Read Online Paying Back Jack by Christopher G. Moore - Free Book Online Page B

belligerence toward a farang started to drop. An hour later, one of the officers informed Calvino that he was to remain in his room, and a couple of police guards would be posted outside the door. “I wanna go out for a walk on the beach. I need some fresh air, you know what I’m saying?”
    The senior officer shot him an angry look. “If I had my way you’d already be in jail.” He’d obviously heard that Calvino had turned down the request for 50,000 baht.
    â€œNo beach walk,” said Calvino, closing the door, resting his head against it, banging softly, once, twice, three times. Then he turned around and looked at the cops in his room. “Careful with that jacket,” he said, moving across the room. One of them was going through the pockets of his new jacket. The cop put it to his nose and made a face. “Smells of smoke.” He smelled it again. “And gas.”
    This wasn’t the time to explain how the sports jacket had taken on those smells. It wouldn’t help his situation. If anything, the fifty grand would suddenly rise to a hundred grand. Instead Calvino decided to go on the offensive.
    â€œWhat you’re doing isn’t kosher,” he said. They stared blankly at him. “It’s illegal. You can’t keep me under house arrest. You know what I’m saying? So if you would leave my room now, I’d like to drink whiskey and read my book.”
    The cops yawned and went back to their own conversation, passing Calvino’s jacket around for a sniff. One of the cops took out a hanky and blew his nose. He said he had an allergy to gas fumes. They’ll be laying other charges, Calvino thought. Interfering in a powerful way with the tiny follicles lining the policeman’s nose. He sneezed a couple of times, his face flushing red. He cursed and handed the jacket to another cop. The last place to make a stink was in Thailand; the Thais hated any smell that fell within their expansive definition of “bad,” and the constant tropical heat supplied a range of foul, decaying odors that often sent a Thai fainting or running. The last cop handed it to Calvino. He smelled his own jacket and thenput it on. “Smells okay to me. Maybe bad smells are a cultural thing,” he said. “Have I told you guys that I’d like you to leave so I can start my vacation? I can translate that into Thai if you want. But I think you’ve got the basic idea.”
    He understood that while he wasn’t free to leave his room, this was no small concession. Some creative, face-saving, promotion-preserving compromise was being made. It took about forty minutes before the senior cop came back into the room, smiling. That smile is a good thing, or it could be a good thing, Calvino thought. It means they got the deal together—or else they’re going to get the fifty grand off me or lock me up. It never came to that. The final deal bore the earmarks of Colonel Pratt’s influence; he would have phoned General Yosaporn as well as the commanding officer in Pattaya, an old friend from the academy—or the friend of a friend from the academy—and they would have worked out the compromise. The hotel owner would have called the commanding officer, and General Yosaporn would also have phoned his remaining friends in the police force.
    The phone on the desk of the commanding officer in Pattaya would have rung off the hook as he heard from three or four high-ranking officers, a politician, a military general, an admiral, and maybe influential figures in the province. If he had graphed the strands of influence, he would have seen a spider’s web with Calvino caught in the center. After the second or third call, the commanding officer would have got the message: Calvino wasn’t just another farang. The police had to be careful.
    Calvino figured the press would be all over the lobby and hotel grounds, interviewing people as they walked out