickly swooped around and began peddling furiously back up

THE 38 MILLION DOLLAR SMILE 147

the soi. Pugh saw this and yelled something in Thai to the girl

on the motorbike who had brought the bag. She was off like a

shot after the man on the bicycle, and we jumped into the van

and took off after both of them.

Pugh’s driver was so reckless that a couple of the taxi drivers

we cut off actually honked their horns at us hot-heartedly and

glared as we lurched down Sukhumvit Road. Within a block, we

spotted Pugh’s little moto woman, who had knocked Griswold

off his bicycle and was wrestling with him on the sidewalk in

front of a 7-Eleven. We pulled up, hopped out, elbowed aside a

dozen or so alarmed bystanders, and hauled both Griswold and

his bike into the back of the van. We required privacy for what

was about to transpire, so we sent Nongnat back to her place

with Supornthip, the moto driver who had chased down

Griswold. They climbed on Supornthip’s bike and sped away,

and we took off close behind.

Griswold, who I recognized from his photographs, was in

spandex biking shorts and a tank top, and he carried a shoulder

bag, which Pugh wrenched away from him as one of Pugh’s

muscle guys, who had the word Egg stenciled on his T-shirt,

wrapped plastic handcuffs around Griswold’s wrists. Sweaty

and decidedly nonaromatic, Griswold said nothing but was

breathing fast. His bike helmet had slipped down low over his

forehead, and Pugh carefully removed it and set it aside. Under

his gleaming mess of helmet hair Griswold’s eyes were wide

open, and he kept glancing at me.

Pugh gave the driver some instructions in Thai, and that’s

when Griswold, apparently understanding Pugh’s words, said

evenly, “Not a good idea.”

“Why should we not take you to your condo in Sathorn? It

is your real home.”

Griswold studied us and said, “Who are you? Before I say

anything else, I need to know that.”

“We are not your enemies. We are your friends,” Pugh told

him and then instructed the driver in English to take us to

Pugh’s office in Surawong, and to use the garage entrance.

148 Richard Stevenson

Griswold took this in and then looked at me curiously.

“Yeah. Okay. I think I understand what’s going on here. You

— Mr. Buttinski-Farang . What’s your name? Is it what I think it is?”

“Donald Strachey. I’m a private investigator. I was hired by

your former wife and current sister-in-law Ellen Griswold to

find you and to protect you if necessary, and to persuade you to stop acting like a ninny.”

Griswold laughed mirthlessly. “Ah, yes. The Albany private

eye. I’ve heard about you. I thought you went home. You were

supposed to fold up your tent and carry it back to the Hudson

Valley. And yet here you are. I really need to talk to my former wife about her lax hiring practices.” He shook his head and

pushed some sweat off his forehead with the backs of his

cuffed hands.

“You are in spectacularly big trouble, Griswold. You do

grasp that, do you not?”

“Am I in spectacular trouble? Well, yeah, I guess I am. How

thoughtful of you to fly all the way across the Pacific Ocean to point that out to me. Thanks loads.”

My impulse was to grab the sarcastic asshole and bash him

one, but I wasn’t sure what all he knew. And of course, Timmy

would have disapproved of my striking a pacifist — if Griswold

really was that. I seemed to be surrounded by peace-loving

Buddhists who found room in their hearts to smack people with

phone books, and others who hurled soothsayers and farang

retirees off balconies.

I said, “My partner — boyfriend — Timothy Callahan has

been abducted by violent criminals. This is entirely your fault, Griswold. These criminals are people who are in fact looking

for you and have not been able to locate you — because you are