Harlan Wolff - Bangkok Rules

“What the fook are you doin’ here? I haven’t seen you in ages,” Mick shouted at Carl. His grip on Carl’s arm was too fierce for Carl’s liking. After snorting cocaine Mick had no idea of his strength.

“Just stopped off on my way home for a quick drink,” Carl told him as he used his right hand to weaken Mick’s grip on his left bicep.

“Dere’s people bin asking after you on Patpong. It’s not narcs is it?” Mick asked staring wildly. “They looked like feckin’ narcs.”

“Why would narcs be after me Mick?” Carl asked calmly.

“Because you’re a friend of mine, you eejit. They nailed me last month and I had to pay them three hundred thousand to let me go. You know what they’re like. They’ve probably already done the money and have come back for some more.”

“I’m sure they weren’t narcs Mick, so you can calm down and let go of me. I got caught screwing some rich banker’s wife and he has set the dogs on me. So they’re definitely not narcs Mick, and it’s me they’re after so you can let go of my fucking arm now.”

Mick looked around the bar and then, still standing half in and half out the door to the toilet, he said, “Orright then. Do you want a couple of lines?”

“No thanks Mick. I have all the paranoia I need at the moment thank you.”

“Please yourself,” he said and let the door go behind him as he walked happily back into the bar.

Carl caught the door and went in to use the toilet. When he finished at the urinal he went to the cracked sink and splashed cold water on his face. He stood up with water dripping off his face onto his shirt. He looked at his tired unshaven reflection in the mirror and said, “Either you are totally mad or every other fucker in Bangkok is.” Then he opened the door and walked back into the forever twilight of Candy’s bar.

Bart Barrows had come in while Carl had been in the toilet and was sitting on his own in the middle of the bar waiting for his beer to be delivered. He was studying the activities and availability of Candy’s girls like a hungry wolf. Carl moved up quietly and sat on the barstool beside him.

“Good evening Bart.”

Bart Barrows turned and saw Carl. “Back again so soon? Have you given up your high society friends and come back down to earth at last?”

“Not really Bart, I’m here because I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why would you be looking for me Carl? You spend most of your time avoiding me.”

“It’s about the people from your American office.”

“I don’t have an office, I’m retired, but you know that.” Bart was not talking like a buffoon for a change, which Carl found interesting.

“Yes you do. The huge one in Langley.”

“What kind of mushrooms have you been sprinkling on your fried rice?”

“I know you’re with the CIA Bart because a dead man told me. He knew all about you since Beirut. He was always smarter than me. I need your help for a change so the least you can do is listen,” Carl said firmly.

“Go on then.” Bart had stopped denying it at least, which was a better start than Carl had anticipated.

“I may be able to help you with some information. Anthony Inman is living in Bangkok under a Thai name and passport. He’s a criminal and a serial killer and I know where he is.”

“We know where he is Carl. His office is less than a mile from here,” Bart said unusually sympathetically.

“Why on earth wouldn’t you do something about it? He kills little girls and runs fucking guns to the Yakuza and god know what else.”

“We know about the guns but you are full of shit if you think he’s the serial killer, you would’ve been given that line of bullshit by Victor Boyle. He was always a liar. Surprised you bought it though. A little farfetched even for your infamous imagination,” Bart said gently.

“So if you know about the gun running how on earth is he still out walking the streets Bart?”

“Because as much as we despise Tony Inman, we’ve grown immeasurably fond of his associate General Amnuay and want him to be our best friend. He could be the next Chief of the Army, or don’t you read the papers?”

Carl thought for a while and then said, “Bart, confidentiality is my business and you know I can keep my mouth shut if I choose to. It comes with a price though.”

“It always does. And oh how painful is all payment.” Bart was paraphrasing Lord Byron and Carl was staring at him open mouthed. Bart and Byron was a combination that beggared belief.

“You are going to write your mobile number on a piece of paper for me and one day soon I will call you and you will answer no matter where you are or what you are doing. That is all I ask in exchange for never telling a living soul that you are CIA. Fuck me around and I’ll start putting deposits on advertising space. The mood I’m in at the moment I strongly recommend that you believe me.” Carl’s face had gone pale and his lips had become thinner.

Bart took a pen out of his shirt pocket and wrote his phone number on the back of a beer mat, which he handed to Carl. Bart looked at him in the eyes and said, “You are all right Carl, that is our opinion of you in the Bangkok office. Some of us have known you since you were a kid. But Carl, it’s time for you to leave Thailand. These guys are out of your league and you are going to get yourself killed if you stay here.”

“Doesn’t sound to me like the CIA gives a fuck about civilians getting murdered. You know something Bart? They fucking well should.”

“I just obey orders.”

“I heard that excuse somewhere else. Just one more thing before I go. How is it possible that Art doesn’t know Inman is here?” Carl asked as he folded the beer mat and put it in the back pocket of his jeans.

“Art would have done something stupid, killed him or at least told his friends at the FBI. Inman had some of Art’s friends in Saigon killed and so Art wouldn’t have played along with us. We had him working on the Cambodia desk for his last ten years and kept local operations from him. He was always drunk by eleven o’clock in the morning so it wasn’t hard. Carl, you have promised me you can keep a secret. I don’t want you letting me down on this.”

“Take my call and I promise never to tell a living soul. I’ll take it to my grave. And Bart, in spite of popular belief, I assure you that I plan to live to a ripe old age.”

“I hope you do Carl. I really hope you do. We’re all rooting for you.” Bart turned his back to Carl to collect his bottle of beer.

George came through the door with a crash and flew down the bar towards them. “They’re here Carl, quick, is there a back way out of here?” he yelled as he slid to a stop in the middle of the bar.

Carl turned and moved quickly to the door into the toilet area. “I know a way out,” he told George who was right behind him already.

They crashed through the door to the toilet and found Mick Flynn in front of the mirror wetting his handkerchief with cold water and holding it up to his nose again.

Carl stopped dead as George ran into him pressing him against the wall. Carl turned, his face pushed uncomfortably against the cold rough cement, and shouted to Mick, “Narcs Mick, two of them, right behind us. Block this door and dump the coke before they can get in.” Then he grabbed George’s arm and said, “This way!” He pointed at the staircase that was to the right of the toilet area. He ran up the stairs to the second floor with George close behind. As Carl turned the stairs he looked down and saw Mick’s large frame pushing against the door as hard as he could. Staring at Carl he was yelling, “Yoo loyed, you knew dey was narcs. Oy can’t believe you loyed to me.”

At the rear of the building’s second floor, in a room with women’s clothing strewn over the bare concrete floor, was a large window that looked down on the grounds of a busy Buddhist temple. Carl picked up the solitary wooden chair and threw it through the window. “Now George!” They both took a running leap through the window, and after flying three meters through the air with their arms and legs going in all directions they fell a few feet and landed with a crash that put a serious dent in the tin roof of a hut that was part of the temple annex.