Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness by David Casarett Page A

played that scene out in her head several times, making it more uncomfortable with each iteration, until finally she reached her car and heaved a sigh of relief as she slid into the driver’s seat.
    Eeeeeyyy. Fortunately she’d come in early that morning and had been able to get one of the best spots under an immense banyan tree close to the hospital building. Still, it was hot. Whoever it was in Germany who designed these vinyl seats didn’t think about weather in Thailand. Her next car would have air-conditioning. And perhaps a radio. A radio wasn’t truly necessary, of course. One always had one’s thoughts for company. But it would be nice to hear another voice, for a change.
    Then she patted the Beetle’s dashboard gently, feeling disloyal. Not that she’d be getting a new car anytime soon…
    Ladarat threaded her way out of the university hospital complex and onto Suthep Road, and then cut over to Arak—the westernmost side of the perfect square that encircles Chiang Mai’s old city. She followed the road around the square—south, then east, then farther east on Sridonchai Road toward the Ping River.
    Farang thought Chiang Mai was old and quaint because they mostly saw the old city. But out here, and on the Ring Road in particular, you could be in a suburb of Chicago. There was a wide divided highway with big stores and supermarkets and gas stations. She didn’t like this part of Chiang Mai, because it was ugly. But she was proud of it, too, in a way. Proud not that her town could boast strip malls, but that those strip malls could coexist with traditional Thai values. At least for the time being.
    She turned left at Charoen Prathet Road, which led north to Tha Phae, the tourist avenue that led from old city down to the night market and the river. Anything farang wanted—from girls to elephant hair bracelets—they could find along this half-mile stretch of road. But this wasn’t her destination.
    There was an unnamed soi , or small street, about halfway down Tha Phae, where she could usually find a parking spot. It was little wider than an alley; nevertheless this soi was filled with farang , many of whom would nod appreciatively at her yellow Beetle. Some of the older ones were perhaps remembering fondly their own motoring history. If she ever sold the Beetle, she decided, patting the dashboard again for luck, she would park it here with a big “For Sale” sign in English. She’d find it a good home with a car collector in… California.
    She found a parking space even more easily than she’d hoped and greeted the owner of the fruit stand across the street, whom she knew by sight.
    The mangoes looked particularly good. Still partly green, they’d mostly turned a promising warm yellow. She gave one a gentle squeeze. Ahh, almost ripe.
    “I’ll be back, Khun. Save one for me.”
    The man smiled and shrugged. “You cannot expect a ripe mango to wait for you. Mangoes—they are not a patient fruit.”
    Ladarat nodded agreement. Fruit stand philosophy was oddly comforting right now. But not helpful.
    She didn’t need a sackful of ripe mangoes where she was going. But a bunch of bananas would be perfect. She bought them and paid 30 baht , or about a dollar. She waved her thanks and crossed the small soi , entering an even narrower alley. It was shadowy here, and a few degrees cooler. Still, she hurried. This wasn’t a neighborhood she liked to be seen in.
    Even if you had never been to this part of Chiang Mai before, just the names of the businesses around her would tell you in no uncertain terms what this street was all about. There was the Cowboy Bar, and the Paradise. And the Shangri-La.
    This was a street that catered to the worst appetites of farang . Big greasy meals and T-shirts and women. And women. And more women.
    Every other business, it seemed, had the same stylized figure of a naked woman with long hair. It was as if someone, somewhere, had decided that this was the universal symbol of a