Paying Back Jack by Christopher G. Moore Page B

remember?” asked Colonel Pratt.
    The guard remembered a Thai arriving in a red sports car the previous afternoon. It had been a beauty, a European two-seater, polished, not a scratch on it, tinted windows. No, he didn’t rememberthe license plate number; he was too busy looking at his own face reflected in the high sheen of the car. But he thought it might have been a Bangkok plate.
    â€œWhy do you think that?” asked Colonel Pratt.
    The guard told him that if it had been a local car, he’d have recognized it. He’d have known who owned it. A car like that wouldn’t be a secret for long in a small town like Pattaya. It was flashy like a car from the movies, a car built and sold to attract attention, the attention of women in particular. It wasn’t a family car the guard described. And it wasn’t the kind of car you’d drive to commit a murder, thought Calvino. A professional hit man would have driven a plain vanilla Honda.
    Whomever the driver of the sports car was, Calvino had a good idea he hadn’t planned to kill anyone. But maybe things turned out in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Something unexpected might have come up—a surge of anger, the wrong word or look—and Nongluck could have found herself airborne.

EIGHT
    TRACER REALIZED THAT it felt good to be back in Bangkok. He stretched his arms and turned up the music as he glided through the early morning traffic on Sukhumvit Road. The rain slanted against the windscreen, the wipers working overtime. The city roads were wet and slick, and traffic from the motorway had started to build. He passed the Emporium Shopping Mall and Benjasiri Park, then turned into Washington Square. Taking a parking ticket, he drove on until he eased the S-Class Mercedes in a parking space in front of the Bourbon Street Restaurant. He sat in the car, leaving the air conditioner on, listening to Muddy Waters’s “Got My Mojo Workin’” and keeping the beat on the steering wheel. He touched the small leather pouch he wore under his shirt. He didn’t go anywhere without his mojo bag with the pinch of spices, herbs, a snake tooth, and the dead body of a mean motherfucker of a black widow spider.
    He didn’t object when his friend and fellow LRAS employee Alan Jarrett had suggested the restaurant in Washington Square because it was a good place to sit, wait, let the power rise up inside, get strong. And it was around the corner from a short time hotel where Jarrett had planned to spend the night. Time stops when a man is in touch with his mojo. Six in the morning and Tracer was ready to go to work. Mooney’s men had stored the .308 in the trunk. And Jarrett was all set, he thought.
    He sat in the car as the security guard came around with an umbrella and opened his door. Tracer got out of the car, locked thedoor, ducked his head under the umbrella, and walked up the steps to the front door. The girls behind the counter gave him the early-in-the-morning once-over. A man at that time of the morning was in the neighborhood to order himself some coffee, bacon, and eggs. The security guard, who had folded up the umbrella, followed Tracer through the door and told the waitresses that the black man had arrived in a Benz with embassy plates. The yings looked at Tracer, thinking he was a diplomat, someone they had to treat real nice. Not many African diplomats rolled into Washington Square at six in the morning on a rainy day, or, for that matter, any time, any day, rain or shine. Tracer turned right, walked over to the bar, dropped the car keys on the counter, and ordered a coffee.
    â€œBring it black, bring it strong,” said Tracer.
    The waitress stared long and hard, like she had some problem.
    â€œThe man wants a coffee,” said Jarrett. “Is there any part of that message you don’t understand?”
    She turned away and walked over to the coffee pot.
    â€œYou’re in a good mood.” Tracer slid