be sweating at all. How did the Thais do that?
We passed Indian tailor shops, gold and gem emporiums,
restaurants, flower stalls, bars and massage parlors. A number
of the masseuses who were camped on stools outside their
storefronts gabbing with one another or watering their plants
grinned at Pugh and me and chimed, “Hallo, massaagge? ” The curbside food stall aromas of chicken sizzling on grills with lime juice and herbs would have been pleasing under better
circumstances, but now the smells were just cloying. How could
Thai normal life dare to go on so cheerfully, so deliciously,
when elements of Thai society that were completely rotten were
threatening to kill two gentle and decent souls?
We entered a lower-rent district of three- and four-story
concrete apartment buildings with drying laundry hanging over
the balcony railings next to the flowering plants. Pugh stopped
142 Richard Stevenson
at a van parked on the street and the waiting driver opened the
window. Seeing me, the driver told Pugh in English that one of
Kawee’s roommates said the moto man who delivers money to
Kawee had not yet turned up, and if he arrived and Pugh’s crew
somehow missed him the roommate would notify the van on
his cell phone. The roommate, an older katoey named Nongnat,
had said she was worried about Kawee. Sometimes Kawee
stayed out overnight with a new boyfriend, Nongnat had said,
but not without phoning first. Pugh’s people did not tell
Nongnat that Kawee was being held hostage, thus avoiding any
off chance that certain elements of the police might learn of the abduction and decide to meddle unhelpfully.
Pugh led me down the soi to where it ended at a chain-link
fence along an expressway. Propped up next to the last
apartment building on the block was a tin-roofed bamboo
shanty that had a big open-front window and a counter. The
place apparently served as a neighborhood convenience store.
You could get Colgate, condoms, a variety of beverages —
including one made of bird saliva, according to the colorful sign next to it — as well as under-the-counter whiskey that Pugh
said was distilled nearby in somebody’s flat.
Another of Pugh’s fleet of vans was parked nearby, and he
checked in with the driver. The moto money man had not
turned up at this location either, and the whiskey seller had been put on a retainer to make sure he pointed out the man if and
when he appeared.
We were headed back toward Kawee’s apartment when
Pugh’s cell phone rang, and after a brief exchange in Thai he
indicated that we should pick up the pace and trot.
“The moto man has arrived at Kawee’s room with Kawee’s
money from Mr. Gary.”
“Oh, terrific. Does he know where Griswold is?”
“Not exactly.”
“Thailand seems to be the land of not exactly.”
“Exactly.”
THE 38 MILLION DOLLAR SMILE 143
“So if Griswold is sending Kawee’s weekly payment,
apparently he knows nothing of the kidnapping.”
“Yes, unless he is simply — what’s the term? — keeping up
appearances.”
“We can ask him about that.”
Now even Pugh was sweating a bit. The moto man was
standing next to his bike in front of the entrance to Kawee’s
building. He had on a dark jacket, impractical in the heat, it
seemed, but apparently a fixture of every Bangkok motorcycle-
taxi driver’s getup. He had the serene look of a man who lived
in chaos but had mastered the ability to float though it. The
katoey Nongnat had come downstairs and was also calm but
worried looking. She had the sloe-eyed, elegantly honed good
looks of a honey-colored Vogue model who happened to have a prominent Adam’s apple.
Pugh spoke with both of them in Thai and then told me that
the moto man, Pichet Suthat, had indeed seen Gary Griswold
just an hour earlier. Griswold had phoned him to arrange for
the weekly pickup of an envelope — Pichet apparently did not
know that it contained cash — and he had met Griswold at the
corner of Sukhumvit Road and Ekamai Soi 63 near the Ekamai
bus station. It seemed possible that this transaction had been
taking place even as Pugh and I paused overhead at the Ekamai
SkyTrain stop.
Pichet said he did not know exactly where Griswold lived,
but he thought he had seen him a few times coming out of an
apartment block just a short way up Soi 63 from Sukhumvit
Road. We hired Pichet on the spot to take Pugh there, and we
flagged down another moto taxi for me to ride. Nongnat asked
in English where Kawee was and why we were looking for him.
Pugh told her that Kawee was in some trouble and might need
help, and we were friends of Gary Griswold prepared to do
what we could. Pugh asked Nongnat if she knew where
Griswold lived. She said no, and now she was even more
worried about Kawee, she told us, and insisted on climbing on
the second bike behind me.
144 Richard Stevenson
Nongnat had on pink shorts — avoiding the need for
womanly sidesaddle on the motorcycle — and pressed herself
up against me as we took off. Her floral aroma as she nuzzled
the nape of my neck was distinctly feminine, though as the
motorcycle bounced and swayed and stopped short a couple of
times it soon became apparent lower down that Nongnat was
biologically still male. Once when I shifted in my seat a bit — I was also concerned that I might alarm or embarrass the moto
driver I myself was wedged up against — Nongnat gave me a
playful poke at the base of my spine and chuckled sweetly.
Pugh had arranged for his two surveillance vans in the
neighborhood to follow us to Griswold’s supposed residential
block, even as his team at the On Nut Internet café maintained
its vigil, and a separate flying squad was assembling under Ek’s direction for an assault on abandoned tall buildings across
Bangkok.
Traffic along Sukhumvit Road was heavy under the elevated
SkyTrain line, and we bobbed and weaved among the cars and
tuk-tuks, pausing only briefly for traffic signals and once
detouring around a jam-up by jouncing over the curb and
pinballing among the pedestrians, narrowly missing several. I
thought of big Yai, who had run down a complaining Austrian
tourist on the sidewalk and then turned around and driven over
the prostrate and injured Viennese a second time. I wondered if
soon I would meet sociopathic Yai face-to-face.
Pichet led us to the apartment building he thought Griswold
might be living in. It was one of the posher ones in the
neighborhood, not far from a cineplex and a couple of big
international chain hotels. The lobby had a security door, but
Pugh bounded off Pichet’s bike and followed a man who
looked like Wayne Newton into the lobby and then held the
door open for the rest of us. The two vans pulled up out front,
and one of Pugh’s drivers joined Pugh, me and Nongnat as we
approached a uniformed security man who appeared around a
corner looking alert. Pugh spoke to the guard in rapid Thai and
I heard him mention Gary Griswold.
THE 38 MILLION DOLLAR SMILE 145
Pugh said to me, “No Griswold here, he says, but let’s try
this.” Pugh pulled a photo of Griswold out of his pocket and
showed it to the guard.
The guard’s face showed instant recognition, and he said,
“Ah, Mr. Gray.”
“Mr. Gray?” Pugh said.
“Mr. Gray Winsocki. Fifth floor. You want me call up to
him? But I think he not here.”
“Where is he?” I asked.