The Chiang Mai Chronicle: A Declan Power Mystery (2 page)

Nam reached into her purse for an envelope. World TEFL was embossed in the upper right hand corner. It was addressed to Declan Power. She handed it to Oum.

Oum looked at it curiously. “What is it?” she asked. Truthfully, she knew. She could feel the thick outline of cash.

“Marty said that if anything should happen to him, if he disappeared, to contact Declan. He knew your boyfriend would help. He left the money with me just in case I need to talk with you.”

Martin Gay was a man Oum had come to despise. He came complete with charm and smiles. Mostly, Doc Martin was all games. And it was a game he’d win and you’d lose. But she still loved her sister from the bar. She shook her head. Marty may have been a con artist but he was smart. He knew the match. In Thailand cash money spoke loudly. She put the envelope in her purse. “I’ll talk with Declan tonight.”

It didn’t matter what country one was in Declan mused. Government offices looked the same the world over. He stared gloomily at the windowless walls and wondered what the hell was going on.

His friend, Pao, the station chief, had greeted him mirthlessly. Usually Pao was a slap on your back pull out a bottle of 100 Pipers type of guy. The hour meant little to the man Declan had nicknamed Napoleon. He seemed full of energy and cheer no matter the time. That is, if you were on his good side.

Not too long ago Declan was called in to the station by ‘Napoleon’ to have a talk with a farang, a foreigner, who seemed unwilling to play the game. His friend said to negotiate a fee of two hundred thousand baht. The person in custody, a randy teacher, had apparently gone a little too far with a student.

Declan stepped into the room to come across a familiar face. John Larkin was an upper crust type, always just a bit better than the rest: a dedicated follower of fashion, a London dandy. Dressed in crisply pressed Arrow shirts and Armani slacks he was the picture of suave. It worked too. John Larkin was the English teacher for the Chiang Mai society crowd. He let everybody know it too. Nobody was more impressed with Larkin than Larkin himself. He was always ready, with a conspiratorial whisper, to tell you of his latest sexual conquest.

He had quite the game. Larkin charged a princely sum for his services. Often, if the student was willing, and she passed muster, Larkin would kick back half of the money the young lady’s parents had paid for the course in return for sexual favors. He bragged endlessly. He was getting some sweet ass and still making more than the dregs which made up the majority of the farang teaching community.

“Man, you’re in a world of shit,” Declan began. He always started his ‘negotiation’ off this way.

Larkin sniffed. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m trying to get you out of the shit John. These guys are serious.”

“Serious about what? I was just shagging me a little tail. Trust me, the bird was chirping for it.”

“The ‘bird’ is fifteen man! That’s rape. That’s two hundred thousand baht. Pay it and get on your way.”

“Shit! They bring you in to do the shakedown. Declan I’d expect no less from an Irishman even if you do call Boston home.”

John Larkin then looked at his watch and yawned. He seemed very bored by the proceedings. “Still, I’m glad you’re here Power. This is what I need you to do. Go out to the big oaf who took my belongings and fetch my phone. Tell the little man who sent you in here, your friend I assume, to sit tight. He’ll be lucky if he has his job tomorrow. You too I might add. I’m quite good friends with your boss. I’ll make a few phone calls and walk out of here pretty as a picture. Now go! I won’t spend another moment in here.”

Declan sat in silent disbelief. He usually tried to negotiate a fair price. Pao would happily walk away with one hundred and fifty thousand baht. Fifteen years of age or not, it was a fair bet the girl was not a virgin. Declan would leave the station ten thousand baht fatter. It was a clean deal for all involved. Maybe not for the lass but that’s how it goes.

On this occasion Declan chose a different tack. He just smiled and rose from his chair. There are times when it is simply better to leave money on the table. “You bet John,” he replied in a gravely respectful tone. “I’ll get that done for you and let you be on your way.” Larkin nodded and waved him out of the room.

Pao was waiting at his desk. “That was quick Declan.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Some people have to be dealt with in a different way. I cannot help you tonight Pao.”

The policeman nodded matter-of-factly. He opened his desk drawer and removed a pair of pliers, a screwdriver, and a blade. The Chief sighed sadly. “I don’t like this work. I’ll need to raise the price for my aggravation.” He then brightened. “But Declan I’ll still meet your fee. Oh, and the young lady you introduced me too. She is perfect and lovely. The hilltribe girls know their place and don’t ask for too much money.” He reached into the lower draw and produced a bottle of Seagram’s 100 Pipers.

Pao looked up with a smile. “To our good life and fortune,” he cheered. Their glasses met and they poured down the fiery contents.

Napoleon then plodded on to the room where John Larkin was awaiting his belongings. The cries were not pretty. They had haunted Declan for weeks. Perhaps he should have put in more effort. But, Declan reasoned, people get what they deserve. John Larkin, last he had heard, had relocated down south and was holding down a teaching gig in a government school. Another lesson learned.

Ben Post cracked open his third beer of the still young day. At one in the afternoon it was way too early to get on the piss. But this was no ordinary day. He phoned Declan Power one more time. “What the fuck,” Post shouted as another call went unanswered. He paced up and down on his balcony. Usually the rolling hills which enveloped the nearby Wat U-Mong Temple provided a peaceful salve to whatever ailed him. Not today. He poured himself a shot of bourbon. “Martin ‘Fucking’ Gay,” he cursed to the swaying trees which bracketed his balcony. Ben once again went over the details of his morning’s ordeal.

He had woken up with a stunner who had come back last night to share his bed. Ben had spotted her at Foxy Lady a few weeks previous. Rose was her name. She came with long legs, a small curvaceous bottom, and breasts that make grown men silly. This chick had it all. Rose was new on the Chiang Mai nightlife scene. All of eighteen, she had hopped on a bus from her village home and headed for the big city. Rose’s job options were limited yet highly lucrative. She quickly got a job in a bar. But a small beer-bar wasn’t going to hold a looker like Rose for too long. She found a chrome pole. Shortly after, Rose had the center stage pole at the premier joint in town. Her destiny was secured.

Rose was out of Ben’s league. He knew it. She did too. Rose would choose whom she would bed and for how much. But Ben did have one ace in the hole. His best friend was Declan Power. He didn’t like to rely on their friendship as a crutch. Usually his money was enough. But with a girl like Rose, a once in a year go-go beauty, he had neither the looks nor the cash to close the deal. He could dangle Declan’s highly sought after centerfold spread however.

Declan was a sport about the whole thing. In fact, he appreciated Ben’s ‘second set of eyes.’ And some girls, dames like Rose, could easily be swept off the stage by Mr. Deep Pockets and shuttered in a condo before Declan had achance to immortalize them on his girl of the month page.

Ben would arrange a meeting with a suitable candidate and, if Declan agreed, a photo shoot would be arranged. Declan would then let the girl know that Ben would be in charge of delivering her to the shoot. She’d get the message. Ben would then enjoy some quality time with a hot bird for a few days. For free. Declan got his centerfold. Ben got his top shelf sex. The girl got a shot of local fame which increased her earning power. Everybody walked away fat.

Only a few short hours ago the plan was working its magic. Declan had signed off on Rose the moment he laid his eyes on her. Rose was dutifully, if not enthusiastically, showing her gratitude. Then a loud knock on the door disturbed his tranquility. Who the hell knocked on the door midmorning?

Rose lay naked on the couch watching videos while Ben went half-dressed to see who was making such an early house-call. He called lazily, “Who’s there mate? I’m busy.”

The door violently flung open. It slammed him in square in the face knocking him to the floor.

“The police are here mate,” was the icy reply.

Ben looked up to see three brown shirts, Chiang Mai City Police. “Are you too busy mate,” the Chief called in an exaggerated mocking tone.

‘Shit’ Ben whispered to himself. ‘Bye bye sunshine, hello rain.’ A long morning was in the offing and he knew it.

Declan Power started to fidget. He didn’t like to wait. He especially wasn’t keen on wasting his time in a dingy police interrogation room. The temptation to up and leave was strong. But there was something in Chief Pao’s demeanor that set off alarm bells. His radar sniffed trouble. He grinned. Trouble meant story.

The door opened and a sharply dressed man walked purposefully into the room. He clearly wasn’t police. The Brooks Brothers wing tips, spit and polished, the expertly pressed tan Arrow shirt smartly matched with Armani slacks, a silk tie, Jim Thompson Thai silk, added up to something way out of Chiang Mai’s league. Declan was staring at a Bangkok man.

Bangkok Man smiled. The smile matched his bright tie: Pure silk. “Mr. Power, my name is Phitak Pantrem. I have a few questions and I’m truly sorry to take up any of your time.”

Silk was the flavor of the day Declan thought. His jaw remained set. But inside he allowed himself a smile. Silk tie, silk smile, a silky tongue, Bangkok Man had it all. The story, his story, just got richer.

“I’m always happy to help,” Declan answered evenly. He had become adept at eliciting the information he needed. One might say he was ‘silky’ even. “And you are?”

“Yes of course. I am an investigator from the Department of Tax and Revenue, Bangkok branch, national headquarters.”

Power bolted to attention. In the United States it was far better to deal with the F.B.I. than the Internal Revenue Service. It didn’t even add up. He was on salary at the newspaper and they paid his taxes. Shit! ‘My asshole boss,’ his mind screamed. No story here, just a one way ticket out of paradise. “Ok,” Declan said indifferently.

“Can you describe your relationship with a Mr. Martin Gay?” his inquisitor began.

Declan relaxed. Another twist. “We don’t have one.” He knew Bangkok Man was after more but he’d have to dig for it. Any story would lay in the questions asked.

“You were close friends were you not? Please describe that relationship.”

Bangkok Man’s English was precise. It was a tongue trained abroad which meant he occupied a high station. This told him a great deal. The case of Martin Gay was not closed. Brilliant. “We were close friends. But that was years ago, back in 2003, 2004. We went our separate ways a while back, he into the TEFL business and I into journalism.”

Pantrem let out a slight laugh at Power’s mention of ‘journalism.’

“Yes, and it was your story of Gay’s illegal activities at King Mengrai University which led to your former friend’s downfall,” Bangkok Man stated.

“Ah, you read it, brilliant stuff!”

Bangkok Man looked up from his dossier. He looked as if to comment, a slight grin crept across his neatly shaved face. It quickly disappeared.

“When was your last interaction with Mr. Gay?”

“We almost got into a bust up over at Spotlight a go-go. He suggested we handle this ‘the ‘ol Aussie way.’”

Pantrem nodded. “So the last contact you had was violent. When did this altercation take place?”

Declan smiled to himself. Bangkok Man was good.  “No, it didn’t come to blows, just a lot of pushing, shoving, and yelling. This incident was a year or so ago. Marty finally stormed out of the bar. His parting words, and I quote, ‘You fucked with the wrong bunny mate!’”

Bangkok Man’s grin returned. It was accompanied by a laugh. The humor did not escape Declan either.

“Colorful,” Pantrem offered.

“Marty was that.” He caught himself talking in the past tense.

Bangkok Man picked it up as well. “You said ‘was.’ Has something happened to Gay?”

The question opened up another door. “Not to my knowledge. He’s out of my life so I suppose I think of him in the past tense.”

Phitak Pantrem stood up. The silk interrogation was over. “Fine. Here’s my card Declan. If you should hear of Martin Gay’s whereabouts please contact me.”

The interview was over. Bangkok Man marched out the door as smartly as he had entered. Declan followed. He exited the police station with a head full of questions. A seed had been planted, a story born.

Ben Post struggled to get up but one of the Chief’s underlings, a twentyish tough looking thug, kicked him back to the floor. Ben twisted his head to look at Rose. She had taken notice but did not seem to be in a state of any alarm. She returned her gaze to the TV. 

He again attempted to right himself. The urge to put up a defense was fierce. He quickly realized it would be futile. They were the police and, in any case, he was outnumbered. Truth be told, the brawny younger brown shirt would have made quick work of him.