Paying Back Jack Read Free Page B

exchanged with the same reluctance as a woman pawning her mother’s gold necklace. But the reality is that they’ve figured out it’s usually better to smile and say nothing of substance.
    As the police, the body snatchers, and the fire brigade appeared at the scene of the wreck, Calvino reached down and picked up a piece of chrome. Colonel had arrived and circled the crash as General stood in the shade. It had been decided, after consultation with Colonel Pratt, the ranking officer at the scene, to rule what had happened a tragic accident. Only a miracle had prevented a larger loss of life. And no one said a word about an attempted hit on the General.
    â€œThat’s it? What about the gun?” Calvino found himself asking awkward questions about evidence that didn’t fit Colonel Pratt’s report.
    Colonel Pratt smiled at his American friend, nodding. Sometimes a farang friend could be amusing at the strangest of times. “It’s been bagged and will go to the lab.”
    Such a statement might have on the surface suggested that the police investigation would focus on the ownership of the gun and the identities of the two men who’d been burnt beyond recognition.
    As the three of them walked to Calvino’s office, Calvino asked the Colonel about the carefulness of Thais when drawn into a conversation. The Colonel thought long and hard and then simply smiled at the General.
    Ratana, who hadn’t expected Calvino to be back so soon from his appointment with the General, was at the park across the street with her baby. Calvino led the General and the Colonel upstairs to his office. Once inside, the three men sat down. It was the first chance they’d had to talk openly, without others around.
    â€œI saw the guy riding pillion pull a gun. The rider on a second motorcycle coming from the opposite direction had pointed the laser beam at the General.”
    The old man with his short bristle of white hair raised his hand.
    â€œThere’s a Thai saying,
Pla moh taay praw pak,
” said the General, a veteran of the Department of Special Investigations.
    â€œThe fish is dead because of its own mouth,” said Calvino.
    â€œHe knows this one, General,” said Colonel Pratt.
    A few months ago Calvino hadn’t fully understood the proverb. On that occasion, the Colonel had sketched a sea bass for him with alarge mouth and bulging eyes. The mouth of the fish brushed against the surface of the water. Colonel Pratt, an artist at heart who had secretly studied art in New York, had taken pleasure in his drawing. It wasn’t an elegant rendition, but that hadn’t stopped Calvino from having it framed and hung on his office wall. But the line of bubbles that rose from the open mouth of the fish served now to illustrate the General’s point.
    The General looked at the drawing.
    â€œPratt drew that one,” said Calvino.
    Pratt had signed his name at the bottom and given the sketch to Calvino. It wasn’t a Picasso—more like Warhol: Marilyn Monroe as a fish.
    â€œAnd you framed it and put it on your wall,” said the General, as if not believing his eyes.
    Pratt’s drawing stared down from the wall, reminding Calvino that a man who was careless about what he said sooner or later got himself hooked, pulled out of the water, gutted, and cooked. That was a Thai way of referring to trouble. Two men had been gas-fried in the street, and pieces of a vendor’s cart and a small forest’s worth of dead bugs had been strewed about the wreckage, but the General didn’t want to talk about what had happened on the street. Colonel Pratt sat back in his chair, arms folded, asking no questions of the General or Calvino. The three men sat in silence.
    Calvino found himself studying the sketch. People had this fishlike nature. They couldn’t help but float to the surface and blow bubbles, even though it gave away their position to the fisherman on the