Paying Back Jack by Christopher G. Moore Page A

the front desk. The delivery boy looked at the cops, who both nodded and told him to go downstairs for the cash. They’d fallen into a kind of routine by the time the Italian food arrived ten minutes later, and Noriega told the delivery boy to give the bill to the concierge. There was no room left on the table, so Calvino put the Italian food on the bed. Dumplings, pasta, steaks—the room smelled like an all-you-can-eat buffet in a redneck town somewhere in Missouri. Mao relaxed after finishing the second vodka and managed a smile.
    â€œAny more food?” asked Mao.
    Calvino shook his head. “Let’s eat this first. I can always order more.”
    Noriega grinned, picking up the phone. He ordered plates and real silverware. The concierge sent a lackey with a trolley loaded with plates, silverware, pepper and salt, pepper sauce, and raw red chili, twisted and ugly, in a porcelain bowl. Neither he nor his partner was feeling punished anymore by guarding the farang detail. It was something every man at the bottom of the ladder could appreciate: a party with good Western food and drink, and an invitation to eat as much as you wanted and to drink until the empty bottles rattled against one another on the floor.
    The Thais had a food-sharing culture; communal dining automatically overcame the circumstances of how the diners had been thrown together. Calvino poured the third round of vodka. Noriega asked about the United States. Calvino explained he was from New York and that it was a small island off the coast of the United States, no matter what anyone else said. It was no more America than Bangkok was Thailand. That explanation was accepted with knowing grunts by Noriega. Neither Noriega nor Mao was from Bangkok, and they bore the usual upcountry grudge against the big city.
    â€œIn Los Angeles, you are what you drive. In Washington, D.C., you are your job. And in New York you are how much money you’ve got.” Calvino watched the cops chewing large slabs of steak, thinking about his description.
    The cops thought about this for a couple of minutes, digging into the pasta. “In Bangkok maybe we have all three American cities in one,” said Mao, the one who was fast on his feet.
    Cars, money, status, and women were warehoused in places like New York and Bangkok. If you value those things, it makes sense to live there, thought Calvino. He scored the case of expensive whiskey because he was a farang who had understood the nature of the Thai way of paying obligations. Mao got the point immediately. But Noriega’s brain sputtered and spat, trying to get out of neutral and into high gear.
    â€œI want to go to America,” said Noriega.
    â€œWhy do you want to go?” asked Calvino.
    â€œSo I can be rich.”
    â€œAny idea who was in the suite above me?” He pointed up at the ceiling.
    â€œThe dead girl,” said Noriega.
    â€œThen you know she didn’t go off my balcony. She was pushed off her own balcony.”
    Mao frowned. “How do you know she was pushed? Unless she came to your room and you pushed her.”
    â€œWhy would I want to do that?” asked Calvino.
    Noriega pointed his finger at Calvino. “You lose temper. Hot heart. You have a fight, she tries to hit you, you push her, and she falls. Not your fault. You don’t worry if you tell me this is what happened. Everyone will understand.”
    So much for the food and liquor. Neither Noriega nor Mao had let his dining and drinking pleasure interfere with what he’d already decided. Calvino lay back on the bed, an arm resting over his eyes. It was going to be a very long night.
    â€œHow are you so sure?” Calvino asked.
    â€œShe checked in yesterday and paid for your upgrade to this suite,” said Noriega.
    He rose out of bed. “She paid for what?”
    â€œAn upgrade.”
    â€œYou double-check with General Yosaporn. He paid for the room.”
    Noriega nodded and smiled