Red Alert(NYPD Red #5)(47)

“Don’t ma’am me like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re low man on the totem pole, David, so I get why you were the one stuck picking us up at the airport at midnight. But it’s a bright new day; we’re meeting with some Thai honcho, and not only is there nobody here resembling a career diplomat, but now there’s no embassy car. And it’s not in the shop. What’s going on?”

Hinds got behind the wheel and started driving. He cleared his throat. “Gambling is illegal in Thailand.”

“Cut the bullshit and get to the point,” Kylie said, “or I’ll dump you on the side of the road and leave your roommate’s car in downtown Bangkok with the doors open and the motor running.”

“The embassy fucked up,” Hinds said. “They thought Juntasa was taking you to a sanctioned Muay Thai match in an arena, or even in the prison. But we just found out the fights are in the Khlong Toei district.”

“Bad neighborhood?” Kylie said, poking at him.

“The fights are in a shithole gym in a back alley in shantytown. It’s an illegal gambling operation run by the Thai Mafia, and the First Secretary doesn’t want anyone from the embassy near it—including our car.”

“But they don’t mind sending you.”

“I’m a peon driving his roommate’s Yaris. Besides, I know my way around there.”

“You’re a fan of the sport?” Kylie asked.

“You mean do I like being invited to Lumpinee Stadium and watching two nak muays bow, and scrape, and pray, and do ritualistic dances around the ring, while my host recounts the legend of Nai Khanom Tom, the father of Muay Thai? I did it once, and once was enough.

“But I’m an action junkie. Where I’m taking you today—that shit is raw, brutal, but they draw the best boxers in the world. The matches are all fixed. The judges are bribed. The fighters are doped up, and some of the wannabes will get in the ring with anyone. I watched a young kid get beat to a pulp by a seasoned pro with twenty pounds on him. And the crowd—they’re insane: drinking, screaming for blood, and betting on every punch, every foot thrust, every knee strike. Money is flying everywhere. One night I walked away winning twenty-seven thousand baht, which is like seven hundred and fifty dollars.”

“How’d you make out on all the other nights?” Kylie asked.

He laughed. “The only ones guaranteed to make money are the promoters, and I’ll give you one guess who runs the operation in Khlong Toei.”

“Pongrit Juntasa from the Department of Corruption,” I said.

“Oh, so close, but no cigar. Juntasa is the puppet master, but his sister Buppha runs the ring.”

“A woman?”

“More like a world-class hustler. She weighs about ninety pounds, and she’s the most dangerous person in the room. You still want to go?”

“More than ever,” Kylie said.

We drove through slums, past a slaughterhouse, and then through winding, fender-scraping streets dotted with tiny shops that were shuttered or hidden behind rolling corrugated metal doors.

“And here it is,” Hinds said after twenty minutes. “The no-name gym.”

Technically it had a name. There was a sign over the door, but with most of the letters shot out, No-Name Gym would have to do.

One of Juntasa’s men led the three of us into a smoke-filled cavern thick with the musky smell of sweat and testosterone. Nobody noticed us. There was a fight going on. The spectators, almost all men in work clothes, were in a frenzy, some screaming at the two fighters in the ring, some waving fists full of paper money at anyone who would take their bet.

There were about twenty tables at the front of the room, and men in white shirts weaved adeptly through the melee of fans, carrying trays of drinks to those privileged patrons who could afford seats and waiter service.

The bell clanged, signaling the end of a round, and our escort delivered us to our host, who was sitting at a primo ringside table.

I’ve met my share of corrupt government officials. They tend to be a smarmy lot, and Pongrit Juntasa lived up to type. Even as he extended a hand to welcome us, his body language cried out “Dangerous. Not to be trusted.”

“You are just in time,” he said. “The boy in the red trunks is Kob Sook Meesang, my protégé. He is fighting for his freedom.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” I said.

“He killed a man who raped his sister. A noble act, but foolish. He is in prison for forty years. But as a Muay Thai fighter, he can bring honor and glory to his country. In exchange, we will reduce his sentence.”

“By how much?” Kylie asked.

“Today I have promised him six months off for every fight he wins. So far he has won three.”

“And now he’s fighting his fourth match?”

Juntasa smiled. “He’s young, he’s smaller than his opponent, and he’s fatigued, so the crowd is betting against him, but they have no idea that he is fierce. He can rip the heart out of a lion.”

The bell rang, and Juntasa turned toward the ring.

Our young guide from the embassy leaned close to us and whispered, “The fix is in. We should get in on the action. The crowd is hungry for anybody who will put money on this kid.”

Kylie put her arm around him. “You pull a single baht out of your pocket,” she said, “and I will rip your heart out, personally deliver it to your ambassador, and tell him to stop hiring idiots.”