favourite, tom yam kung was at the head of the second-tier list. Like a good hot and sour seafood soup, it is made with a chicken stock base and a generous amount of shrimp. Cilantro, straw mushrooms, scallions, fish sauce, lime juice, lemongrass stalks, and kaffir lime leaves are added to produce a flavoursome broth, its surface dotted with a crimson oil slick from the final ingredient, red chili peppers. The soup had a clean, clear aroma, like pure oxygen with just a hint of citrus.
After lunch she went back to Pantip to collect her DVDs. As she was paying for them, Arthon called. He had had no luck with Antonelli’s phone, but they had compiled some information on Seto.
“Can I drop it off at the Hyatt?” he asked.
“Fifteen minutes,” she said.
“More like an hour,” he countered.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
( 12 )
AVA WAITED FOR ARTHON FOR CLOSE TO TWO HOURS. She drank several glasses of fruit juice and read all the newspapers in the lobby: the two English-language papers — The Nation and the Bangkok Post — a Chinese paper, the International Herald Tribune , and the Asian edition of the Wall Street Journal . The news was all the same: the economy was in tatters. This usually made for good business for Ava. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Arthon came through the front door, leaving his car running right outside. He had clout, no doubt about that. He was better dressed than he had been the night before, in tight blue slacks and a form-fitting red Lacoste golf shirt, with sunglasses perched on his head. If she hadn’t known him, she might have figured him for a dealer.
Arthon didn’t apologize for being late — given the traffic, it is understood in Bangkok that meeting times are an estimate at best. “I can’t stay,” he said quickly as he handed her two sheets of paper.
“That’s it?”
“Seto’s comings and goings. That and his hotel stays are all we have on record. He’s been here three or four times a year for the past six years, at first going to Hat Yai and then to Bangkok. He stayed at the Novotel with Antonelli when he was in the south, and at the Water Hotel when Antonelli moved north.”
“Seafood Partners?”
“If he was a partner, he was a discreet one.”
“When was he last here?”
“About five months ago.”
When he was organizing the Major Supermarkets scam , she thought.
“I have one more thing for you,” he said, passing her what looked like a passport photo. “I didn’t know if you had one.”
She looked at her target. Thick black hair streaked with grey and combed straight back with no part. Long, thin face with a small mouth, looking even smaller under a moustache that drooped on the right. His eyes were almost hidden by hooded lids. He stared right into the camera with a look of defiance.
“Now I have to go,” Arthon said. “It’s payday and I still have some collections to make. What are your plans for tonight?”
“Barry Bean’s for happy hour. Maybe I can get Antonelli to talk to me if he has a few drinks in him.”
“Call me if you need me. I should be free by about seven.”
----
Ava got to the bar by six, figuring that happy hour would be in full swing. Barry Bean’s was packed but there was no sign of Antonelli. She mentioned his name to her waitress and was told that “Kuhn George” would be along eventually — he hardly ever missed happy hour. She chatted with a German bathtub manufacturer who was thinking about relocating his business to Thailand but was trying to do it without bringing his wife and kids. The problem was that his wife wasn’t an idiot.
At seven the bar staff gathered in one spot, a bell was rung, and they yelled, “Happy hour is over, happy hour is over.” Still no sign of Antonelli.
Ava called Arthon.
“Oh shit, I forgot this was Friday,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she groaned.
“On Fridays he goes to an Italian restaurant near Soi Cowboy. It’s owned by actual Italians
After lunch she went back to Pantip to collect her DVDs. As she was paying for them, Arthon called. He had had no luck with Antonelli’s phone, but they had compiled some information on Seto.
“Can I drop it off at the Hyatt?” he asked.
“Fifteen minutes,” she said.
“More like an hour,” he countered.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
( 12 )
AVA WAITED FOR ARTHON FOR CLOSE TO TWO HOURS. She drank several glasses of fruit juice and read all the newspapers in the lobby: the two English-language papers — The Nation and the Bangkok Post — a Chinese paper, the International Herald Tribune , and the Asian edition of the Wall Street Journal . The news was all the same: the economy was in tatters. This usually made for good business for Ava. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Arthon came through the front door, leaving his car running right outside. He had clout, no doubt about that. He was better dressed than he had been the night before, in tight blue slacks and a form-fitting red Lacoste golf shirt, with sunglasses perched on his head. If she hadn’t known him, she might have figured him for a dealer.
Arthon didn’t apologize for being late — given the traffic, it is understood in Bangkok that meeting times are an estimate at best. “I can’t stay,” he said quickly as he handed her two sheets of paper.
“That’s it?”
“Seto’s comings and goings. That and his hotel stays are all we have on record. He’s been here three or four times a year for the past six years, at first going to Hat Yai and then to Bangkok. He stayed at the Novotel with Antonelli when he was in the south, and at the Water Hotel when Antonelli moved north.”
“Seafood Partners?”
“If he was a partner, he was a discreet one.”
“When was he last here?”
“About five months ago.”
When he was organizing the Major Supermarkets scam , she thought.
“I have one more thing for you,” he said, passing her what looked like a passport photo. “I didn’t know if you had one.”
She looked at her target. Thick black hair streaked with grey and combed straight back with no part. Long, thin face with a small mouth, looking even smaller under a moustache that drooped on the right. His eyes were almost hidden by hooded lids. He stared right into the camera with a look of defiance.
“Now I have to go,” Arthon said. “It’s payday and I still have some collections to make. What are your plans for tonight?”
“Barry Bean’s for happy hour. Maybe I can get Antonelli to talk to me if he has a few drinks in him.”
“Call me if you need me. I should be free by about seven.”
----
Ava got to the bar by six, figuring that happy hour would be in full swing. Barry Bean’s was packed but there was no sign of Antonelli. She mentioned his name to her waitress and was told that “Kuhn George” would be along eventually — he hardly ever missed happy hour. She chatted with a German bathtub manufacturer who was thinking about relocating his business to Thailand but was trying to do it without bringing his wife and kids. The problem was that his wife wasn’t an idiot.
At seven the bar staff gathered in one spot, a bell was rung, and they yelled, “Happy hour is over, happy hour is over.” Still no sign of Antonelli.
Ava called Arthon.
“Oh shit, I forgot this was Friday,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she groaned.
“On Fridays he goes to an Italian restaurant near Soi Cowboy. It’s owned by actual Italians
Similar Books
