Paying Back Jack by Christopher G. Moore

borscht. He then called the Italian restaurant and ordered veal and three plates of pasta. Mao and Noriega watched and listened. Each time he phoned another restaurant, they nodded with a flicker of a smile. Calvino wasn’t certain what that meant, but he decided it was a signal to keep on ordering.
    Mao walked over to the table and pulled out a bottle of the whiskey. “How much does it cost?” he asked in Thai.
    â€œSix thousand baht,” said Calvino, knowing this was about equal to a month’s salary on the police force.
    â€œWhat are you doing with eleven bottles? One’s missing. You already drink it today?” asked Noriega. He was running a calculation in his head on the total value of the case. Eleven bottles was close to a year’s pay.
    â€œThey’re sold. I was delivering them tonight.”
    Noriega thought about the possibilities. “You don’t want to open one?”
    Calvino looked at the bottle of Johnnie Walker on the balcony table. Noriega got the message without exchanging a word. He went out on the balcony and grabbed the bottle. When he came back in with it, he was smiling.
    While they waited for the food, Calvino called room service for glasses, ice, and soda, and a few minutes later he tipped the room service attendant a hundred baht. He poured three glasses of Johnnie Walker, handing Mao and Noriega each a glass.
    â€œ
Chai yo
,” said Calvino, the Thai salute, raising his glass. “I didn’t kill the woman.” The salute translated as “victory” and the way he said it left open whose victory they were celebrating.
    The cops drank. They sat in a semicircle, the cops on chairs and Calvino perched on the end of the bed holding his glass. “Any ideawho was staying in the suites above this one, from the tenth to the fifteenth floors?”
    The cops shrugged and held out empty glasses, which Calvino refilled.
    The Russian food and vodka arrived first, and the hotel concierge accompanied the delivery boy. Calvino borrowed the concierge’s ballpoint pen, signed the bill, and handed it to the concierge. “Put this on my bill,” he said.
    The concierge looked at the bill, the two cops in the room, and then at the delivery boy. “Impossible,” he said.
    â€œI can’t go to the ATM. Ask these two fine gentlemen. And I have no cash.”
    The concierge, Noriega, and Mao exchanged a few words. The concierge sucked his teeth and shot Calvino a smug look of contempt. Calvino closed the door, leaving the concierge in the corridor. He carried the steaming dumplings to the table, opened the container, and the room filled with the smell of minced meat, spices, and mint.
    Calvino grinned as he unscrewed the cap on the bottle of vodka and poured out three glasses. He didn’t bother rinsing the glasses after the Johnnie Walker. He was amused by what they’d told the concierge: “The farang is a VIP and we’ve been ordered to make certain he doesn’t make any trouble. You don’t want to cause a problem, do you?”
    It all came back to the possibility of causing someone a problem. The aversion to problem causing was only exceeded by the desire to maintain face. Calvino raised his glass, touched the glasses of Mao and Noriega, and took a long swig. The cops stared at each other and then sipped the vodka with a strong hint of whiskey. Perhaps they believed the story they’d given to the concierge.
    Mao held the glass of vodka in his fist, watching Calvino. He was wondering whether this farang was a VIP or a murderer. Or was he perhaps part of the recent trend of VIP murderers?
    Noriega, the senior of the two officers, was half a step slower. He circled around the table, picked up the bottle of vodka, read the label, and then let his hand slip down to pick up the glass. Calvino refilled the glasses as the steaks arrived, and once again Calvino told thedelivery boy to get the money from the concierge at