guard was a slight, dark-skinned Thai, probably from

impoverished Isaan in the Northeast, supplier of cheap labor

for greater Bangkok. Kreng jai, the Thai highly refined

attunement to social status and its rituals of deference to be

shown or received, meant that as an older white foreigner I had

to be catered to. But only up to a point. The security company

had its own kreng jai, and this man no doubt needed his job. So

he played it safe and passed me off to the building manager, Mr.

Thomsatai, who soon appeared from around the back of the

building.

In black slacks and a blue polo shirt similar to mine, minus

the sweat stains, the super was an older Thai who didn’t smile

so readily. Here the kreng jai was also complex. Out of earshot

of the guard, I told Mr. Thomsatai the truth, that I was a PI

working for Griswold’s family and needed to get into his

60 Richard Stevenson

apartment to check on his welfare. I thought honesty might pay

off, and also it couldn’t hurt if word got back to Griswold that somebody unthreatening was searching for him. The manager

sized me up, and something in his coolly noncommittal manner

suggested that another Thai custom might be brought into play.

I thanked Mr. Thomsatai for the time he spent talking with

me and said I wished to give him a present. I palmed him a

thousand-baht note, thirty bucks, and he quickly led Timmy and

me into the building and up to Griswold’s condo on the ninth

floor. The man opened the door with his master key, showed us

the light switches, then went out and left us.

Timmy said, “That was sleazy. Jeez.”

“Yes and no. People need to get by.”

“Oh. Okay.” For such a Peace Corps old boy, he was not

big on cultural relativism.

The view from Griswold’s capacious living room was

splendid, with an oasis of red tile roofs and green foliage below, along with a few turquoise-lighted swimming pools, and the

office- and hotel-tower skyline beyond. The furnishings were a

nice mixture of Scandinavian modernity and traditional Siamese

wood and stone carvings of dancers, guardian spirits, and

Buddha images. One wall was all shelves full of art and art

history books. The graphic art on the wall was astrology related, signs of the zodiac and various astral and planetary

configurations. One entire interior wall was covered with

numbers in interlocking circular patterns. The numerical

sequences seemed random, but this was not my area of

expertise.

“What do you make of that?” I asked Timmy about the wall

of numbers.

“I don’t know. I think there might be more nines than

anything else.”

“Maybe they’re upside-down sixes.”

“Why would the sixes be upside down and not the other

numbers?”

“You tell me.”

THE 38 MILLION DOLLAR SMILE 61

I took a picture of the wall with my cell phone. Griswold’s

landline phone was dead when I lifted the receiver. He — or

someone — was paying the condo fees and the electric bill, but

not for a telephone. A desk in an alcove looked as if it had been where Griswold had set up a computer; a space that was now

empty was just right for a laptop. There were no personal

papers on the desk or in any of the drawers, just some art exhibition announcements and catalogs, none dated during the

previous six months. Nothing in, on, or around the desk looked

like an “investment” guide. I looked for a calendar, date book,

or address book and found none. Nor was there any reference

anywhere to Griswold’s bloodshed-forecasting seer.

I unlatched the sliding glass door to the terrace, and we

stepped out of the fiercely air-conditioned room into the

Bangkok night oven. Next to the rattan porch chairs was an

array of elegantly glazed ceramic pots, some holding feathery

young bamboo plants and some white azaleas. One pot

overflowed with purple and white orchids. Only a few dead

leaves lay around the plants — apparently sweeping up dead

leaves was still a Thai national pastime — and a watering can sat in a corner.

I said, “Somebody’s been looking after the plants.”

“Who?”

“We should find out.”

Timmy peered down at the shadowy driveway far below.

“I’d hate to fall off one of these things. Like Geoff Pringle.”

“It’s not how anybody wants to die.”

Griswold’s dining room had a well-crafted teak dining table

in the center and eight semicomfortable-looking teak chairs

around it. The most interesting object in this room was not the

dining table, however, but a carpeted two-foot-high platform

off to the side, upon which rested an elaborate shrine. It was a Hindu temple–style spirit house like the ones found outside

many Thai buildings, including modern office towers, where

offerings were left to appease the natural spirits displaced by the 62 Richard Stevenson

structures. Griswold’s building had one near the main entrance,

as did Pringle’s, and our hotel.

Griswold’s personal spirit house had a seated Buddha

statuette inside it, about a foot high, in the raised left palm

mudra. This is the attitude of the Buddha’s hand that means you are in the presence of the Buddha; do not be afraid. Freshly burned incense lay in a dish in front of the spirit house and its

pleasantly scratchy aroma still hung in the air. The garlands of marigolds, jasmine, and rose blossoms that lay in front of the

shrine, brownish and wilting, appeared a day or two old.

I said, “Griswold is really into it. He’s sincere.”

“So is somebody else with a key to this apartment.”

“We need to talk to the super again.”

In the bedroom, a king-size bed with cream covers was

pristinely un-slept-in. In the closet, there were plenty of

designer label, warm-weather clothes, but empty spaces too, and

no luggage. The bedroom art and decoration continued the

astrological motif, with more stars, planets, and numbers flying around. There were no rich-gay-guy paintings or prints with

muscular male nudes striking I’ve-been-waiting-for-YOU poses

or clutching a rope.

Timmy and I did not have to seek out Mr. Thomsatai to find

out who had been entering Griswold’s apartment, for now the

manager reappeared. He had quietly let himself in, found us in

the bedroom, and asked if we were finished with our visit.

I asked him, “Have other people been in the apartment

besides us? Someone has watered the plants. And left offerings.

Or do you do that?”

“No, no. Kawee has a key. Kawee comes sometimes.”

“Who is Kawee?”

“Kawee is Mr. Gary’s friend.”

“Thai?”

“Of course.”

“When does Kawee come?”

THE 38 MILLION DOLLAR SMILE 63

“I don’t know. Sometimes I see him. He has a key.”

“No one else comes?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Have others such as myself come looking for Mr. Gary?”

“Of course.”

“Who?”

“Thai man. I don’t know his name. He comes sometimes

and asks where is Mr. Gary. He comes on a motorbike. He is

unfriendly. I don’t like him. He asked me to phone his mobile if Mr. Gary comes.”

“How much did he pay you?”

“One thousand baht. Like you.”

I produced another note. “Have you got this man’s phone

number?”

“Of course.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I’m confused,” I said to Rufus Pugh. “I thought you were

probably American.”

“Yeah, ha-ha. This happens all the time. Some clients get up

and walk out.”

“I find it reassuring that you’re Thai.”