you weren’t.”
“Well, mostly.”
CW took another sip of his Mekong and soda, but he didn’t say anything else.
“So do I get an answer now?” I asked after I had waited a while.
The photographs were still lying on the bar and I rapped on one with my forefinger.
“Why in Christ’s name have you been following me around taking pictures?”
“We’re not following
you
, Slick. We don’t really give a shit about you. But we have Plato Karsarkis under surveillance around the clock and you just happen to get in the way.”
“I don’t see why that gives you any particular right to tell me who I can associate with.”
“Don’t go all prissy on me here, Slick.”
I collected the photographs off the bar and held them out to CW.
He shook his head. “Keep ‘em. I got plenty more.”
I tapped the three photographs into a neat pile and then ripped them in half. For good measure, I stacked the six halves together and ripped them again. Then I piled all the pieces into an ashtray and wiped my hands.
CW nodded absently a couple of times, then looked over at me and cocked his head as if he was trying to size something up.
“How do you feel about Plato Karsarkis?” he asked.
“We’re not having an affair, if that’s what you mean.”
CW returned his gaze to the golf tournament still flickering soundlessly on the big Sony above our heads.
“You know what I’m talking about, Slick.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“I mean, do you like him? Are you sympathetic with him?”
“He’s okay,” I said. “But I wouldn’t call myself sympathetic. He’s a bail jumper and a fugitive, for God’s sake.”
“Do you think he’s guilty?”
“Of what?”
“Of selling stolen oil smuggled out of Iraq. Of killing that girl.”
“I don’t know.” I rubbed my forefinger in the condensation on the side of my glass and tried to find a way to get off the subject of how I felt about Plato Karsarkis. “He could be guilty of one and not the other. Or of both. Or neither. What do you think?”
“Me?” CW seemed startled at the question. “I’m just shoveling shit from a sitting position here, Slick. I bag ‘em and tag ‘em whether they’re guilty or not. What happens to them after that is somebody else’s problem, not mine.”
I pushed myself around on my stool until I was facing out toward the sidewalk and watched the passing tourists for a while. There were an awful lot of them and they came in all shapes and si sh on my stzes. Still, I figured that most of them at least knew why they were there, and whether it was to have a meal, or get drunk, or chase girls, being somebody who knew what he was doing there looked pretty good to me right about then.
“You didn’t ask me here tonight to seek my counsel on whether Plato Karsarkis is guilty as charged, did you, CW?”
“Nope.” He shook his head and turned around on his stool as he stifled a yawn. “That I didn’t.”
The sidewalk in front of the Paradise Bar was running high with a river of people heading for the center of Patong. They were a decidedly mixed bag: Scandinavian families with matching hair; Japanese couples who might have been on their honeymoons; sweaty, rotund Germans holding hands with tiny Thai girls; mustachioed Arabic-looking men wearing tank tops and trailed by women in black chadors covering them from head to toe; a clutch of tattooed young Brits with several pounds of metal stuck through various parts of their bodies; a pair of hairy, middle-aged women in dirty T-shirts and baggy shorts who brayed nonstop at each other in broad Australian accents; and hundreds of other unidentifiable but equally uninspiring folks sweating out their cheap packaged holidays in paradise.
“I’ve been here almost three weeks now,” CW said. “And I haven’t done a fucking thing that’s been useful to anybody. It’s all been just a lot of hurry-up-and-wait bullshit. Son of a bitch, I am so damned tired.”
I nodded sympathetically, not
“Well, mostly.”
CW took another sip of his Mekong and soda, but he didn’t say anything else.
“So do I get an answer now?” I asked after I had waited a while.
The photographs were still lying on the bar and I rapped on one with my forefinger.
“Why in Christ’s name have you been following me around taking pictures?”
“We’re not following
you
, Slick. We don’t really give a shit about you. But we have Plato Karsarkis under surveillance around the clock and you just happen to get in the way.”
“I don’t see why that gives you any particular right to tell me who I can associate with.”
“Don’t go all prissy on me here, Slick.”
I collected the photographs off the bar and held them out to CW.
He shook his head. “Keep ‘em. I got plenty more.”
I tapped the three photographs into a neat pile and then ripped them in half. For good measure, I stacked the six halves together and ripped them again. Then I piled all the pieces into an ashtray and wiped my hands.
CW nodded absently a couple of times, then looked over at me and cocked his head as if he was trying to size something up.
“How do you feel about Plato Karsarkis?” he asked.
“We’re not having an affair, if that’s what you mean.”
CW returned his gaze to the golf tournament still flickering soundlessly on the big Sony above our heads.
“You know what I’m talking about, Slick.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“I mean, do you like him? Are you sympathetic with him?”
“He’s okay,” I said. “But I wouldn’t call myself sympathetic. He’s a bail jumper and a fugitive, for God’s sake.”
“Do you think he’s guilty?”
“Of what?”
“Of selling stolen oil smuggled out of Iraq. Of killing that girl.”
“I don’t know.” I rubbed my forefinger in the condensation on the side of my glass and tried to find a way to get off the subject of how I felt about Plato Karsarkis. “He could be guilty of one and not the other. Or of both. Or neither. What do you think?”
“Me?” CW seemed startled at the question. “I’m just shoveling shit from a sitting position here, Slick. I bag ‘em and tag ‘em whether they’re guilty or not. What happens to them after that is somebody else’s problem, not mine.”
I pushed myself around on my stool until I was facing out toward the sidewalk and watched the passing tourists for a while. There were an awful lot of them and they came in all shapes and si sh on my stzes. Still, I figured that most of them at least knew why they were there, and whether it was to have a meal, or get drunk, or chase girls, being somebody who knew what he was doing there looked pretty good to me right about then.
“You didn’t ask me here tonight to seek my counsel on whether Plato Karsarkis is guilty as charged, did you, CW?”
“Nope.” He shook his head and turned around on his stool as he stifled a yawn. “That I didn’t.”
The sidewalk in front of the Paradise Bar was running high with a river of people heading for the center of Patong. They were a decidedly mixed bag: Scandinavian families with matching hair; Japanese couples who might have been on their honeymoons; sweaty, rotund Germans holding hands with tiny Thai girls; mustachioed Arabic-looking men wearing tank tops and trailed by women in black chadors covering them from head to toe; a clutch of tattooed young Brits with several pounds of metal stuck through various parts of their bodies; a pair of hairy, middle-aged women in dirty T-shirts and baggy shorts who brayed nonstop at each other in broad Australian accents; and hundreds of other unidentifiable but equally uninspiring folks sweating out their cheap packaged holidays in paradise.
“I’ve been here almost three weeks now,” CW said. “And I haven’t done a fucking thing that’s been useful to anybody. It’s all been just a lot of hurry-up-and-wait bullshit. Son of a bitch, I am so damned tired.”
I nodded sympathetically, not
Similar Books
