Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness (25 page)

Was the passenger door locked? She honestly couldn’t remember. When had she ever used the passenger door? That question brought her to an uneasy halt and the men on the sidewalk flowed around her.

She really had been living a solitary existence, hadn’t she? I mean, really. Not knowing when you’d last had a passenger in your car? That was truly the classic symptom of a sad, solitary life.

Thoughtfully, she began to walk again, but with more purpose. She would need to work on that, wouldn’t she? It just wouldn’t do to keep on like this. Somboon had died twelve years ago. And didn’t Thais reckon life in twelve-year increments? Perhaps that meant something.

But she would ponder that later. Now, she had to search for a murderer.

Ladarat walked on down the block as the buildings around her became smaller and darker. Back where she’d left the Beetle, at least there had been storefronts, a few of which were still open, with lights on inside. Now, though, only a hundred meters away, the narrow street was lined only with blank brick walls and tough-looking steel doors. There were names and signs above most of those doors, but at least half were in Chinese. The few that also offered English translations followed a predictable theme. “Pleasure Garden” and “Happy Palace” and the inscrutable “Lucky Go-Go,” whatever that meant. But she could imagine.

As she hesitated in front of one door, it swung open and caught the back of her right shoulder and spun her around. She turned, annoyed, to see a group of five or six Chinese men emerge. They flowed out through the door and meandered in a drunken serpentine back the way she’d come. Apparently they were cruising from bar to bar. The mamasan—an older woman with her hair pulled back severely in a bun—stood in the doorway watching them go. She was also Chinese, and looked at Ladarat appraisingly. Then she shook her head sadly and disappeared, closing the door firmly behind her.

Rubbing her sore shoulder thoughtfully, Ladarat looked up.

“Fun Time.” Its faded neon sign blinked in a regular, slow rhythm as if someone were trying to communicate with a particularly dim-witted tourist.

She kept walking and had almost reached the end of the block when she saw what she was looking for. It was an unassuming building that was in poor shape, even for this block. It had litter on the sidewalk in front of it, and the pavement looked as though it hadn’t been hosed down in weeks. There were no windows at all, but it looked as though there might have been once, but they’d been bricked up.

There was a diminutive sign over the door: “The House of Rooster Happiness.” The red letters were so smudged and dirty, she wouldn’t have noticed the name if she hadn’t been searching for the number she’d been given. There it was—just to the right of the door: 9283. This was it.

LOVE IS THE EXPRESSION OF SIMPLICITY IN EMOTION

T
horoughly unwelcoming, the House of Rooster Happiness offered only an imposing steel door placed dead center. Nor was there any indication of what might be inside. Could this really be the right place?

But she knew it was. Things were starting to make sense. A blind front, with no advertising at all, is exactly what she should have been looking for all along. If this was mostly a matchmaking agency, it wouldn’t need to rely on advertising and neon and touts, would it? It would not.

Still, she was a little surprised when she pulled on the door handle and it opened to reveal a low, dark room. The space seemed to stretch back ten meters or more to a bar at the far end that spanned the width of the building. There was a narrow wooden staircase to her left, and to her right there was a collection of small, low tables with velvet-upholstered armchairs that seemed well used and frayed. That was what she noticed first.

It took her another moment to realize that the large room was empty. There was a bartender sullenly mopping the counter, but no one else in sight. No mamasan, and no girls. Where was everyone?

She made her way quickly and purposefully across the empty room toward the bar. Was she being watched? Ladarat snuck a furtive look around her. It felt as though someone had eyes on her, but how was that possible? She and the bartender were alone.

She focused on him. Just concentrate. A small, thin, pinched man, little more than a teenager. Too young to be a bartender unless… this was a family business? Perhaps he was the mamasan’s son? Or grandson?

He was halfheartedly wiping the bar counter with a gray rag as Ladarat approached. She made a polite
wai
, which he returned perfunctorily and almost uncertainly. It was as if it was a custom he was unfamiliar with.

“Good evening, Khun,” she said as politely as she could. “I’m wondering if you could help me?”

The man shrugged. This, Ladarat thought, is not going well.

“I’m looking for Khun Wipaporn. Is she here?”

At the sound of the mamasan’s name, the man’s eyebrows rose a fraction of a centimeter and one new wrinkle line appeared above each eye. But that was the only sign he offered that he understood what she was saying. Or for that matter, that he was listening at all.

Without a word, he put the rag on a shelf behind the bar, which was good. Then he turned and disappeared through a heavy swinging wooden door behind him, which wasn’t. Oh dear.

Ladarat shrugged and took a seat at the bar. This was truly strange. But then again, if you go venturing into dens of iniquity looking for a murderer, you shouldn’t be surprised when things get a little strange. That has to be one of the first rules of being a detective.

She was sitting there, curiously content, and pondering that wisdom, when her attention skated over the mirror that was set into the wall above the liquor racks behind the bar. It was too high for even an elephant to see her reflection. So it seemed to be a silly place to put a mirror, unless…

Ladarat waved in the general direction of the mirror. She smiled. Then she waited.

That should work. But it wasn’t working. Ladarat thought very hard about that.

Should she follow the taciturn bartender through the door? That seemed like a generally poor strategy, though. Who knew what was behind that door? Best to stay here. She would await developments.

Another minute went by. Then another. It had been five minutes. And no developments. And no sign of anyone resembling a customer.

That was worth thinking about. What sort of place was this, which could survive without customers?

She was pondering that, and having second thoughts about what she should doing here. In truth, she had just about given up on this whole endeavor.
Maewfawbaahn
would be waiting for her.

And it was… only four o’clock. She could go home early for once. Khun Duanphen would be overjoyed.

Then the door swung open to reveal not the bartender but a heavyset Chinese woman with small eyes and a broad, friendly smile. She was wearing a dark gray business suit that looked to Ladarat’s untrained fashion eye as though it had been tailored to fit her improbably sturdy frame. She looked like a prosperous businesswoman. Which, given the empty room and total absence of customers, was more than a little puzzling.

She returned Ladarat’s
wai
with a perfect formality and respect. Her son—if that’s who he was—could learn some manners from his mother. Before Ladarat could speak, the mamasan greeted her warmly in thinly accented Thai, and offered her tea. No sooner had she nodded—tea would be most welcome—than a beautiful young Chinese woman emerged through the swinging door. She carried a tray that held an elaborate porcelain teapot with a deep blue scroll design and matching cups. The girl poured, setting the cups in front of them, then withdrew silently.

“So,” the woman began. “My colleague Khun Siriwan tells me you are looking for… a woman?”

Ladarat noticed that subtle hesitation. How much had her cousin told the mamasan? Hopefully enough so that Ladarat wouldn’t need to go through the story again. But how much? She temporized.

“Yes, Khun. This woman, Peaflower, is a bad woman. We think that she may have murdered a man. And maybe several.”

Wipaporn nodded slowly, as if she were processing new information. But if this were truly new information, wouldn’t she show more surprise? She certainly would. So she knew something. Probably Siriwan had told her.

But—and here a very interesting thought appeared in her head—maybe Wipaporn actually knew Peaflower. And maybe she had her own suspicions? That would be very, very helpful. Because if the mamasan was suspicious, she would be more willing to help, wouldn’t she? Or perhaps she’d try to cover up? In a split second, Ladarat decided to be blunt.

“You know this woman, don’t you, Khun?”

Wipaporn hesitated, but only briefly. She nodded. But she didn’t speak.

“And perhaps you’ve had suspicions of your own?”

“How did you know?”

And Ladarat knew that she had won. “Because, Khun,” she said simply. “You are a businesswoman. A successful businesswoman,” she added. “And as such, you know better than anyone how a single person can be a threat to a well-run business. The right person, doing wrong things…”

Ladarat didn’t need to make her point any clearer. She knew that Wipaporn had been watching Peaflower. She’d probably been thinking about what to do about her. And now… And now here Ladarat was, asking the same questions that Wipaporn should have been asking.

What would Ladarat do if she were in the mamasan’s place?

She would help. Of course. She would help to catch this woman. Get rid of her. And be helpful enough during the process that no difficult questions would be asked about her complicity, or what she knew when. Ladarat decided to gamble on that possibility.

“So as a businesswoman, you would want to help us catch this woman, wouldn’t you, Khun?”

Wipaporn nodded, smiling. It seemed as though they had an agreement. But what?

The two women sat facing each other in a silence that was curiously comfortable. Ladarat was thinking of a plan. Or rather, she was trying to think of a plan. But what was the mamasan thinking?

“So, Khun,” Ladarat began. “What should we do?” She paused. “It’s one thing to say that we should catch this woman, but another thing entirely to figure out how to do it.” She looked at Wipaporn, whose attention seemed to be focused on a point somewhere over Ladarat’s left shoulder. As she was turning to look, her eye caught a movement in the mirror behind the bar. The mirror was about three meters off the floor, so from her angle it revealed only the upper stratosphere of the room. But when she turned, she saw a man. A familiar man.

Wiriya offered a respectful
wai
to both women, first to the mamasan, which was only proper as she was older. Then he introduced himself politely.

For a second Ladarat wondered what he was doing here. Was he the sort of person who… frequented this sort of place? But no, of course he had followed her. Or—more likely, Siriwan had told him Ladarat would be here and he was keeping an eye on her. That was it, wasn’t it?

“Of course I know of you, Khun Wiriya,” Wipaporn said. “You were injured in the line of duty not long ago, weren’t you?”

Wiriya nodded modestly and shrugged. “It was just a day’s work.”

As he turned away from them to look around the room, Wipaporn raised an eyebrow at Ladarat in way that implied a question. But what? Then Wiriya turned back to the two women.

“Khun Siriwan said you would be here, and I was curious to learn how your detecting was progressing.”

Wiriya looked at Ladarat. Ladarat looked at Wipaporn. They both looked at Wiriya.

“It is… progressing,” Ladarat said finally. “We have decided that it would be best to try to catch this woman.”

“Ah, really? You astonish me. Such a bold plan.” He paused, looking from one to the other. “And how exactly will you catch her?” He smiled.

“We thought perhaps we would find a policeman to help us,” Wipaporn said, smiling. “Do you have any suggestions for where we could find one?”

“That depends,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could explain how this”—he waved at the room—“works?”

Wipaporn looked puzzled for a moment, then she gestured to an empty chair at the bar. Wiriya sat.

“Of course. Well, you see, this is not a bar most of the time. On weekends, yes, it is a regular bar. But on weeknights, no. If it were, we wouldn’t be doing very well.” She smiled. “But in fact, we are doing well. Very well. All legal,” she hastened to add. “Perfectly legal.”

They looked at her expectantly. Perhaps Wiriya knew something of this business? But Ladarat didn’t. And she found that she was very curious. How did it work? How could a smart woman like Wipaporn become rich by running an empty bar?

“We are,” the mamasan said dramatically, “primarily a matchmaking agency. For Chinese men and Thai girls.” Wiriya nodded, but Ladarat was perplexed. The mamasan must have seen the expression on Ladarat’s face because she paused to explain.

“After China’s one-child policy went into effect in 1979, the Chinese started having more boy children.” Ladarat didn’t have to ask why that was, or how that happened. She’d heard the rumors. But thankfully nothing like that happened in Thailand. Women didn’t have the same status as men, but daughters were as highly valued as sons. It was the daughters of Thailand who took care of you when you were old. And less favorably, it was the daughters who went to work as prostitutes in Bangkok, sending money home. If anything, she guessed, if Thais could select the children they had, they would choose to have girls.