I confirmed the message originated from the same number as Denise’s mobile. Ruamsantiah’s eyes flicked between Chaz and the mobile. He nodded at me, and I pressed the autodial button. This time only a couple of rings were required. A cautious tone: Yes?
“It’s me again. He’s in a Bangkok police station getting beaten up after being found with two suitcases of ninety-nine-percent-pure morphine, which he has confessed he was planning to smuggle out of the country. He has named you as an accomplice-”
A great bull yell from Chaz, who tried to attack me again, but this time everyone was ready. Two of the cops sat on him while others held his arms.
A contemptuous tone from Denise: “Leave it out, sonny boy. My Chaz wouldn’t grass on me for all the tea in China. What kind of rank fucking amateur are you?” She closed the phone, leaving me stranded in perplexity. When I tried her again, I got a busy signal.
I looked thoughtfully at Chaz. Whatever doubts I might have had concerning Ruamsantiah’s rather precipitous conclusion that Denise was behind the racket had now been cleared up. But our evidence against her, although intuitively compelling, could be argued away by an expensive lawyer. Indeed, it could be pretty effectively laughed out of court by a cheap one, since it consisted entirely of that tattoo on his right forearm. Even a Thai court might hesitate to condemn her to death without more to go on.
The sergeant and I shrugged at each other. Ruamsantiah seemed to feel sorry for this great pink baby, who would probably not actually be executed (because he was pink, not brown, the King would pardon him eventually after a few decades on death row) but who would certainly be ground down by our prison system until he was no more than a toothless shade on slopping-out duty. Well, there was nothing more to be done for the moment.
“I guess we better check that it really is morphine in the suitcases,” I said to Ruamsantiah, who blinked. What else could it be?
And there it was left, farang, because the next day, before I’d had a chance even to consider what the morphine might signify with regard to Zinna, there was the problem of Mitch Turner to deal with and then that trip down south to Songai Kolok.
End of flashback, farang.
19
Ruamsantiah, still in awe of Vikorn’s low cunning, calls back slightly breathless:
“I’ve just been in the cell with him.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Bad. Really bad. The jailer had to use restrainers.”
“Withdrawal?”
“Cold turkey with extras. He’s strong, he was bashing his head against the bars.”
“Is he in interrogation mode?”
“He could be, with a little help. You’ll have to do it-the brute hardly speaks a word of Thai. ”
“I’ll be down. By the way, did you get his record from Scotland Yard? I’ll need it before I question him.”
“I’ve got the fax, but I couldn’t read it because it’s in English. I’ll send it up to you.”
The sergeant sends a young constable, who arrives on the double with Buckle’s British record sheet. He started in reform school, after which he began a five-year career as a moderately successful burglar, followed by jail, where he addicted himself to heroin and began an apprenticeship as a small-time trafficker. After the first serious drug bust he developed an increasing sophistication in his MO and is now suspected of large-scale trafficking from Southeast Asia to the U.K. via Amsterdam in a well-organized ring. Said to have developed a serious reluctance to go back to jail, which has resulted in greater caution in the way he does business. Despite numerous detox programs, he has never been able to kick his smack habit.
I meet Ruamsantiah at the steps down to the cells, and we walk with the jailer to cell four. For once the jailer has exercised compassion in that he has used padded, hospital-style restrainers instead of his usual chains. We stare through the bars. Chaz is in poor shape, shivering and groaning, with some nasty cuts and bruises on his forehead. “Self-inflicted,” the jailer defensively reports.
“Is he on anything?”
“Only tranqs.”
The jailer selects a key from a sparkling chrome chain as long as infinity, then opens the door. Ruamsantiah and I enter the cell, dank with one man’s total despair. I say: “Chaz.” There is only a flicker of recognition, then a return to his compulsive shivering.
“Maybe we can help you.”
Again, a brief flicker of recognition, but this is not the same man as the one I interrogated last week. Thwarted craving shows us our darkest places, our deepest fears, our basic cowardice. “Denise didn’t get you out of here like she promised, did she, Chaz?” I am using Paternal Concerned with plenty of saccharin and just a dash of menace. He stares at me, then lets his head down again, shivering and shuddering.
“You weren’t any ordinary courier, were you? You’re a pro, Chaz. I’ve seen your record sheet-you’re not just some dumb mule like the other losers who hang around Ko Samui and Pataya, waiting to be used, those other ugly dumb tattooed bastards who’ll risk anything for a fix. You were the boss’s main man, her lover, weren’t you? You didn’t have to worry about a little thing like a bust, because the boss is so rich and influential and so damn well connected, she could get you off of anything anytime. That’s why you had the nerve to jump me, remember? This is Thailand, and all she needs to do is bribe the forensic lab-throw money at it, as they say-and you were going to be walking the streets again, shooting up on the best stuff money can buy, right? That was the plan, you talked about it many times, she told you how special you were, how powerful she was, didn’t she? But you were way too experienced to take her word for it. There had to be more to it than this, she had to show you her influence. Her connections. You’d been east enough times to know what connections mean over here. According to your passport you’ve made twenty-five visits in the last five years. Connections are wealth, power, happiness-connections are everything. And even Denise is just another lost farang if she doesn’t have them. So tell us, who is her main man?”
This time he doesn’t even bother to look up. I nod to Ruamsantiah, who produces a small glassine bag with white contents from one of his pockets.
“Chaz,” I say softly. A sudden flick of his eyes, which fix on the bag in Ruamsantiah’s left palm, then down again to stare at his navel. “I can relieve your suffering, Chaz.” I finally have his full attention. Suddenly his eyes are pleading. “It’s okay, Chaz, you can trust me, I’m a cop, ha-ha. No, really, I give you my word. We’ll let you come down slowly, reduce the dose a little every day till you’re clean, maybe even find you some methadone. That’s the humane way to do it, isn’t it?”
He gulps, opens his mouth, stares at the packet, and shuts his mouth. In a whisper: “I can’t do cold turkey, it’s killing me.” Our eyes lock. This is a confession straight from the soul. He just can’t do it. He really can’t do it. Oh, how he would love to play the macho martyr immune to all weakness, but the dope dragon is too powerful.
“Of course, you’ll have to help us nail that bitch and her supplier.”
A quick look, a nod, and then he bursts into tears. In a sob-drenched whisper: “Gimme the smack, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”