Free Paying Back Jack by Christopher G. Moore Page B

suspicion.
    Noriega’s partner, a few years younger, unsmiling and rigid, clutched his radio as it began to squawk and reported back to someone at the other end that the farang hadn’t confessed. Not yet. He looked at Calvino as he said this in Thai. This cop’s head had a shape similar to that of the Chinese leader Mao Zedong, with a bulblike forehead swelling out from a receding hairline. This Mao, like his namesake, had a slightly superior curl of the lip, giving him the appearance of someone who knew dark secrets. He looked like a man well acquainted with the benefits of arrogance and the use of violence.
    Calvino had been spared the usual arrest formalities. The cops left behind had a few ideas of their own. Before Calvino got what he wanted, he needed to establish a little good faith.
    Mao had shown the most malice as he’d looked Calvino up and down, made him turn and put his hands against the wall, and frisked him. He’d pulled a .38 from Calvino’s ankle holster and with a smirk showed it to his partner. Calvino had told them he had a license for the gun, but they weren’t interested. Once they’d disarmed him,Noriega had unhooked a pair of handcuffs from his belt and ordered Calvino to turn around with his hands behind his back. Handcuffing had been their original duty.
    After the cuffs were on, Noriega had gestured for Calvino to sit on the bed and told him to sit very still. The two officers had searched the room, pulling out every drawer, going through his suitcase. He’d heard one of them in the bathroom opening doors and drawers and drawing back the shower curtain.
    After they’d finished the search, they’d returned and, standing shoulder to shoulder, confronted Calvino. He hadn’t shifted position. He hadn’t said a word. The two cops continued their conversation on the assumption that Calvino had no clue what they were saying.
    â€œAsk him why he killed the girl,” Noriega said.
    Mao wrinkled his nose. “Why do farangs have a bad smell?”
    â€œYou think he pushed her off the balcony?”
    Mao shrugged. “Why don’t we take him back and lock him up?”
    â€œBecause we have orders. He stays in the room. We stay with him.”
    â€œWhat’s he doing with a case of whiskey?” asked Mao. “Maybe that’s why he killed the girl. We should take it as evidence.”
    Noriega shrugged. “Later. Now we follow orders.”
    â€œI’m hungry. How about you?” asked Calvino in Thai. “What if I ordered some food?”
    Mao shot Calvino a hard look. “You speak Thai?”
    Calvino smiled, asking him in Thai to remove the handcuffs. “I’m not going anywhere. And technically I’m not under arrest.”
    The two cops exchanged a glance and then looked at Calvino, nodding. That was true. But as far as they were concerned, his not being under arrest had nothing to do with keeping him handcuffed.
    â€œBesides, how can I use the phone if my hands are cuffed? Why not get some food? I’m thinking about some big steaks, French fries, ice cream. But you guys probably don’t like farang food.”
    Noriega found the key for the handcuffs and gestured for Calvino to stand up. Standing at the foot of the bed, Calvino turned around and Noriega unlocked the handcuffs. Calvino rubbed his wrists and then slowly, with his hands in full sight, leaned over and picked up the phone.
    â€œI’m ordering food.”
    They had no instructions about allowing the farang access to the phone. They had to think for themselves, and fast. “Only food,” said Noriega.
    â€œSteaks and ice cream,” said Calvino.
    Calvino phoned the steakhouse and ordered three large steaks, medium rare, with extra sauce on the side, a bucket of French fries, and half a liter of mocha ice cream. Next he dialed the number of the Russian restaurant and ordered a liter bottle of vodka, a dozen dumplings, and