Cockroaches(64)

“I don’t know what it’s like where you come from, Harry, but we try to be practical. If we shut down Miss Duyen’s, another opium den would open somewhere else next week. Or those guys just do it in the street. The advantage with Miss Duyen’s is that we have control, the undercover guys can come and go as they please and the people who choose to scramble their brains with opium can do so in relatively respectable surroundings.”

There was a cough.

“Plus Miss Duyen probably pays well,” a voice mumbled from behind the Bangkok Post.

Liz pretended not to hear.

“Since he hasn’t turned up for work today and he’s not at home, I bet he’s lying on one of Miss Duyen’s bamboo mats. Why don’t you and Harry take a peek, Nho? Talk to Maisan; he’ll be able to give you a hand. Could be good for our tourist to see something.”





29


Friday, January 17


Maisan and Harry walked into a narrow street where a redhot breeze blew the litter alongside the fragile house walls. Nho stayed in the car because Maisan thought he stank of cop from miles off. Besides, he was worried they might be suspicious at Miss Duyen’s if three people turned up at once.

“Smoking opium is not really a social thing,” Maisan explained in an approximation of an American accent. Harry wondered if the accent and the Doors T-shirt weren’t a bit over the top for an undercover narc cop. Maisan stopped in front of an open wrought-iron gate doubling as a door, stamped his cigarette butt into the tarmac with his right boot heel and entered.

Coming in from the bright sunlight, Harry couldn’t see anything at first, but he could hear low, muttering voices and followed two backs disappearing into a room.

“Shit!” Harry hit his head on the door frame and turned when he heard familiar laughter. In the darkness by the wall he thought he could discern a huge shape, but he could have been mistaken. Woo was probably keeping a low profile today. He hurried along so as not to lose the two in front. They disappeared down a staircase and Harry jogged after them. Banknotes were changing hands and the door opened enough for them to squeeze in.

Inside it stank of earth, piss, smoke and sweet opium.

Harry’s only idea of an opium den came from a Sergio Leone film, in which Robert De Niro was tended to by women wearing silk sarongs, all lying on soft beds with big cushions; everything was lit by a forgiving, yellow light which gave the whole scene a sacred feel. At least that was how he remembered it. Apart from the muted light, there was little that was reminiscent of Hollywood. The dust floating in the air made it hard to breathe, and with the exception of a few bunk beds lining the walls everyone was lying on rugs and bamboo mats on the hard earthen floor.

The darkness and the clammy air which resounded with muffled coughs and throaty rasps led Harry to assume there were only a handful of people inside, but gradually, as his eyes became accustomed to the light, he could see it was a large, open room and there must have been a hundred people, almost all men. Apart from the coughing, it was eerily quiet. Most appeared to be asleep, others barely moved. He saw an old man holding a pipe with both hands while inhaling so hard the creased skin around his cheekbones tightened.

This insanity was organized; they lay in rows, which were divided into squares so that there was room to walk in between, much like in cemeteries. Harry followed Maisan up and down the rows, looking at faces and trying to hold his breath.

“Can you see your guy?” he asked.

Harry shook his head. “It’s too bloody dark.”

Maisan grinned. “They tried putting up neon lights for a while, to stop all the stealing. But people stopped coming.”

Maisan ventured further into the darkness of the room. Soon he reappeared from the gloom and pointed to the exit. “I’ve been told the black kid occasionally goes to Yupa House, down the street. Some people take their opium away and smoke it there. The owner leaves them in peace.”

Now that Harry’s pupils had widened to see in the dark, once again they were subjected to the big dentist’s lamp faithfully hanging in the sky outside. He grabbed his sunglasses and put them on.

“Harry, I know a place where I can get you cheap—”

“No thanks. These are fine.”

They collected Nho. Yupa House would demand a Thai police ID for them to be able to see a guest book, and Maisan didn’t want to be identified in this neighborhood.

“Thanks,” Harry said.

“Take care,” Maisan said, merging into the shadows.


The receptionist at Yupa House looked like a thin version of a distorted reflection in a fairground mirror. An oblong face sat on a condor neck above narrow, plunging shoulders. He had thinning hair and a stringy beard. He was formal, courteous and, as he was wearing a black suit, reminded Harry of a funeral director.