The Treacherous Night Market
Chapter 25
Every town of any size in Thailand had one, a night market. There one could buy almost anything at a cut-rate price if you haggled well with the competing vendors selling their wares. Sure, many of the items for sale were counterfeit knockoffs made in China or Vietnam, but so what. Everybody wanted a deal. It was the equivalent of going to a Dollar Store in America, but without paying a sales tax. The back and forth dickering was an expected tradition, although now tourists somehow believed they could buy something for almost nothing. There was almost a carnival atmosphere about them, with vendors’ carts adorned with twinkling lights, loudspeakers or any other gimmick to draw in the many gawkers and fewer buyers.
A designated street would be closed to traffic and the vendors would set up their carts at sundown, invariably 6 pm. Some markets would operate every night throughout the year, others just a night or two each week. People would often have to walk cheek by jowl, occasionally jostling one another and apologizing, although not so much the tourists, but most certainly the Thais. These were sociable, festive venues, even if one was only window shopping.
Nong Khai had a large, bustling market that operated every night. Given its geographic location, consumer goods, especially cheap shoes and clothing, easily flowed into the city from other countries, mainly China, Cambodia and Vietnam. While the quality of the items was sometimes dubious, the price was always right.
I’d taken a short breather from the case to unwind and clear my mind. We’d done well so far, but there was much more to do. Albert Wu was now our man, our pawn in the game to lure Kris Amar into Thailand. He wouldn’t dare cross us. I’d reminded him he could be extradited to the U.S. to stand trial for aiding and abetting a terrorist; one who was funding the Taliban and Al Qaida mujahedeen fighters killing American soldiers. Albert strenuously denied knowing anything about Amar’s extracurricular activities. He was his drug partner and nothing more or so he claimed. We tended to believe him despite his childish whining.
I stopped at a display of ersatz Ralph Lauren polo shirts, selling for about five bucks a copy, emphasis on copy. At first glance, they looked like the real McCoy, but as I closely checked the garments, I saw two flaws. The first was the fact they had one less button at the top of the shirt and secondly, they were missing the trademark slits at the bottom sides. They simply weren’t very good reproductions.
Given my extensive wardrobe of finely tailored leisure suits, I had a keen eye for bogus haberdashery and haute couture. Yes, they were called leisure suits, damn it, not safari suits as some ignoramuses suggested. However, I always wondered why I’d never made the cover of GQ magazine. I thought my mauve one with the flared, pant cuffs and the jacket’s faux pearl, snap buttons looked especially spiffy with my highly polished, black wingtips. I liked the fact it had ample pockets where I could discreetly store my Bic lighter and pack of Marlboro Reds. However, for the record, I never had a frilly looking bowed tie around my neck—too much gaucheness for my sensible tastes.
I had no compunctions about buying good quality knockoffs, but balked at the notion of paying anything for a shoddy product. I had certain values to uphold as a genuine, made in the USA, government agent!
I turned a corner and then I saw it and its trademarked golden arches. I wondered how I’d missed it! Oh, I’d been dreaming about it and couldn’t wait to get inside and place my order for a double cheeseburger and fries. Fortunately, the outside menu indicated it was available. Thank God, I’d just died and gone to heaven. A life-size, iconic statue of Ronald greeted me at the door, but in this case he had his hands clasped together in a respectful wai. One really had to admire the Thais for their great sense of humor and traditional, culinary delights.
Ron Johnston watched closely as his prey entered the restaurant. He’d been patient and bided his time since there was no need to hurry. He’d wait for a good time and place and then go into action. And the action to kill Dick Avery would be swift and merciful, if he didn’t put up a fight. Otherwise, all bets were off, but the end result would be the same. Kris Amar would pay dearly for his foe’s death.
The palms of Ron’s hands and trigger finger were itching like crazy and he took the sensation as a good omen.