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

girlie bar, in much the same way that traffic signs had become international.
    Halfway down the street, though, the businesses lining the soi seem to lose their focus. There was an electronic repair shop, and a small crockery store, and a kitchen supply warehouse. Beyond that was another plain storefront that announced itself simply as “The Tea House.” That business had the same stylized woman’s figure in the lower-right-hand corner of the door, but the little sign was the only indication of what went on inside. And that, Ladarat knew, was exactly the way that her cousin Siriwan Pookusuwan wanted it.
    Ladarat slipped through the oversize wooden doors, a little surprised that they were unlocked. Usually they weren’t open until after six o’clock, to discourage the odd traveler who wandered in looking for tea. They served tea, of course. But anyone looking for tea was probably in the wrong place. The place was a brothel, although Ladarat was careful never to call it that.
    As her eyes adjusted to the dark, the contours of the large room emerged, stretching back into the dim corners. There were century-old teak floors and walls, with a large sunken table more than five meters long in the center. Wood carvings and silk tapestries lined the walls, and a Buddha to her right watched over the entrance.
    That Buddha was the ubiquitous Thai Hing Phra . Many places of business had one inside, just as they had a Saan Jao , or spirit house, outside. It was a balance that Ladarat found comforting. Outside you’d pray for luck and good fortune or good crops—all materialist things. But inside you’d pray for harmony and enlightenment. She paused and knelt, depositing the bananas as an offering in hopes of her own enlightenment regarding matters of detection.
    As she rose, out of the darkness a man materialized in front of her. A blond farang , the biggest she had ever seen. Easily two meters tall, with broad shoulders and a crewcut, the man looked like he’d been designed by a Thai casting director who’d been told: “Give me a typical big American surfer.”
    The man turned toward her, holding up a hubcap-size hand. “We’re not open…” he said in English. He looked nonplussed for a moment, then switched to heavily accented but perfectly serviceable Thai. “Hello, so good to see you, Khun Ladarat.” He offered a high wai , which she returned. “And how have you been?”
    “Well, I thank you, Khun Jonah. And you?”
    “Krista’s pregnant,” he burst out, unable to contain himself. “It’s going to be a girl,” he said shyly.
    “That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for both of you.” And she was.
    Jonah had had a rough life. As a tourist just out of college, he’d gotten involved in a scam to run drugs to Koh Samui to make enough money to travel on to India. But as many unsuspecting farang are, he’d been caught and had ended up in prison for five years. He’d gotten hepatitis in his third year and had been transferred to Sriphat Hospital, where she’d met him when his family had come over to try to get him released. She had translated for those meetings, and much to her surprise, their director had gotten involved and had intervened.
    Somehow—she wasn’t sure how—Jonah had been released. You’d think he would have left Thailand immediately, but he hadn’t. His girlfriend, Krista, had come over to live, and he’d taken a series of jobs as a bouncer at some of the bars around the old city, where his size had been enough to quell most farang disturbances before they started. One look at him, and even the most inebriated Australian would decide he’d rather make trouble somewhere else. But not always, and sometimes he had to wade in.
    It had been after one such brawl that he’d ended up in the hospital and Ladarat had met him again. He had asked her, jokingly, whether she knew of a bar where he would be less likely to get hit over the head with a full bottle of Mekhong whiskey. And much to his