Jack O'Connell - Wireless

The Tribal Drum Noodle House sits down on Watson Street, at the very border of Little Asia, one of the last outposts before the ways of the Orient dissolve into the glossy and sulky exhibitionism of the Canal Zone. As a matter of fact, the restaurant shares a common wall with a slick new hip-hop joint called Propa Gramma, run by a mulatto Casanova named Jerome LaCroix.

The Tribal Drum’s proximity to the Zone has altered it a bit, set it far apart from the dozens of other Asian eateries in Bangkok. More often than not, the majority of the clientele come from over the line, semihungry artistes and poseurs drifting from the red brick galleries and smoke-clogged cafes, slim books clutched in hands, looking for some decent wonton and maybe a communal plate of moo shu vegetables.

Because of this fact, the Drum’s owners, a holding company called Sozhou Limited Trust, tried a faddish motif that clicked and held. Some regulars believe the invisible company stumbled on an unknown designer crazed enough to bring back seventies kitsch. An opposing faction maintains that the joint’s owners are brand-new to the shore and their sense of American style, and maybe even language, was born while religiously studying seventies TV sitcoms day and night. A third, slightly cocky group holds that the decor has more to do with the fact that the holding company botched a warehouse job and somehow got saddled with a gross of pastel-colored Princess rotary telephones.

Whatever the case, having some Beijing ravioli at the Tribal Drum is like dining in a museum of the tacky and synthetic. There are Lava lamps on the tables and beanbag chairs in the lounge. The floors are covered with lime-colored, heavy shag carpeting. The bartenders dress in mint leisure suits and qiana shirts opened to the navel and equipped with long dagger collars. The waiters and waitresses wear zip-up velour jerseys and bell-bottom pants made from a shiny material that no one can put a name to. Lately, the manager has been pushing Thursdays as Polyester Night.

But it’s the Princess telephones that have evolved into the real draw. Each booth is wired with one, but they’re only workable inside the Drum. You can’t dial out, but you can call any other table in the place. The Canal Zone crowd went crazy for this gimmick and the restaurant suddenly became a retro singles club. In one of the Zone’s underground weeklies, an article came out detailing the benefits of this newfound playland: In this age of detachment, disease, and serial killers, mingling with horny strangers was a risk too great to take. We’ve entered a new epoch that demands what the author termed “The Death of the Date.” The article eschewed physical contact “up to and including the actual witnessing of the romantic-other’s face.” But this doesn’t have to mean the end of dating. Using the Tribal Drum’s new methodology, we can continue to link up safely and secretly and solely electronically.

And now the Noodle House is a nest of chronic bell-ringing and choruses of mumbled, fabricated names whispered into powder-blue receivers by boothfuls of depressed, skinny, pale-faced sculptors and playwrights and lonely method actors.

Hannah can’t believe this is where she’s eating dinner. But this is where Dr. Cheng told her to be and she didn’t push the issue. The doctor’s voice seems more withdrawn and haunted each time they speak and Hannah senses that giving him an argument could sever their ties for good, explode a unique relationship that’s taken a year to mold.

She’s sitting in a rear booth, working on her fourth cup of tea, trying not to listen to the dodges and equivocations that issue from the hip young mouths surrounding her. All these odd words and vague phrases seem to rise and mix in the air with a heavy cover of smoke from a wide selection of European cigarettes. When she feels her annoyance increasing to a danger point, she reminds herself that all this phone babble has got to be better than the idea of these people mating and procreating.

Hannah personally detests the telephone. She acknowledges the machine as an instrument of progress, a time-saver — in some instances, a lifesaver. But her own experience has been that the phone has brought more bad news than good by an enormous margin. And though she’s never told anyone this, on at least one occasion she’s held the barrel of her Magnum up to her ringing bedroom touch-tone.

She glances to her watch. Dr. Cheng is only ten minutes late, but that’s enough to signal a problem. The doctor is a fanatically punctual being. It’s a concept tied into his notions of respect and order and efficiency. She understands that he doesn’t want her coming to the Herbarium anymore, but if he was sick or another meeting ran late, he should have sent a messenger.

She swallows the last of her tea and slides from the booth as the phone rings. And she hesitates, knowing that right now, hearing a stupid word about love or sex could result in some quick and futile violence — some anonymous crotch scalded with boiling ginseng.

But she picks up the phone anyway and says a flat “Yeah?”

There’s the sound of someone trying to breathe through a semiclogged throat, then a distant, weak cough, and then the soft voice. Dr. Cheng says, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Hannah.”

She slides back into the booth, switches the phone to her opposite ear. “Is there a problem, Doc? Everything all right?”

Another attempt at a cough, then, “I apologize for my delay. I’m afraid I won’t be able to see you tonight.”

“Should I come by, Doc—”

“No, no,” he says, adamant, the voice suddenly stronger. “This won’t be necessary. I have some information for you. Something you might find useful.”

As he speaks, it again occurs to Hannah that, supposedly, these phones are all internally wired. You can’t dial out. They’re not hooked to the street poles. They’re not part of the normal city system.

“Doc, where are you?” Hannah blurts.

She hears a faint sigh that holds more resignation than annoyance and Hannah bucks, not exactly at being stood up, but more at the feeling that the doctor intends to make this a brief and one-sided conversation. Hannah is used to getting her questions answered.

Dr. Cheng says, “I had some of my people make some inquiries.”

“Inquiries,” Hannah repeats, in a voice that gives just a hint of impatience.

“We spoke with management at a selection of the major chemical distributors in the region.”

This time Hannah stays quiet and the doctor knows he’s got her full attention and cooperation.

“I felt that I might have certain avenues of persuasion not available to your people, Hannah.”

He says “your people” like the department was her goddamn family. Like Zarelli and Richmond were her crude brothers, Miskewitz some bored and tired stepfather.

“We uncovered some information,” the doctor continues, drawing out the last word, “that I felt I should share with you.”

Hannah tries to keep her voice bland and says, “I’d appreciate anything you’ve got,”

“A company called Hofmann Chemtech. Out Route 77 in Whitney. Second-generation business. A midsized firm that picked up far too much debt during the boom. They swallowed some smaller competitors. Modernized the plant. Again, we see a lack of vision. The loans are tottering. The shylocks at the door.”

She wants to say, Can the analysis and give me the goddamn name, Doc , but instead gives a mild, semi-interested, “It’s a brutal market these days.”

“I had once reviewed this particular firm for investment. Years ago. But even then, I didn’t like the numbers.”

Hannah simply says, “Ironic.”

“Yes,” the doctor says, and then there’s a long moment when neither speaks.