care of the rest.” D’Art paused. Then a command: “And, Simon, look after yourself.”
A last call. “Hello, Ben. Sorry to wake you. I need a small favor. Maybe you can help.”
“Shoot.”
Simon made his request. Ben Sterling’s answer surprised him.
After parking, Simon walked up the main drag, relieved to see that his fellow expats were as poorly dressed as he. He wasn’t sure if he should look for the seediest establishment or the classiest. He spotted a place with a catchy name and a big footprint: Awake Till Dawn. With that much real estate, the owner was sure to be plugged in.
Simon found a seat at the bar, happy to be out of the sun. A girl joined him before he could order a beer.
“Buy me drink.” She was twenty, almost pretty, with a sunny disposition, clad in short shorts and a strategically cut off T-shirt. A hand dropped onto his thigh. No beating around the bush here. “How you today?”
“I’m fine,” said Simon, and when the waitress arrived, he ordered a beer for himself and a Shirley Temple for the lady. Actually, she wanted a shot of tequila.
“Me, Gate,” she said.
“Gate?”
She nodded. “American name.”
“Not Kate?”
“Gate.”
Simon said he must have missed that one. The drinks arrived. He tipped the waitress and gave Gate a thousand baht to begin the process of legally changing her name. She asked where he was from, and he said, “Australia.” Why not? He planned on visiting one day.
“Listen, Gate,” he said. “I need a favor. I’m looking for the person who runs this place.”
“You mean, in charge of bar? My boss, there.” She pointed to a faded beauty seated at a far table smoking a cigarette and doing her nails.
“I mean, the big boss. The person who owns this place.”
“First, I ask my boss for you.”
Gate hurried to the far table. The older woman—probably his age—eyed him, then, with great effort, rose and came to the table. “What you want?”
“A favor,” he said, slipping the woman a thousand baht. “Five minutes of your boss’s time. The owner.”
“Who you?”
“A businessman.”
Her look told him she didn’t believe him. “Why you want to talk to him?”
“Personal.”
“You have card?”
“Left it on my dresser.” It was apparent to Simon that he was getting nowhere. He decided on the nuclear option. “Please tell him that I’m a close friend of Sergeant Rudi.”
The woman’s eyes didn’t change, but he could sense her growing tense.
“You name?”
“Simon.”
“You wait here,” she said. “First you buy Gate drink. Me too.”
Simon ordered another round for all of them and sat back to wait. Ten minutes passed. Gate asked repeatedly if he would take her home when his business was done. Simon said, repeatedly, “Not tonight. Maybe another time.”
She asked if he wanted a boy…or a ladyboy. Simon declined each.
Gate pouted. “You buy me one more drink?”
Simon obliged, thinking they should use Gate in their employee training videos. By now he was broke. Another half hour passed. He hadn’t seen Gate’s floor boss since their conversation. He kept his eyes on the street, checking for police. An occasional uniform walked past, keeping the peace, nothing more. Simon pulled his cap lower. One more farang enjoying Pattaya’s hospitality. He had an hour before the bank closed. If he could find a passport, it wouldn’t come cheap.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. A middle-aged man sat on his haunches, white shirt, shorts. “Mr. Simon, please come with me.” His English was good. A step up.
Simon followed the man through the bar to a suite of offices on the first floor. The floor boss waited inside a small office. “You sit,” she said. “Wait.”
Simon entered and took a seat. The woman left the room. He checked the door. Locked. The office was cramped and without windows. A desk, a file cabinet. A Buddha on a shelf with a wilted garland around its neck. This was not the boss’s office.
Some time passed. The door opened. Two men entered. Tough and Tougher. Late twenties, as thin as rails and probably as strong, wearing jeans and T-shirts, hair cut too fashionably, razored on the sides, dressed up on top. Not the boss. Not even his deputies. They were muscle, pure and simple. He’d come to the wrong place, asked the wrong questions.
Simon hit the first man as he closed the door, a sucker punch to the ribs, knuckles extended. He followed with a jab to the chin. The man bounced off the wall, grunting, otherwise showing no ill effects.