Bangkok Noir

“When did this happen, Plaa?”

“I get here ten o’clock, Khun Ray. They waiting for me, push me, take cooler, run away.”

That was an hour ago, and Bangkok is a very big city. I doubt there’s much I can do.

But I like Plaa. She works hard and spends little on herself so she can afford to keep her fifteen-year-old daughter Noi in school and out of the bars. I’m here to write an economic update on the country. My appointments are all with big shots. But it’s Plaa and people like her that actually make this place tick.

“Do you know who it was? Did you recognize them?”

In Bangkok everybody knows who everybody else is, at least within their neighborhoods. And why would anyone come across town to rob a street vendor?

She gets a look on her face that I don’t like. A look that tells me she knows who it was but doesn’t want to say.

I ask again and she pretends she doesn’t understand me. I know she does. Her English isn’t good, but it’s good enough.

There’s a tap on my shoulder. It’s Cho, my driver for the day. He wants to get me back in the van. We’ve only got an hour to get to the next appointment, and it’s a couple of miles away. I’d walk if it wasn’t ninety-nine degrees and ninety–some-odd percent humidity and not likely to rain at any minute, and I’m not in a suit.

Cho wants to be a journalist. I have him sit in on my interviews in case I need any translation. It’s a matter of pride for him that we’re punctual, no matter how bad the traffic.

But I don’t want to let this drop. I’m getting tired of hearing all the glowing reports about the booming Thai economy. I could already write exactly what the next three interviews are going to tell me. “It’s 1992. If the economy keeps growing at eleven percent a year, by 2000 it will be blah blah blah.” I can do the optimistic math as well as the next well-connected mogul or government minister. It all sounds too good to be true, which it is.

Plaa’s got a real problem, maybe one I can do something about.

“Cho, Plaa was robbed. I think she knows who did it, but she won’t tell me. Could you ask her?”

He leads her a few feet away, their backs turned. They talk for a minute before Cho comes back to tell me what he’s found out. Plaa stays where she is but turns toward us. Her face is pointed down, but I can see she’s looking at us through the tops of her eyes.

“I think maybe better we go to your appointment, Khun Ray. This maybe big trouble. Better we not involved.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Man who steal from Plaa work for Big Shrimp.”

The name sounds familiar. “What’s that?”

“Big new restaurant, Sukhumvit 37. Owned by wife of general.”

I’d heard of it. There was a small stink raised when an old apartment building full of workingclass people was torn down to clear the land for it. And the general himself has recently been associated with some shady land deals. But wives of generals are well-connected.

“Huh? What would they want with Plaa’s fish? And she couldn’t have had much money.”

“They want know how Plaa cook her fish. They offer her money, but she not want to tell. Her cook same as mother and grandmother. Is family secret. Today they steal fish and money and tell Plaa if she not tell, then she no do business any more.”

It takes some persuasion. At first she doesn’t want help from a farang, but we get Plaa into the van. I call and cancel my next appointment as we make our way in fits and starts the twenty-six blocks to Big Shrimp.

It’s not the world’s biggest restaurant. That’s another twenty or so blocks farther down Sukhumvit. Big Shrimp is too classy for cute waitresses on roller skates, but not by much. It’s over-decorated in the sort of Mekong whisky-fueled, faux Edwardian trompe-l’oeil taste that infected elements of the Thai upper classes in the 1970s. The illuminated walls and ceiling are lousy with 3-D wood nymphs and angels and fat cherubs. There’s a long entryway lined with alcoves, painted to look like aquariums stocked with comely mermaids and muscular mermen. There’s not a molding, frame or edge of anything I can see that isn’t painted gold. I’ve heard the food’s pretty good, but the place doesn’t do much for my appetite.

Neither does the big man at the door to the office. He’s taller than me, really tall for a Thai guy. He’s heavy and thick with muscle, not fat. He’s got scars on his face, and his nose has been broken enough that I know he’s not averse to a scrape. Maybe the scariest thing about him is his suit. It’s shiny black, rich, dense wool, two buttons buttoned. The hallway’s not air-conditioned, and he isn’t sweating.

I am, but I’m always sweating in Bangkok. I can talk to him all day, too, but it soon becomes plain he isn’t going to react to a thing I have to say.

Cho steps up to translate, but the big fella doesn’t react to him either. I’m tempted to snap my fingers in front of his face, but I’m afraid he could snap me in two if I were to irritate him. So I don’t.

I step back and whisper to Plaa, who is keeping her distance.

“Is he one of the guys who robbed you?”