The Maddening Model. Suzanne Simms
to some patrician ancestor. His eyes were dark, somewhere between brown and black. They were bright, intelligent and unclouded by the alcohol he had consumed.
Unfortunately, his clothes looked as if he’d slept in them, and there was no doubt he had an attitude. His body, his face, his expression, his eyes all spelled one thing: danger.
Sunday’s heart sank.
“I don’t think this is going to work, Mr. Hazard.” She permitted herself a small sigh. “You can simply return my deposit and we’ll go our separate ways.”
“Can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Drank it.” He indicated the glass of brown liquor on the table in front of him. “Beer.”
“You drank the entire deposit?” She was shocked, and she made no attempt to hide it. “But I sent several hundred baht with the messenger only this morning.”
His eyes narrowed. “It seems you haven’t done your arithmetic, Ms. Harrington. A hundred-baht note is the equivalent of only four American dollars.”
Sunday didn’t know what to say. “Oh—”
“And, in case you also didn’t notice, the prices around here are inflated for a farang.“
She still didn’t know what to say to him. She finally managed to inquire, “A farang?“
“A stranger.” Simon Hazard leaned back in his chair again and balanced his weight on the spindly rear legs. “Besides, you won’t find anyone better.”
“That is a matter of opinion.”
“That is a matter of fact.” He stroked his jawline. “Tell me something.”
She waited for him to go on.
“Why would a woman like you want to travel into the hinterlands of Thailand, anyway?”
“Business,” she said.
“Business? What kind of business?” Suspicion was thick in his voice. “It better not have anything to do with the poppy.”
Sunday drew a blank. “The poppy?”
“Opium.”
Her mouth dropped open, whether in surprise or outrage, she wasn’t sure. “You think I’m involved with drugs?”
“I don’t know what to think, do I?” He gave her a stony stare. “I don’t know anything about you.”
“I assure you, Mr. Hazard, my business is strictly legitimate,” she retorted, bristling.
He shrugged but said nothing.
Her temper flared. “Keep the damned deposit, then. I’ll find someone else.”
“No.”
“No?”
“We’ve got a deal, Ms. Harrington. Signed, sealed and delivered. You pay. I guide.”
He was right. She had received an agreement through the mail and she’d signed it.
Sunday permitted herself another small sigh. If she wanted to do business, if she wanted to see the crafts produced by the hill tribes, if she wanted to visit the City of Mist, if she wanted to experience the closest thing to heaven on earth, it was, apparently, going to be in the company of this cowboy.
“All right, we still have a deal, Mr. Hazard,” she said, holding out her hand.
He moved surprisingly fast for a big man. His chair was upright and he was on his feet, pumping her arm, before she knew it. “Business is business,” he said.
Sunday looked around the bar. “Is this where you usually conduct your business dealings?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the Celestial Palace,” he countered in a hard, dry voice.
As if on cue, a fight broke out between two sailors at the bar. There was the sound of breaking glass and voices raised in anger. The bartender shouted, “Stop! Stop!” and pounded the bar with his fist, but no one paid him any heed. Somewhere, a girl let out a shriek.
“The Celestial Palace isn’t exactly a slice of heaven,” Sunday observed judiciously.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
“Where are we going?” she inquired as he took her by the elbow and steered her toward the door.
“Does it matter?”
“Of course, it matters.”
“We’re going someplace where we’re less conspicuous. Someplace where we can talk and not have half the people in the room eavesdropping on our conversation. You never know who might be in a watering hole like this. Thieves. Smugglers. Pickpockets.”
With long-legged strides, Simon Hazard took off down the street. Sunday was nearly running to keep up with him. “I thought you said there was nothing wrong with the Celestial Palace.”
He threw her a sharp glance. “‘Before you trust a man, eat a peck of salt with him.’”
“I beg your pardon.”
“‘The road up and the road down is one and the same,’” he stated cryptically.
Sunday’s handbag—one of her own popular designs—slipped off her shoulder. She pushed the leather strap up her arm and kept going. “What does the road have to do with anything?”
“‘Answer a fool according to his folly.’”
“I’d settle for a simple, straightforward answer,” she muttered under her breath.
“‘It is not every question that deserves an answer.’”
“Tell me, wherever did you—”
“Monks.”
“Monks?”
“I spent my first year in Thailand—in Prathet Thai—with Buddhist monks,” he told her as if that would explain everything.
It explained nothing.
He hailed a passing samlor, a three-wheel taxi that was a common sight in Bangkok, and gave instructions to the driver in Thai. Then, off they went through a labyrinth of narrow streets, dodging people, animals and other vehicles alike.
Simon Hazard leaned toward her and remarked conversationally, “Bangkok—Krung Thep—is a paradox.”
Bangkok wasn’t the only paradox, Sunday thought.
He went on. “It is both ancient and modern, Eastern and Western, sacred and profane. Skyscrapers have grown up alongside buildings of traditional Thai architecture. Contemporary shops of every type and description are next to the famous Floating Market, its boats bobbing on the khlongs, or canals, as they have for centuries.” He pulled the bill of his hat down to shade his eyes from the tropical sun. “Bangkok is a city of six million souls. It is a city teeming with myriad sights, sounds and smells.”
“Krung Thep means ‘City of Angels,’ doesn’t it?” she said, recalling what she’d read in her Fodor’s Guide to Thailand.
“That’s the shortened version. Bangkok has the longest place name in the world. The literal translation is ‘Great City of Angels, Supreme Repository of Divine Jewels, the Great and Unconquerable Land, Grand and Illustrious Realm, Royal and Delightful Capital City...’” His voice trailed off. “There’s more, but I think you get the idea.”
“Yes, I think I do,” she said, sitting back in the taxi. “How long have you been in Thailand, Mr. Hazard?”
“Simon. A little