Bangkok Tattoo

I have no idea why Vikorn, who is hardly a fully globalized world citizen (I’m not sure he could identify France on a map), should be so interested, but when I cough with a view to attracting his attention, he raises a hand. When the news program has exhausted its real-time coverage, he lifts his telephone and-to my amazement-tells Lieutenant Manhatsirikit to get him on the next flight to Jakarta. While he is on the way to the airport, she is to make arrangements for him to meet someone senior in the Indonesian police, with a view to “mutually beneficial information sharing.” I am staring open-mouthed while he rummages around. In all my time in District 8, my Colonel has never once left Thailand ’s sacred soil. Now Ma

In the back of his Bentley, with “The Ride of the Valkyries” screaming from the sound system, his driver with his usual supercilious expression plastered all over his mug, my Colonel places a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to forget last night. It never happened. You’re going to concentrate on the Mitch Turner case.”

“At least tell me what your Plan C is.”

“You might not want to know. Anyway, it’s classified.”

I can hardly believe my generosity of soul. I’m actually pleased he’s still fighting Zi

He spares me a contemptuous glance. “You think that’s all it is? A primitive vendetta between two old men?” Leaning toward me to prod me in the gut: “What I do to keep the brakes on Zi

He still hasn’t finished. In fact, he is digging me in the ribs. “Who knows, under democracy the country might flourish until it’s worthy of a refined fellow like you. But if that happens, it will be because badasses like me kept the army snout out of the feeding trough, not because some monk manqué rescued a few dumb dogs off the street.”

I shake my head in wonderment. He always has an answer. His dexterous use of the word manqué is particularly irritating; in Thai the word has exactly the same quality of supercilious pretension and is just the sort of thing I come out with when I want to irritate him. Who told him he could say manqué and get away with it?

I brood for a long moment. His driver stops at the begi

“Fuckee, fuckee,” says Vikorn with a dumb grin.

The street is crammed, not only with horny white men but with greedy white women too, for some of the best designer rip-offs in Asia are on sale at the stalls that fill the center of the street. Tear aside the veil of conventional morality-see with a meditator’s eyes-and the looks on the faces of the women are not so different from the men’s:

“Only two hundred baht for Tommy Bahama jeans-that’s just over three quid.” Eyes bulging: “You can’t get a gin and tonic for that in Stoke Newington.”

“See this fake Rolex? Look, the second hand goes around all smooth without jerking, just like the real thing. It’s only ten pounds.”

Examining it with wonder: “We could buy a few and sell them-even at a hundred quid it’s cheap.”

“Would we tell everybody they’re fakes?”

Thinking about it: “Have to, really, they’re all going to know we’ve been over here.”

“But they don’t know what they cost in Pat Pong, do they? I mean, we could be buying at ninety and only making a ten percent markup?”

Nodding thoughtfully: “For all they know.”

The Princess Club is in a side soi that is jam-packed with people. We have to squeeze past big Caucasian bodies, then into the bar, which is also packed. The mamasan recognizes Vikorn instantly, and a quite different expression appears on her face, in contrast to the tough/dumb look she wears for the customers. The Colonel is not merely immensely rich and the owner of the club, he is also her liege lord, the man who provides her, her aging mother, and her teenage son with food, lodging, and dignity. The relationship is complex and goes beyond money. (Even after her retirement he will keep her in food and pride-the bondage works both ways.) She wais him and makes a little curtsy; he nods at her and smiles; face has been exchanged across the sea of pink drunken mugs, most of whom are watching the girls on stage.

Whether the girls are allowed to dance topless (or naked) in a particular club depends entirely on the whim of whichever police colonel is ru

The mamasan points upstairs, and we manage to squeeze past the wild hordes to the far end of the bar, then up two flights to a reception room, where they have prepared Vikorn’s supper. We sit cross-legged on the floor, as we were both brought up to do, at a low benchlike table that is already laden with yam met ma-muang himaphaan (yam with cashews), naam phrik num (a northern dish consisting of a chile and eggplant dip), miang kham (ginger, shallot, peanuts, coconut flakes, lime, and dried shrimp), Mekong whiskey with chut (ice, halved limes, and mixers), and some phat phet (spicy stir-fry).

No sooner are we seated than two of the dancing girls appear, wearing T-shirts and bras now, to ask what we want to drink in addition to the Mekong. Vikorn orders a couple of beers, to be followed by a cold white wine from New Zealand. (This is all my fault. I started him on wine a few years ago, and now he ca