The Godfather of Kathmandu Read Free Page B

excited, that’s always been your weakness, your nerves are way too close to the surface. That’s because your rising sign is a Wood Rabbit.”
    “I know, I know, and you’re a Metal Dragon.”
    “Exactly. And you work for me.” He raised a hand at my sudden anger. “It’s okay, I’m not ordering you to do anything except think about it—and discuss it with your womenfolk. If you don’t want to talk about it with your mother, at least discuss it with Chanya.”
    “My wife?” I was about to protest that no way would my devout Buddhist partner (we’ve started using that word over here, where—as we shall see—the definition of
wife
is somewhat loose) encourage me to play consigliere to a
jao paw
, a godfather; then I realized he must already have done some lobbying or he would never have mentioned my mother or Chanya.
    “Okay,” I said, because it was the only way to close the interview, “I’ll talk about it with Nong and Chanya.”
    I was pretty sure he’d somehow gotten my mother, Nong, on his side, probably using the weight of his money—he owns a majority of shares in her go-go bar on Soi Cowboy, the Old Man’s Club—but I was confident of my darling Chanya, a female
arhat
, or Buddhist saint, far more advanced than myself, an attainment all the more remarkable in that she spent years on the Game herself. No, Chanya was
my
conscience, not his. Furthermore, she had grown increasingly respectable in her attitudes since giving birth to Pichai, our now six-year-old son, to the extent that she had even started hinting at a legal marriage. So far, we had remained content with a Buddhist ceremony in her home village. I paid her mother fourteen thousand dollars in the form of a dowry, even though she was technically damaged goods within the village price structure: her mum knew I was a junior shareholder in my mother’s business and shrewdly concluded I was worth a lot more than my cop’s salary. (Chanya, by the way, had to wash my feet as part of the ceremony, a benchmark event which we reminded each other of from time to time—it’s a two-edged sword in any argument.)
    More terrified than depressed by Vikorn’s offer of promotion in his import-export franchise, I rushed home that day. Chanya was playing with Pichai in the yard of our little house—Pichai was the reincarnation of my former police partner and soul brother, whose name was also Pichai, who died in the cobra case years ago—and I had to carry on the conversation while Pichai crawled all over me and tried to pull my gun out from where I had shoved it under my belt in the small of my back.
    “D’you know what Vikorn is trying to get me to do?”
    The innocence of her expression was compromised by the time she took to assemble it. “No, what,
tilak?” Tilak
means “darling” (literally: “the one who is loved”). She was particularly skilled in its usage for strategic and tactical purposes.
    “He wants me to be his consigliere.”
    “His
what?”
    “It’s like chief negotiator to a
jao paw
—it’s a Sicilian invention. You saw
The Godfather
, with Marlon Brando and Al Pacino?”
    “No. Who are they?”
    “Actors. That’s what’s so ridiculous. We’re in the field of fiction here.”
    Chanya gave one of her beautiful smiles. “Oh, well, if it’s only fiction, why not indulge him?”
    I stared at her for a long moment. “He’s got at you, hasn’t he?”
    “Tilak
, don’t get paranoid. I haven’t spoken to Colonel Vikorn for over a year, not since that—ah—Songkran party.” Songkran is the old Thai New Year; everyone gets drunk. This one was about par for the course: three near rapes, nine traffic accidents, a couple of serious beatings—I’m talking here about cops and staff at the police station. Chanya loved it.
    “Through my mother—Nong spoke to you, didn’t she?”
    Chanya puckered her lips a tad.
“Tilak
, when you spoke to Colonel Vikorn about this, when he offered you this new position, did it even