Thai Horse (52 page)

Sy spun around and lashed out with his right foot, slashing it into Tan’s side. The larger fighter took the blow with ease, charged Sy and threw a series of lefts and rights, his gloves smacking loudly as they caught Sy on the cheeks and jaws. The crowd, sensing a kill, was on its feet, screaming for a knockout

Tan, the brawler, although slower and more clumsy than Sy, had the advantage of size and weight. He bulled in, kicking and punching while the little Thai dodged and danced, trying to avoid the blows. He could not avoid all of them. They rained down on his head, and the kicks found their mark on stomach and thigh. Sy twisted one way and then the other while Tan seemed to have complete control of the match. The bell saved Sy from further damage.

He sat in his corner, casting an
o
ccasional glance at Hatcher and smiling. There was a trickle of blood at the corner of his nose. Sweat poured
in
rivers down his hard, lean body.

Sy was tougher than the crowd thought. The third round began much the same way as the second with Tan charging out, kicking and punching and then going for the change-up, switching feet and lashing out much as a Western fighter might change his lead from right to left. But Sy had psyched out his opponent’s style, and he, too, did a fast change-up. Now he suddenly started showing his stuff. He ducked inside Tan’s combinations and lashed out with a brutal uppercut that grazed Tan’s jaw, throwing him off-balance. Sy jumped back and landed two quick kicks to the stomach, switched feet and caught Tan with two more vicious kicks. Tan staggered back, stunned by the sudden ferocity of the little fighter. Sy took immediate advantage. He came in fast on one foot, then quickly changed feet and landed a sizzling kick on the bridge of Tan’s nose. Blood spurted like juice from a ripe orange. Tan backed away, shaking his head and fell into a protective pose.

Now it was Sy who became the pursuer. He feinted with two kicks. Suddenly he switched feet again, turning the upper part of his body almost parallel to the ground, and lashed out with a brutal kick to the groin. The larger fighter roared with pain, spun around and dropped to one knee. He took a six count, then, bellowing like a bull, charged Sy from his knee.

Sy was expecting the charge.
H
e spun around, landed a brutal kick on the side of Tan’s neck, snapped three right-left combinations straight into Tan’s face. The bloody nose got bloodier. Then he kicked again, this time with deadly accuracy. The blow snapped Tan’s head back. He stumbled backward, obviously in trouble. One eye was beginning to swell shut. In desperation he charged the smaller fighter, wrapping his arms around him, pinning them to Sy’s sides and snapping his head against Sy’s forehead.

The crowd reacted with boos their affections quickly switching to the underdog. The referee moved in quickly and separated the fighters, admonishing Tan, who jogged back away from Sy. The little man’s nose was bleeding from the head blow. He shook it off, waved off the referee, and began to stalk the big man. The bell ended the round.

Sy’s trainer was babbling in Sy’s ear, and the small fighter was listening and nodding. Hatcher continued to scan the spectators between
rounds
, hoping he might get a break, although it was an adds-on bet that Wol Pot was not there. This was not, after all, a major bout.

The fourth round, Tan changed his tactics. He moved more precisely, more like a Western fighter, feeling Sy out, looking for an opening. Sy moved gracefully, dancing around his heavy-footed opponent.

Suddenly, ferociously, Tan slashed his foot out and landed a direct hit in Sy’s groin_ The little Thai doubled up in pain and fell against the r
o
pes.

The crowd wasn’t sure whom to scream for.

Tan stepped in like a tiger and landed three grueling punches to the face. Sy was down on one knee, shaking his head, blood spattering down his chest and mixing with the sweat. He glared up at Tan, and Hatcher saw hate in his eyes. This was the look of a killer. Sy wiped the blood from his face with a glove and shook his head when the referee leaned over and said something to him.

Now he was back on his feet, bolstered by the cheers of the crowd.

Tan charged again, using his flat—footed jogging step to get inside Sy’s defense. But the
n
the little Thai did something amazing. He cart
-
wheeled away, landed on his feet behind Tan, and as the bigger
m
an whirled to face him, took three short jump steps, leaped in the air and snapped two kicks straight into Tan’s face and landed back on both feet.

While Tan was still staggering under the blows, Sy jogged in again, feinted with a kick, and landed two right-left combinations straight to the point of Tan’s jaw.

All four punches found their mark. Tan staggered backward and Sy did his change-up step again, jogging in, switching feet, leaping up and lashing out with a double kick before he landed back on both feet again.

Hatcher was on his feet, screaming with the rest of the crowd.

Bemused, hurt, dizzied by the ferocity of the attack, Tan threw a desperation roundhouse killer punch. It whistled a quarter-inch from Sy’s jaw.

Sy smacked him with two fast lefts and slammed a right into the corner of Tan’s jaw just under the ear.
Whap!

Tan spun around, fell face forward into the ropes, bounced off and sat down hard, flat on his ass. He looked around the ring through glassy eyes.

The referee started counting. On six Tan was on his side. On eight he had both feet under him. On nine he shoved himself to his feet.

The referee stepped back.

Sy moved like a shot. He zigzagged across the ring while Tan tried to get him in focus. lie never saw the last two blows.

The first was a kick to the top of the stomach, which doubled Tan over.

The second was a blistering right hand that had all of Sy’s 120-plus pounds behind it. Tan’s head snapped like a punching bag. He fell
s
traight to the canvas, bounced on his knees and fell face forward to the never-never land of the deck.

Angels couldn’t have awakened him.

Sy was leaping around the ring, holding his hands over his head, a picture of pure joy. His trainer charged into the ring, lifted him up in a bear hug and danced around the square with him.

The crowd was going crazy, throwing programs, hats, amulets and bottles into th
e
ring,

Hatcher started to laugh as he applauded. That, he said to himself, was one helluva fight.

Hatcher waved his winning tickets over his head, yelling, as best he could, to Sy as his trainer hopped around the ring with him. ‘Seven hundred and fifty bahts, pal,
seven hundred and
fifty bahts!’ At that moment, Sy could not have cared less. Buddha had believed him. He had taken down the big man. And the crowd was cheering for
him.

In his excitement, Hatcher did not notice the old Chinese watching him. The main was tall, but stooped. He had gray wispy hair and a white beard, and was wearing a silk
cheongsam.
As Hatcher left the arena the old man followed him.

Hatcher made his way back across the arena floor and went outside to one of the five pay-out windows. He felt the first cool splats of rain. Thu
n
der and lightning were bare seconds apart. Hatcher stood in the line checking out the crowd.

He noticed the ears first. They were big and stood away from his head. Then the nose. In profile, the man’s nose was long and slender, almost a hawk nose.

The man, who was two rows away and slightly behind him, was the right size. Five six, 150 pounds. His head was shaven clean, but hell, anybody can shave his head, thought Hatcher. Besides, Hatcher was really only interested in the area from the man’s forehead to his upper lip. He called up his
ch’uang tzu-chi,
remembering all the details in the photograph of Wol Pot. The nose and ears matched the picture.

Now for the eyes. That would tell Hatcher for sure, those eyes would do the trick. But the chunky man was wearing sunglasses and in profile Hatcher couldn’t see his eyes that well.

It began to rain a little harder. More lightning with the thunder right on top of it. The man caught him staring. Hatcher turned away, monitoring him through his peripheral vision. The man stared hard at Hatcher but did not take off the glasses.

The stooped old Chinese lingered under the rim of the arena, out of the rain, watching Hatcher.

Hatcher reached the window, and the cashier counted out his winnings. He walked back through the crowds around the window and stood near the back of the arena, watching the man with the big ears as he collected his winnings.

Hatcher stared straight at him until he was sure the man saw him, then slowly moved back into the shadows of the arena. It began to rain harder. The man was wearing black pants and a white shirt, and he huddled his shoulders against the rain and leaned forward, peering toward Hatcher.

He took off the glasses and squinted toward the shadows.

Hatcher got a clean view of the eyes. Cold, lifeless, ruthless eyes. Big ears. The aquiline nose.

It was Wol Pot.

A crack of lightning coursed through the sky and struck somewhere nearby, accompanied by a deluge.

Hatcher stepped back out of the shadows and started through the crowd toward Wol Pot, who wheeled and headed for the exit. Hatcher bolted, threading his way through the crowd that was lining up to bet on the next fight.

He raced after the Vietnamese traitor, so surprised at actually finding the POW commandant that he failed to notice the stooped old man who was watching him.

The rain was coming down in driving sheets that acted like a veil. In the rush of the crowd to escape the rain, the old Chinese lost sight of Hatcher; he ran into the rain, frantically searching t
h
e crowd. He rushed to the main entrance and stepped out into Thi Phatt Road. Crowds of people rushed by seeking shelter from the rain. Neon signs glowed in the early darkness. Desperately the old Chinese turned and hurried toward the alley that ran beside the arena.

Hatcher had kept Wol Pot in view, muscling through the scattering crowd as he raced after him. The chunky Vietnamese turned abruptly and darted through the side entrance of the stone wall surrounding the practice grounds and into an alley off Thi Phatt Road. He huddled against the stone wall as the storm gained in intensity and lightning streaked the darkening sky.

He heard the door open behind him and he started to run.

Hatcher was two dozen feet behind him as Wol Pot ran toward Thi Phatt Road. He decided to try a bluff.

‘Hold it right there, Wol Poi,’ he yelled hoarsely so he could be heard above the din of the rain. ‘I don’t want to have to shoot you.’

The ruse worked. Wol Pot s1owed down, then stopped, moving back against the wall again, seeking the shelter of the jasmine and orchid blossoms that spilled down the wall. He slowly raised his hands shoulder- high, afraid of what might be behind him. Who was this
farang?
he wondered, but did n
o
t turn around. Wol Pot was a devout coward. If he was to be killed, he did not want to see it coming.

Hatcher walked up behind him and stuck his middle finger in Wol Pot’s back.

‘Bang,’ he whispered in Wol
Pot’s
ear.

The stubby man whirled, realized he had been duped and started to bolt, but Hatcher grabbed him by the throat and slammed him back against the stone wall, back among the wet jasmine blossoms. Water poured down Hatcher’s face, and he could feel it seeping into his shoes. Then as suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped. Heat broiled up from the hot pavement and turned to steam around them.

‘I came halfway around the world to talk to you,’ he whispered. ‘Now you’re going to answer some questions for me.’ Hatcher quickly frisked him.

‘I don’t speak English,’ Wol Pot stammered in Thai.

‘We’ll speak Thai,’ Hatcher snapped back in Thai.

‘W-w-what do you want?’

‘I want Murph Cody.’

The old Chinese turned down the alley adjacent to the arena and walked through the swirling steam caused by the brief, intense rainstorm. In the red glow of the nearby neon signs the steam looked like the fires of hell. The old Chinese peered through the steam. Somewhere in front of him he heard voices. He reached under his robe and drew out a silenced .38.

‘Cody!’ Wol Pot stuttered in English. ‘Who are you?’

‘A friend of Windy Porter’s, the man who was killed trying to save your hide on the k
l
ong
-‘

‘I don’t know
—‘
Wol Pot began, but Hatcher took the passport out of his pocket and held it in front of Wol Pot’s eyes.

‘Don’t lie to me, you miserable do-mommy, you were there, with the girl.’

Wol Pot’s snake eyes squinted with fear. He began to cringe, shrinking deeper among the damp flowers. Neon lights from the nearby street cast a red glow across his face.

‘Why do you want Cody?’ he whined.

‘You wanted to trade him to Porter for a visa, isn’t that right?’

Wol Pot’s eyes lit up. ‘Are you from the embassy?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Just let me ask the questions.’

‘I didn’t know about Porter until I saw it in the paper. I didn’t know it was hi
m
,’ Wol Pot whimpered.

‘I’ve got a deal for you,’
H
atcher’s shattered voice hissed. ‘You give up Cody and I won’t turn you over to the American military for your war crimes.’

The POW commandant sh
o
ok his head, and water dribbled down his bald pate into his eyes.

‘Where is Cody?’ Hatcher demanded.

‘I do not know.’

‘Don’t lie to me, you little s
q
uid, I’ll—’

‘I do not know, I swear to you. He has vanished. Why would you want him anyway?’

‘Maybe he’s a friend of mine, too,

‘He is scum!’

‘You’re a hell of a one to talk.’

‘Cody is a heroin smuggler. He is a thief and a murderer. And worse, he is a c
h
ild killer.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘He murders children and stuffs their bodies with China White. That is why he calls himself Thai Horse.’

‘Cody is Thai Horse?’

‘Yes, that is what he calls hi
m
self.’

The information shook Hatcher. He stepped back a moment, staring at the ex-prison warden.

It was the last thing Wol Pot
/
Taisung ever said.

Hatcher did not hear the silenced shot until it hit Wol Pot in the chest. It went
thunt
and the chunky man grunted and rose up, as
if
standing on his toes, then fell back against the wall. Two more shots followed in quick order.
Thunt, thunt.