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.