Free Paying Back Jack by Christopher G. Moore

of the elevators. The nude body of a young woman was guaranteed to keep viewers glued to the TV. In the morning, images of her crumpled body would be splashed on the front pages of the Thai newspapers. The Pattaya police would want to duck any political problems that might arise if they just let Calvino go. There was no denying that Calvino was a material witness, and with an election coming up, a couple of veteran politicians had been banging away on the problem of farangs. How farangs were committing crimes. The image of farangs—never lofty at the best of times—had plummeted with the recent arrest of a crop of foreignpedophiles, con men, drunks, crazies, and dopeheads. Politicians sensed a chance to strike, an irresistible opportunity to pander to the worst instincts of voters. The cops had no stomach for crossing politicians this close to an election. Farangs were on a kind of probation, watched with suspicion, as if they might be secretly planning to skip out with containers of yings, corporate profits, rice, and gold. Many Thais assumed most farangs who lived in Thailand were up to no good; otherwise, why would they be in Thailand and not back in farangland?
    Two witnesses on the ground—a motorcycle driver and a vendor on the beach—had said they’d seen Calvino at his railing as the woman had fallen from the building. That made him a suspect. After a few more questions the witnesses had convinced themselves that the farang on the balcony had had something to do with it. The cops told Calvino that there were witnesses who put him at the scene of the crime. Calvino told the cops once again that his room was below the scene of the crime. He’d looked over the balcony only after the woman had fallen from one of the rooms situated above his. They looked at him like they didn’t believe him. He assumed that as the night wore on, the descriptions of the witnesses would become more and more detailed, and other witnesses would step forward and corroborate what the first two Thais had said.
    It was a gathering storm. It’s a good time, thought Calvino, for the fish to close his mouth, dive deep, and wait on the bottom until Colonel Pratt shows up in the morning. He sat in his chair, looking out at the sky and sea, thinking maybe it would have been better after all if he hadn’t used the coffin to extract the rent money for General Yosaporn. The police stood in a semicircle around him. His back was to the balcony. If he wanted to do the right thing and join the woman below right then, he was being told, no one would stop him. A couple of the officers had spotted the case of whiskey and pulled out and examined the bottles.
    â€œThe whiskey is a gift from General Yosaporn,” said Calvino. He didn’t say anything more.
    The officer in charge told the two policemen to put the whiskey back.
    â€œ
Metta,
” said Calvino. It was Pali for compassion, and the General’s signature word for saying goodbye.
    The worst fears for a Thai were to end up on the wrong side of a power struggle or an argument, or to make a mistake. Whoever this farang was and however he got that whiskey from a Thai general, his position had been buttressed by numerous phone calls from people who rarely phoned the police, and it made the policemen tense and fearful. The immediate aftermath of the death had brought a half-dozen cops to his room, but the numbers had dwindled as the phone calls had come in. After the last call, the senior officer and the other police had huddled and whispered, glancing back at Calvino, who’d been moved from the balcony and made to sit on the edge of the king-sized bed.
    â€œYou will stay in this room at all times,” said the senior officer, making it sound like a police victory.
    â€œI can’t leave the hotel?”
    â€œDo not leave this room.”
    â€œ
Metta,
” said Calvino. The senior officer tried to decide whether the farang was mocking him. He