Spy Mom by Beth McMullen Page B

matter-of-factly.
    â€œDefinitely not Blackford,” Simon said.
    â€œYou’re lying.”
    â€œAnd you’re insubordinate.”
    â€œI do what I can.”
    â€œGo to sleep.”
    â€œI can’t. You keep fidgeting around over there and it’s really annoying.”
    â€œLearn to ignore it.”
    â€œFine.” I pulled my eyeshade down and reclined my seat. I could still feel the vibrations of Simon’s aerobics, but eventually I fell asleep anyway.
    Bangkok in November is not altogether unpleasant, if you don’t mind your days being extremely hot, humid, and gritty. The air was thick with pollution hanging in a haze over the city as we left the airport and headed into town. The view outside never seemed to change. The half-finished buildings never got any closer to being done, the construction cranes long gone to China. As we whizzed along on the toll road designed for visitors with cash, I could see the locals sitting in mile after mile of stopped traffic on the parallel free route, their cars belching gray smoke into the toxic mix outside. Our cab driver tried to convince us to go immediately to his cousin’s shop for custom-made suits and dresses, but shut up after I explained in Thai how we weren’t here as tourists but with a United Nations agency looking into the exploitation of Thai children in the custom clothing sector. We stopped briefly at Simon’s favorite Bangkok guesthouse to drop off our few belongings. He was greeted like a member of the family who’s been gone for a while. He explained that he’d been promoted and had not been spending quite as much time on the road as he used to. That was news to me.
    â€œSuch good work you do, sir,” the owner said, leading us to our rooms. “So nice you find pretty girl to travel with.” The very thought turned my stomach, but I didn’t say anything.
    Simon followed me into my room and shut the door. He sat down on my thin mattress, propped himself up comfortably on my single pillow, and started to do that thing he was always doing with his fingers. Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors and see all the people. You know that one, right? Whenever Simon was contemplating throwing you to the wolves, he’d start in with that routine. It was fascinating to watch, his fingers and hands moving as if independent from the rest of his body. This was not going to be good for me.
    â€œThe Blind Monk knows me, obviously, but he doesn’t know you, at least not yet,” Simon said, fingers moving furiously. Church, steeple, people, church, steeple, people. “So you will be the lead here. But I don’t want you to do anything. Go to his place and get a massage and see what you can see, nothing more. We’ll figure out a plan after we know a few things. There are sure to be at least half a dozen of his men around so don’t make any moves. You are another American tourist on vacation. Is that understood? Remember every little detail that you see. The Blind Monk’s strength is in the details.”
    I nodded my head, thinking a massage sounded kind of nice, considering the circumstances.
    â€œI’ll be watching you from the coffee shop across the street. If he tries to kill you, of course, feel free to defend yourself.”
    â€œGee, thanks for the permission.”
    The Blind Monk’s massage parlor was known for being straight. If you wanted a prostitute for a little extra behind the curtain, you’d have to take your business down the road, although not very far.
    I asked at the front desk how long I’d have to wait for the Blind Monk himself to do my massage and was told about an hour, which was perfect, allowing me time to sit unobtrusively and watch what was going on.
    The place was jumping with clients, mostly western, coming and going from behind a flowing curtain covering the door to the massage stations. Most emerged with happy, dopey