A Farewell to Paradise Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Also by Harlan Wolff

  Bangkok Rules

  This book is dedicated to my wife Wanna Schaverien, without whose support and encouragement it wouldn’t have happened.

  Copyright © 2019 Harlan Wolff

  ISBN: 978-1-64633-577-0

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The moral right of Harlan Wolff to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  [email protected]

  CHAPTER 1

  “The only paradise is paradise lost.”

  – Marcel Proust

  “Fuck beach-bars and shrimp on the barbecue,” said a slightly drunk and bad-tempered Carl Engel. He was speaking to his friend, George Wilde. Carl was bored. He had been living in a hut on the island for almost a year; long enough for him to resign himself to beach life, wear baggy shorts, and grow a full beard that revealed a lot of grey whiskers. He pushed a fat, half-smoked cigar into his hairy mouth, peered aggressively into George’s face, and growled, “Look, George, I’m sure this is great for the young and beautiful people, but for people like me it’s where we would come to die, and I ain’t ready to roll over yet; not by a long fucking chalk.”

  “Can’t you just kick back and enjoy this place?” George asked him.

  “Enjoy what? It’s been so long since somebody threatened to kill me, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel alive.”

  Carl Engel had been Bangkok’s most infamous private detective until he drew the attention of the wrong kind of people – the kind of people with chauffeur driven tanks, and more medals than Michael Phelps. It had seemed like a good idea to lie low on a beach, drink rum from a coconut, work on a tan, and watch the girls go by for a while; but, like most of Carl’s epiphanies, it wasn’t half as wonderful as he’d thought it would be. When you are one of those people things happen to, chasing a quiet life is but a temporary betrayal of destiny.

  Carl’s friend and sidekick George Wilde came to Thailand at the end of the Vietnam War, and his warrior past was in his face for everybody to see if they could be bothered to look. Years squatting silently in the jungle behind enemy lines had given him the eyes of a sad elephant, and the personality of a cat. Being a foreigner in Thailand was better than the foreigner he’d found himself in his own country. He had only been back to America once since the war, and that was more than enough. If hell was other people, then shopping malls were where they worshipped Satan. After three months standing in supermarket queues with his hands in his pockets to stop himself reaching forward to silently kill a stranger from behind (lesson one of the dark arts), George had chosen to quit while he was ahead, and had taken the next available flight to Bangkok.

  George had met Carl Engel in a bar not long after the wheels of his plane touched down at Bangkok airport. One bottle of tequila was all it had taken for both men to realise they’d spent their lives in not so different jungles. Carl’s milieu was where George was now, and he already knew the rules of engagement, so he took to the private detective’s urban jungle like a duck to noodle soup. Over the years he had followed Carl around Thailand and watched his back. Sometimes, when Carl was on a case, George had gone so deep in the shadows that even Carl hadn’t spotted him. George knew as long as he had Carl under surveillance, nobody else could watch his friend unobserved, and his friend had a habit of making the wrong kind of enemies, the kind you definitely don’t want tailing you. But then, Carl’s enemies wouldn’t have wanted to look over their shoulder and see George there either, except they wouldn’t have seen him unless it was already too late.

  “What about Nadia? Have you told her you’re pining for your old life? She seems to be getting attached to you,” George said.

  “I can’t be expected to marry every virago with a hard-luck story,” Carl told him.

  George put his bottle of Tiger beer gently on the bar, looked sternly into Carl’s face, and said, “But, isn’t that what you usually do?”

  “Fuck off George,” Carl said, trying not to smile. He couldn’t deny he had more than his fair share of dysfunctional ex-wives.

  Over the years, George had grown used to Carl’s outbursts. He kept following him, though he hadn’t always known why. Even a cat from the Vietnamese jungle needed someone to believe in, and Carl was the man you wanted around when there was trouble, and when bad men deserved a worthy adversary. He was probably best avoided the rest of the time, but that would be disloyal, so George put up with him, moods and all.

  Carl had found Nadia on one of his rare trips to the mainland. She was a beautiful woman in her thirties, lost on a bicycle, and asking directions. He told her the way to get back to town, but after a couple of beers in a nearby noodle shop they wheeled the bike to the island ferry instead. She was one of those women with a hard shell to cover-up her insecurity. She was surprised how quickly Carl made her feel safe, and she liked the feeling. She was almost twenty years younger than he was; they usually were. She was long legged, big breasted, and blonde; they typically weren’t.

  Carl and George were the last two customers at the Flying Fish, as usual. It wasn’t the best bar on the beach; it was the only bar on the beach to open this late. It was a rickety affair of old wood and flotsam knocked together with glue and nails, and capped off with a thatched roof of coconut husks. It was Carl’s favourite bar on the island.

  At this late hour, there was only one person left serving drinks behind the bar. Her employer had long gone home and didn’t know or care that she kept the place open so late. She was bartender, maid, cook, and bottle washer, and she was tough too like most ex-whores are when they’re well past their sell-by date and have been forced to take regular work. She was from the outskirts of Bangkok, and her given name was Achara, but she called herself Jenny. Hardly anyone in Thailand used their real names. Carl tipped her a hundred baht every night to keep the bar open until he was ready to sleep, and she was always happy to do the overtime.

  “Fou
nd a boyfriend yet?” Carl asked her playfully.

  “No chance,” Jenny answered in Thai, “it’s two hours on a small boat to get here, so only the backpackers show up, and they’re all kids. The only men old enough to be of any use to me are you two. You’re spoken for, and George keeps himself to himself.”

  George had lost his wife in a traffic accident the previous year and hadn’t looked at a woman since. Jenny’s words reminded him of the tragic turn his life had taken, and he said goodnight and left. They watched him walk up the beach, paddling in the sea, with the moon above his head.

  “Just the two of us again,” Jenny said, as she put another cold beer in front of Carl without being asked.

  “Sounds like a song,” he told her.

  Carl heard the pop-pop-pop of a poorly maintained motorcycle engine in the distance, and he recognised it as the sound of the island’s only policeman, a jovial sergeant; pot-bellied, moon-faced, short in stature, and as crooked as a corkscrew. Carl liked him and had affectionately nicknamed him Inspector Clouseau.

  “He’s out late, I wonder what’s up,” Carl said, wiping beer froth from his beard with the back of his hand.

  “Looking for free beer, as usual, I expect,” Jenny replied, annoyed that she wouldn’t be alone with Carl.

  The island didn’t need a policeman, it was a small community that didn’t trust or like people from the mainland, especially the police. The Islanders made sure that such people were made to feel unwelcome. Jenny was one of the exceptions. They needed waitresses and bartenders who weren’t shy to wear a bikini and could speak English; somebody had to make sure the tourists got their fried rice and cold beer. The island people were shy and old-fashioned, and they limited their interaction with foreigners to renting them cheap bungalows and taking them out on long-tail boats to fish or snorkel the reefs. The island wasn’t big enough to have its own police station, so the colonel from the mainland had sent Clouseau (whose real name was Somchai), to look after it for him. There wasn’t any real crime on the island, so Clouseau’s only responsibility was to play bagman for his colonel, collecting the envelopes from the bungalow owners and delivering them to the mainland every month. The only thing the islanders trusted less than strangers were strangers’ who took their money away from them. Not that they were doing anything wrong, not morally anyway, but you never want the police to enforce the laws too literally in Thailand because the cops could always find something illegal if they looked long and hard enough, and knew there was something in it for them. Better to pretend to be their friend, so the islanders feigned respect, paid a little, and were mostly left to run their businesses in peace. They all handed over envelopes once a month and then skillfully avoided Clouseau the rest of the time.

  Clouseau parked his motorcycle behind the shack and walked in and sat at the bar next to Carl. He had a huge smile and always looked serene. Why wouldn’t he? He lived on a tropical island and had nothing to do except collect money. He got to take his small cut from the monthly gross and was saving money and had no debts. He had a fat domineering wife, but she ran a laundry on the mainland and stayed put, which had enabled him to install a mistress on the island. They slept in the room above a wooden shop-house in front of the pier, where the boats came in, and on the ground floor, his mistress ran a noodle shop business for him. He had found her in the brothel next to the police station, her name was Nit, she was stunning and fresh off the bus from the North, just the way he liked them. He had negotiated for hours and finally bought her from the brothel owner for fifty thousand baht. Clouseau had sent Nit to the temple to wash away her sins, and then taken her to the island and taught her to fry noodles in a wok. Clouseau smiled all the time because life was good.

  “Hi, Boss.” He called Carl ‘Boss’, which was a typical Thai title given to a person perceived to have a lot of money, or at least has more money than you do.

  “You’re out late Clouseau, don’t tell me a crime has been committed.”

  “No crime, we don’t allow criminals on this island.”

  “Apart from you and me. Don’t forget us, Clouseau.”

  The sergeant laughed out loud and picked up his bottle of cold beer from the bar. As usual, Jenny didn’t bother to write him a bill. The only crimes on the island to date had been tourists taking drugs and occasionally fighting over a woman or money. This didn’t count in the crime statistics because Clouseau would always deal with such problems without involving his superiors on the mainland. The envelopes may have got kicked upstairs, but the bribes from the tourists didn’t.

  There had once almost been a crisis when a young bespectacled Belgian girl declared she was too broke to pay for her accommodation. This type of problem was unacceptable and destined to be the island’s first recorded crime when she was transported into the hands of the police on the mainland. The debate got heated, and the island was eventually split into two camps: those who said nothing was worth the risk the cops might show more interest in their island, and those who insisted that foreigners not paying their bills was intolerable. Clouseau was split between the two camps, he didn’t want his superiors showing more interest in island affairs either, but ultimately he was never going to allow people to misbehave for free - business was business after all.

  Carl had felt the harmony of the small island community fragmenting. It was dangerous for him to gain a reputation as a soft touch, so he hatched a plan. Carl had the girl call her parents in Brussels on his mobile phone and let him speak to them. Then he claimed to be in hourly contact with them and told the damaged party a transfer of funds to his bank account was imminent. There wasn’t really any money coming from the parents, as he hadn’t bothered to ask them for any. Carl made the Islanders wait a day to cement the illusion and then paid the few thousand baht due on condition the young lady left the island and never came back. He slipped a few thousand more into her hand as she got on the ferry, to enable her to keep her promise. The island returned to normal, which to Carl was worth every penny. For a man who made his living from the dramas and troubles of others, he was always quick to pay the cost of avoiding unnecessary drama in his own life.

  Solving the island’s dilemma had got Carl and George accepted as honorary islanders. Still foreigners obviously, but now ranked slightly higher than the tourists.

  “I got a message from my people on the mainland this evening,” Clouseau said without his trademark grin, “some men from Bangkok were asking about you.”

  “I don’t suppose they were wearing safari suits?” Carl asked.

  “Yes, they were, how could you know that?”

  “Because they always wear safari suits,” Carl told him.

  Clouseau laughed and said, “Yes, that’s true. So what does it mean?”

  “I think it means I have some unfinished business in Bangkok.”

  “So you’re leaving?” the police sergeant asked unhappily. “But we like having you here.”

  Carl puffed on his cigar, took a pull from his bottle of beer, wiped the suds away from his beard again and said, “Sadly, Clouseau, as much as it distresses me, I’m going to have to leave in the morning.”

  “I’ll ride over on the boat with you to make sure you get to the train without meeting any strange men in safari suits,” Clouseau told him.

  “I don’t care what people say about you, you’re alright,” Carl told him.

  The sergeant smiled and drank his free beer, while Jenny glared at him for being the bearer of bad news. Jenny had been leaning over the bar listening to their conversation. She was not pleased. “So now I’m going to lose a hundred baht a day and my only friend on the island.”

  “Sorry Jen, what the wind blows into an island, a stronger wind always blows out,” Carl said.

  “Are you taking the bitch with you?” Jenny asked, referring to the Russian woman who shared Carl’s bed.

  “That would be up to her, now wouldn’t it, Jenny?”

  “Her smile is fake,” Jenny said pouting.

&nb
sp; “Not sure about that, Jen. The tits are real though!”

  “Men are all the same,” Jenny said, turning her back to stack the empty bottles.

  Carl was feeling the pressure of knowing people were looking for him again. He had missed the adrenalin rush of his old life, and yet the thought of returning to it brought the darkness back, and a different mood was descending over him. It was something familiar that hadn’t been felt in a long time. With the loss of his good spirits, he felt suddenly tired, and he knew it was time to leave the bar. He paid for the drinks and promised Jenny and Clouseau he would see them before he left the island. He stumbled off, following George’s trail along the beach, towards the moon.

  Once far enough away not to be seen, he took off his shirt and baggy shorts and walked into the sea. He needed to sober up before he got home to Nadia. The sea was not cold, but it still did the trick as he dived headfirst into a small wave and swam a short way out. Feeling refreshed, he stood waist deep in water, facing the beach, and surveyed the island that had been his home for the past year. He wondered if he was mad to want to leave such a life, but his madness was very familiar to him, and he had always been comfortable in it. Carl walked out of the sea and put his clothes on over his wet body. He could always come back one day, he told himself.

  When he got to the hut, Nadia was on the bed reading a book in Russian. She was tanned, firm, and naked as usual. “Will you come here please, I like it when you are sweaty and salty,” she purred at him. Carl was reasonably sober again after his swim and dropped his shorts on the floor and climbed onto the bed. She grabbed him by the beard with both hands and pulled him towards her. “My Cossack,” she purred. “My grumpy old Cossack.”

  They both fell asleep entangled in each other’s limbs. They were perfect together whenever they were lying down, but when Nadia stood up, there was always trouble. She was one of those people that went through life with a black raincloud over their head and refused to carry an umbrella. Her relationship with Carl had been a constant demand for attention, yet Nadia never let him in on the cause of her dissatisfaction, so he was permanently being set up to let her down. She was one of life’s disappointed people, and because of that, Carl had long had one foot firmly out the door. He knew it was time for him to move on.