Handsome Man

‘Hello, handsome man, come inside, please.’ A plastic grin showed the way. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Her fake smile was now a real snarl.

A stooped figure was ducking behind the bar, aiming for the back. But, instead, he opened the fire exit door and disappeared through it. The door closed soundlessly. The day’s first customer looked her up and down. He recognised her from his last visit.

‘Yes, it is me.’ He nodded at the back of the bar. ‘Where is he going?’

‘Who knows? He is the boss, and I don’t ask him what he is doing. Was he expecting you?’

‘Get him.’

She fiddled with the shoulder strap of her bikini top and stepped down from the tall stool she used as a perch. Then, without a word, she turned away and marched through the empty bar to the back door. Her cut-off jeans could not be any more cut-off. She wiggled, hoping for an audience. But, unfortunately, the handsome man was not looking.

He slipped out and into the alley between the bars. He mounted the stairs, following the shorts up.

‘I said get him, not warn him.’

Her hand froze on the door handle. She turned her body, not the handle, ‘You’ll find my boss in there.’ She shrugged, nodded at the cheap wood, and squeezed past him back to her seat.

‘Are you going somewhere?’

‘Oh, hello, Gilly, I didn’t expect you.’

‘No, so it seems. I’ve surprised people in the past. Is that why you are packing your passport? Or, do you need to prove you are over twenty-one to drink in “our” bar?’ Gilly smirked. ‘Give me your bag, and we’ll have a beer together.’

He stood aside as Pots ducked his head and slid past. Gilly looked at the mess inside. ‘No girlfriend, I see?’

They reached the bottom step. Heavy motorbike engines revved.

‘Get down,’ Gilly said. He pulled his friend against the wall.

Thousands of cubic centimetres of Japanese chopper engines screeched to a halt. Riders looked around, and leather jackets opened and hung loose, revealing the stocks of cut-down weapons. Shotgun cartridges blasted the bar and everything in it. The girl’s fake smile ripped away. The remains of her face, plus the rest of her body, slid to the floor. Glass rained on the jerking body. More bottles shattered as flames burst from the Molotov Cocktail. It looped onto the spirits shelf. Flames spat from homemade alcohol in old but genuine bottles. Gilly dragged Pots away as sirens drowned the street racket of hip-hop music.

‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’

Pots rooted in place as flames spread to the next bar. Gilly tugged him harder; they escaped screaming nighttime workers, fire engines and crowds of spectators, ducking and dodging the growing mob. They jumped into a nearby pub, slumped, panting into seats.

‘Calm it,’ said Gilly. He signalled two beers.

‘Your longest serving member of staff has been murdered. Were they aiming for her? Or was it you they were after?’

Pots, shaking his head, rubbed the tears away from his eyes.

‘She was the only girl working for me; the rest quit. Christ, I hated her, but I’ll miss her.’ He let tears wet his cheeks.

‘What? You had how many? Twelve, fifteen girls working in the bar?’

Pots steadied his head, looking ahead, then he uttered throatily, ‘COVID, and no tourists caused all this.’

‘Are you going to tell me the truth?’

‘I always do.’

‘Yeah, like the “we’re doing great” email. Cut the crap. What is going on?’

Cold beers arrived, and the server, past her sell-by date, looked at the men and decided not to flirt. They had stopped speaking and didn’t look up. Gilly studied his “friend”. Pots now looked at the gap between his legs. Stained, worn cloth peered back.

Outside, brown-shirted police officers were interviewing eyewitnesses. The locals turned and gawped at Pots.

‘Time to leave,’ said Gilly. He dragged Pots out of the back door and whistled two motorbike taxis.

They arrived at Gilly’s hotel. He dismounted and paid. Pots tapped his driver’s arm, pointing down the soi, and ordered him in Thai to race on. Gilly’s offer of one thousand Baht was too good to miss; his driver chased and caught his mate. He flapped five-hundred Baht in his face. Both riders turned and arrived at the hotel, five-hundred richer.

‘Good try, Pots. Now, get inside.’

Pots slumped into the bedside chair. Gilly stretched out on the bed. ‘Come on, tell me.’

‘As I said, all the bars were shut down. There were no tourists, and the only customers were our regulars, guys who lived here. A few bar owners had the same problem as me. Now beer in a girlie bar is too expensive, so they drink outside the nearest 7-Eleven. It’s much cheaper. The view is not as good,’ he smirked, ‘And sitting on concrete is not as comfortable as our beer-soaked cushions, but needs must be. The staff struggled to live; they had no short-time visitors. Some quit the business, some went back up north, and some started selling stuff online. Whatever, I went skint.’

‘You paid the rent and the girls’ wages with the cash I sent?′

‘Yeah, sorry about that. I had to eat, you know?’

‘Why did you not tell me the full truth?’ a suspicious Gilly stared at Pots. ‘Or is there something else you are not telling me?’

There was a knock at the door. Gilly looked through the peephole. A maid in a hotel uniform stood behind her trolley, laden with hotel essentials. She looked up at the small circle of glass as he opened the door.

‘Hello, I’ve got all I need, and the room is tidy, thanks. Try tomorrow.’

She ducked and sprinted head in hands up the corridor. Two men shoved away the pushcart. It tipped and spilt its goods. Powder, soap and towels littered the carpet. They were laughing as the girl tripped and headbutted the fire escape. They stepped across the mess and blocked the doorway. One smiled, immaculate in a blazer and slacks. The other glared at Gilly and tapped his weapon as he opened the front of his leather coat.

Mr Immaculate strode in. ‘Hello, Mr Pots, you are well, I trust?’

Pots’ eyes hunted for a place to run. The glare of the thug stopped him from moving. Then, the man shoved Gilly in the back. Leather jacket pulled out his pistol and aimed it at chest level.

‘Now, now, no need for violence. I need to talk to Mr Gil.’

‘Who are you? What do you want?’ asked Gilly.

‘Ask your friend. He knows me well.’ Gilly’s eyes fired darts at his friend. Pots studied the carpet.

‘Let me get to the point. I assume Pots owes you a lot of money?’ He didn’t wait for a nod. ‘He owes me more than just money. He will be leaving with us. Each day, while he is my guest, he will lose a digit, a finger or toe, or both.’ He grinned and took a second before carrying on. ‘Then we may kill him or leave him on the street. I’ll decide nearer the time.’ He signalled to Pots. ‘It is time to go. Say bye-bye.’

Gilly put his hands up as the pistol twitched. The leather jacket backed out behind Pots.

‘But I don’t know what you want?’ he shouted.

The door slammed. Gilly ran to the window. He had a great view of the beach and the sea, but not what he wanted. His friend and his captors went in the opposite direction. Gilly ran out of the room and across the corridor. He raced to the far side windows. Mr Immaculate turned, looked up, and waved as the limo drove off.

‘Now, what do I do?’

He looked at his phone. There was no news of the fire on Google. The local tv had a hasty report, nothing he hadn’t guessed. “A bike gang attacked a foreign-run bar. Killing a member of staff.”

Gilly rubbed his jaw. He rarely smiled. Today was not the time to start. He took the lift to reception, and the manager moved towards him then wai’d ‘Please come to my office,’ he said.

‘Sure, what can I do for you?’

‘One of my maids was terrified by your guests.’

‘And?’

‘Please understand, this is a classy establishment, and those people are not welcome in my hotel.’

‘Your hotel? Congratulations on owning such a fine “establishment”. Do you own it? Or just a better-paid dog’s body?’

‘I mean… Your guests are not welcome. If you insist on inviting them in, you will have to find somewhere else to stay. Okay?’

‘I apologise for upsetting the lady. Why is she so scared of them?’

'They are Mae Kaet Noi followers.′

‘And what is that?’

′Mae Kaet Noi is a village near Chiang Mai.′

‘Why is that so scary?’

‘They have a hell-on-earth temple. The bikers took one of their characters as their logo.’

‘You mean the wolf’s head on their jackets?’

‘Yes, so you do know them?’

‘We’ve only just met. Please make up my bill. I’m checking out now.’

The receptionist was flapping her wrists and coughing tacitly. ‘Sir, this box was delivered. I was about to take it to his room.’

She handed him a small cardboard cube. Adrian Gil was handwritten beside a wolf’s head, scrawled on the lid.

Gilly shook the box, it was light, and nothing rattled. He peeled back the sticky tape and opened the top.

‘Oh, my God.’ He paled and dropped the box. Pot’s little toe bounced out.