Just Another Day in Bangkok

The driver pulled to the curb so that the sole passenger could exit. Ray Crews handed the man cash for the fare, then opened the door of the vintage VW and stepped onto the street. Water gushed along the curb spilling over his shoes. He strained to hear the cab driver muttering something that sounded like "cheap bastard," followed by an obscene laugh. He shrugged, then looked at the sign above his head. A large yellow neon read; "American Chick Bar." Crew's shook his head from side to side and thought, "Just another day in Bangkok."

He hurried inside to escape the heavy downpour. Just inside, Crews brushed the rain from his forehead, and clothing. He scanned the room for a table. A strong sweet smell of cheap perfume slightly dulled the stench of of stale beer and dirty anatomy. Crews wasn't offended. He was indifferent, his mind elsewhere. He sat at a small two-top next to the bar, catching the bartenders eye with a slight raise of his hand. He lit a cigarette and settled in.

A few minutes later a beer arrived. He sipped and smoked, and waited. Almost an hour passed. A small framed, well-suited man walked toward his table. He was of Thai descent and looked much older than his photograph. Crews waved him over and greeted the distinguished looking Oriental. He stood, then bowed. The Thai native named Chu reciprocated. The two shook hands and yielded to wooden chairs.

Four beers and countless cigarettes into the conversation, Chu pulled a small, black book from his suit pocket. He palmed it, momentarily contemplating his counterpart. A veil of distrust hung in the air. Finally, Chu's bottom lip began to curl, forming a cynical smile. Chu slid the book across the table. Crew's coolly grasped it, stuffing it into his hip pocket. Casually, Crews steered a leather briefcase across the floor into Chu's hands. Chu's smile widened revealing two Gold incisors front and center. There was no need to inspect the case. Both men knew that twenty-thousand dollars in U.S. currency resided in the shiny new case. Chu's chair protested as the legs scooted across the floor. He stood clasping the leather case.

He was almost to the door. His eyes were committed downward as he fumbled his umbrella. The door burst open. A hail of bullets perforated his flesh. It happened too quickly. His mind was a full beat behind. Oddly, he eyed his spoiled suit in disbelief. He made a slightly audible gurgling sound as blood spilled from his mouth. Chu dropped to the floor. He was dead.

Crews sat frozen, his hand concealed beneath the table, tightly wrapped around his Glock. His eyes scanned rapidly yet controlled. He calmed his mind, rationalizing that if they wanted him dead, he'd be lying next to Chu. It was a message. Not a fucking subtle thing about it.

Crews sat quietly, downing beers, and Sangsom as he watched a pair of workers cleaning a pool of blood along with Chu's other fluids. The men labored efficiently leaving no discernable evidence of foul play. The workers scrubbed, and smoked as they joked among themselves. A stray dog wandered into the bar, then stopped in his tracks. The breed was undiscernible, large, long-haired and with a healed, but mangled snout. The disfigured beast walked directly over to Chu, as if he knew him, sniffed the body a couple of times, did an about face, then hiked his leg. A stream of urine doused the corpse. A moment later, the unwanted mongrel almost smiled, then turned and trotted out the open front door.

On a different continent, a spiral staircase led to a small, but well-equipped laboratory. Six vials of blood spun methodically in an aged centrifuge competing with Mozart's Piano Concerto #23 for frequency sovereignty.

Roscoe Tanner hovered over the spinning samples sipping coffee that had become room temperature more than two hours earlier. An ill-fitting lab coat appeared to swallow his gangly frame. His appearance could only be described as ordinary-imitation leather shoes, a few hairs still sprouting on the top, number three clipper cut for the sides and back. And a nasty little habit of blowing his nose into his hand, while completely incognizant of the routine. It was one of those little oddities in life that are rife with irony-a man with an IQ of 165 yet finding an appendage suitable to serve as a hankie.

At that moment on a wall directly above a well-used coffee pot, the lab phone began to bellow disrupting Mozart's concerto.

"Ring...Ring"

"Ring...Ring"

Roscoe Tanner stiffened. The tranquility that he'd felt in the previous moment was replaced by a wave of acute anxiety.

"Yes?"

Tanner tapped his Naugahyde shoes against one another. Heel-to-toe, toe-to-heel.

"Yes, I understand." "Slow down, let me get a pen."

Just as Tanner bore a thin finger into the confines of his lab-coat pocked, he quickly retrieved it. He swiftly walked to the door checking the lock. The deadbolt clicked with each back-and-forth turn until Tanner was satisfied the door was secure. A single bead of sweat dripped from his brow onto the sterile linoleum. He again reached into the coat pocket, fumbling a mechanical pencil. He dropped the phone receiver onto the floor, inaudibly cursing. His hand shook as he placed the receiver against his ear.

Tanner shook his head up and down as he scribbled on a pad.

"Yes" "Please slow down."

A long moment of silence.

"I've got it."

A dial tone indicated the conversation was over.

For two and a half years Ray Crews had been employed as a purveyor of information. He'd combed the globe for classified technology. Most of the time, it had been "all for naught." He'd operated in a world that few knew existed. When he'd begun, he'd thought that an epic dichotomy existed. He'd been molded to believe it. it was as ancient as good versus evil. But , over the years, he'd realized that the players were just two sides of the same coin. Greed on one side, power on the other.

Crews sat in the same bar he'd been in a few nights earlier. He was no more than twenty feet from where workers had joked as they'd mopped Chu's fluids. He was drinking heavy trying to dull the number of thoughts that raced through his cerebral cortex. It wasn't working. He thought of mountains and rivers, solitude. He decided that he was done. Maybe he'd move to Montana. Plenty of space there. He began to relax. He settled in and ordered another round. Crews lit a cigarette. He adjusted slightly in his chair, enabling him to place his lighter back into his front pocket. At that moment, a woman whisked by, placing a note on the table. It had been folded many times over and become the size of a matchbook.

Crews sat staring at the paper. Finally, he began to unfold it. His eyes scanned the contents. He retrieved his lighter, igniting the corner of the paper, then dropping it into the ashtray that sat atop his table. Crews finished his drink, then walked out of the bar and hailed a cab. It was a million-to-one odds, but Crews recognized the cabby as the same driver that had dropped him off a few days before.

Where to?

Airport!

The driver sped towards the airport, weaving in and out of traffic. An obscene laugh could be heard faintly in the distance.