Bangkok Noir

The Archa beer was so cold it sent penguins in icy boots tap dancing over his brain. The mattress was still warm from the sweet smelling skin of Tip, the café singer—his love life, whenever he had money in his purse. And, today, with a five thousand baht advance from the cops, he was flush. A crate of beer. A takeaway papaya salad with sticky rice. An hour with Tip. This was, without question, living.

After today’s little performance, Samart had been put on probation as the psychic consultant for the Northern Police Division. The mind of some fool at the police ministry had obviously been turned by all the clairvoyant crime-solvers on cable and decided the Royal Thai Police Force should openly embrace the supernatural. Regional commanders were given a budget and a month to recruit a prophet. Now Samart was, for the unforeseeable future, officially their man in Chiang Mai.

It had all been achieved without a milligram of ability but with plenty of guile and sleight of hand. For twenty years it had been exactly as the Colonel had said. Loser Samart had scratched a living off people’s gullibility. He had all the potions, knew all the chants. But he could no more contact the beyond than he could thread a live baby python through his nostril and have it come out his mouth. (He’d seen it on TV and had attempted it himself during one drunken episode in his teens. He’d lost a tonsil in the process.) He’d faked every trick since. All the bestpaying customers—those who watched where their money went—weren’t taken in by his act. Only the poor, desperate for any grasp of hope, believed in him. He’d been destined to live from hand to mouth for the rest of his worthless life, but then two strokes of good fortune lashed at his lazy buttocks.

His renaissance had begun with a missing girl. Her parents thought she’d been kidnapped, but Samart recognized her from her photo in Thai Rath. In fact she’d run away from Bangkok with her Western lover and was holed up in a single room at 103 Condominium. Samart had been called in to perform an exorcism on a haunted lift, and he’d seen the girl on the roof exercising her Shih Tzu. Teacher Wong did all the map divining and personal object caressing. He made a good show of it, and the sergeant at the Huay Kaew substation was duly impressed when they found the runaway girl exactly where Samart had predicted.

Thence followed his first meeting with Captain Pairot. The officer had come to him as a last resort. Pairot’s unit had raided a Tai Dum heroin plant and netted fifty kilograms of pure white. But during the day the dope had vanished from the police strongroom. The central anti-narcotics commander was flying up that afternoon to appear in photographs and pick up the haul. Sadly for Pairot, there would be nothing to show him. Samart was a gambler. He was one of a large group of reprobates in a conglomerate that bet on cockfights and English Premiership football games. One member of this ring of addicts was called Nimit, a constable at the Chang Pueak station to which Pairot was attached. Nimit was in debt up to his greying temples and wrinkled brow. He had, on one or two occasions, after the odd bottle of rice whisky, intimated that one day—yes, one day soon—he might just help himself to some of the contraband that passed through his station.

Samart took a gamble, as gamblers do. Perhaps this was the occasion upon which Nimit had lost his mind. Samart sat in the empty strongroom, breathed in the essence of the missing heroin and supposedly plucked a map reference from thin air. (He’d looked it up earlier.) It happened to be the home of Nimit, and the investigating officers found the stash buried in a plastic ice chest beneath his chicken coop. Samart was two for two and a minor celebrity in the local police community. He’d been given rewards for both finds, and it was evident that there was serious money to be made from the police if he could just keep his run of luck going. That’s when Colonel Thongfa heard about him.

Samart decided it wouldn’t hurt to give fate a leg up. Fortunately, there were those who knew the affairs of the police before the police themselves heard of them. These were the rescue foundations, sometimes referred to as the body snatchers. Through an impressive network of volunteers, short-wave radios and mobile phones, their members were invariably first at the scene of an accident or disaster, natural or otherwise. They were considered to be charities and were funded by donations, although it wasn’t unknown for the keen young men of the rescue missions to dip into the odd purse or ease the victim’s breathing by removing a gold necklace. It wasn’t unheard of for one foundation to engage in public fist fights with another to be first at the scene.