Free Bullet Beach by Ronald Tierney

to the bar where he would, as he understood already, be regarded as a typical sweaty westerner, a farang.
    Shanahan sat at the bar, put the newspaper upon its smooth, worn wooden surface. He ordered the elephant brew, put enough baht on the bar to cover the beer, and relished the first, long drink of it, brought to him from an indifferent bartender. The bar had no particular sense of place. It was culturally neutral. He glanced around. No one had followed him in. He slipped the envelope from the folds of the newspaper and put it in his front pocket. He took another sip of beer and looked for the men’s room. He spotted the little hallway, the only hallway and deduced that the bathrooms had to be in that direction.
    The men’s room was small and very clean. It was also well-lit. Light not only came from the fluorescent bulb above him, but through the window, which was open about half an inch. Shanahan locked the door and opened the envelope.
    Come alone to the Kitty Club on Soi Cowboy tonight at eleven. Walk straight through the bar to the back wall. Enter through the red, swinging door. Ask for Moran.
    That was it. No signature. No threats, but no explanation.
    Shanahan put the letter back in his pocket and examined the window. The window was on a chain and could be opened halfway. He did and looked out. It was a short drop into what seemed to be a stairwell. No exit. He debated. There was a stairway that went up the side of another building. He decided to do it. He pulled himself through the window. For a moment his body was a seesaw, half in the bar, half out. He inched his way forward, putting his hands down to break the inevitable, but hopefully short fall.
    He shook his head. He wasn’t twenty years old, or thirty, or forty. He was seventy and breaking a hip was a distinct likelihood. Nonetheless, he managed the maneuver without much trouble. He went to the ladder – a fire escape of sorts – and climbed up past a second story to the rooftop. He moved over the roof to the front of the building and looked down.
    Shanahan wasn’t sure if it was the same or a different young man in the baseball cap. The kid stood across the street, smoking. He had donned sunglasses. Channarong was a block away, standing near a food vendor, nibbling on something on a stick. OK, he knew who he had to lose.
    Shanahan looked to the left. Another building, but three stories. To the right there was another rooftop adjacent to the roof where he stood. He had only to climb over a three-foot wall. He went across easily and then to another where there were clothes hanging on a line. The colorful shirts and undergarments were leaden in the unmoving, heavy air. Behind the clothing was a small structure with a door. The door led to a stairway and the stairway to a landing and another stairway, which led to a lobby of sorts, and to the street. He waited until it was clear, waiting until his tail looked the other way. Instead the young man simply lowered his head. Tired, bored. Shanahan, who believed the young man was resting his eyes as well, took the moment to scurry the few feet to the corner and disappear around it.
    Out of sight he stopped for a moment to take stock of his bones and organs. He was exhausted, sweaty, but all the vital parts seemed to be where they were supposed to be and functioning. He had no idea where he was, but he knew where he was going. Shanahan walked the small street until he found a busier one. He waved for a cab. He could count on the driver knowing the way back.

EIGHT
    Cross told himself that if he could be calm and collected, cool might follow. This he said only in his mind as he cracked three eggs into a bowl. The oil was heating in a small skillet. He continued the internal monologue. ‘You remember the good, old days when you were paid to get other people out of trouble.’ He chopped up some onion and two slices of bologna.
    The intended omelet turned out to be scrambled