newspaper said was a sarcastic back-and-forth with a gay-baiting judge while you were testifying at a client’s trial, and you were cited for contempt of court.”

“Yes, I did get my picture in the paper that time. That fine

cost me, too. It was twice what my fee was with that putz of a

client. Anyway, the guy never paid me.”

Pugh chuckled. “I wish I had been there to see it. Keep in

mind, however, that in Thailand, the fine would have been even

higher for causing a man of high office to lose face. You might

have had to pay with your profession. Or an organ or two.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. Here we have other ways of getting a job done. We

don’t ride an elephant to catch a grasshopper.”

“As it relates to the current situation, that’s a bit cryptic for me,” I said. “But maybe it will all come clear a little later.”

Pugh said, “You bet it will.”

CHAPTER NINE

“Yes, I will talk to you,” Mango said, glancing quickly

around the pool area. “But not here. Private. We go to cubicle.”

Kawee had spotted Mango by the swimming pool soon

after we had arrived at Paradisio. Most of the men lying on sun-

splashed chaises trying to darken themselves were farangs. Most

of the Thais sat on chairs in the palmy shade, trying to keep

from getting any darker. Mango was among the Thais.

Kawee had approached Mango first and showed him my

letter of introduction from Ellen Griswold and my PI license,

which I had tucked into the towel I was wearing. Even as I

wielded this paraphernalia of farang kreng jai, Mango looked

skeptical, even a bit anxious. But I came over and assured him

that I had been sent to help Griswold if he needed any help.

Mango should have been further reassured by our meeting

under circumstances where he had to know he could maintain

masterly control.

I saw why Mango made some gay hearts skip a beat. Lean

and fit in a graceful and seemingly effortless way, and taller than most Thais, Mango was luminously caramel colored, like some

flavorsome Thai street-stall sweet, with aristocratic Asian

cheekbones under big dark peasant eyes and eyelashes the

length and elegance of the architectural details on a pagoda.

You could imagine how happy a tiny songbird might be

perched on one of Mango’s overhangs. His black hair was cut

short, almost monklike, though the tranquil confidence he

projected was outward- instead of inward-looking. When he

said “we can go to cubicle,” he gave a flash of smile with a hint of humor in it, despite the apprehension he had to be feeling.

We climbed a winding, Busby Berkeley-style staircase from

the pool and café area to the second-floor locker and cubicle

area, all of it decorated more like a Hyatt or Marriott than like the illegal-immigrant detention-center trappings commonly

found in gay saunas in the US. The message seemed to be that

80 Richard Stevenson

clients were here for pleasure, not punishment. The music

flowing out of the ceiling and through the mutely lighted spaces was not dance-club-throb but Fats Waller sweet-and-easy.

Along a long corridor, men lingered, conversed quietly with

one another, greeted friends and acquaintances, and cruised

unhurriedly. There was no rush, for it appeared there was sure

to be plenty of sanuk to go around. Most of the men were

Thais, their average age 28.3, I guessed. There were some young

farangs, too, but the foreigners’ average age I estimated at 58.3, a number that also described many of their waist sizes. I heard

British and German accents as we passed several dozen men,

some of them Americans, and what I guessed were Swedish

voices. Here was famed Southeast Asian sexual tourism, that

quaint term.

Mango led me into a raised cubicle, slid the door shut, and

latched it. Again, it was less like a flophouse cell than like a Thai countryside hut, with dark walls and a floor cushioned with

vinyl padding and penlight-sized illumination down low on one

end. There was no cot or bed, just as in Thai village houses,

where people generally ate, slept and socialized on the floor.

The top of the cubicle was open, and the ambient noise

included both low voices and the odd moan or happy yelp from

nearby cubicles.

Mango and I each flopped down and sat facing each other

with our backs against opposite walls, our towels unremoved in

a businesslike way. I told Mango how worried Gary Griswold’s

family and friends were, and I thanked him for agreeing to talk

to me, despite the falling-out that he and Griswold apparently

had had.

“Gary treat me very bad,” Mango said. “But I don’t want

him get hurt. I don’t want to get hurt, too,” he said, “and some men want me say where Gary. I tell them, I don’t know where Gary. They think I lying but I not. So I hide at my friend house.

But my friend go back to Germany. So I bored. Maybe I find

other friend. You have condo in Bangkok?”

“No, I live in Albany, New York.”

“America.”

THE 38 MILLION DOLLAR SMILE 81

“Yes.”

“I had American friend. Five. No, six.”

“Six years ago?”

“No, six American friend. California. Tennessee. Boston.

Harrisburg, P-A. Ohio. And…Mr. Mike come from Alaska.”

“You lived with each of these men? They were boyfriends?”

“I like foreign men. Yes. I don’t like Thai so much. No

money, ha-ha.”

“Aren’t there Thai gay men with money?”

“Yes. But they just like other Thai gay men with money.”

“What about hooking up with a Thai gay man with no

money? Just for friendship and for love?”

“Oh, I have Thai boyfriend. Donnutt. I love Donnutt. We

build house in Chonburi. Live Chonburi later. Now Donnutt in

Oslo with Knute.”

I said, “Did your falling out with Gary have anything to do

with your many boyfriends, by chance? Donnutt, Mike,

Tennessee, and so on? Were any of these fellows in your life

during your time with Gary? If so, did he know about them?”

Mango looked down at his lap. I noticed for the first time

that a few lines of age were beginning to show around his neck.

Was he pushing thirty? Would he accumulate enough of a nest

egg for him and Donnutt to finish their house in Chonburi

before all the foreign “friends” moved on to fresher pickings?

Mango said quietly, “Gary not understand Thai man.”

“He thought your relationship would be monogamous? No

sex or relationships with other men?”

“I thought he know. He like Thai, so I thought he know

Thai. He don’t know. He find out about Werner and ask me if

other ones. I tell him. Big argument. I leave.”

“Who was Werner?”

“From Cologne. I have sex with him two time. Two! Too

sad. Gary make me too sad.”

82 Richard Stevenson

“So you had been living with Gary in his condo?”

“Sometime. I keep my place in Sukhumvit. It good I keep. It

okay. It cheap.”

I asked Mango if Gary was having any money problems that

he knew of.

“No money problems. Gary rich. He good to me. Generous.

Kind. I put money in bank in Chonburi for house build with

Donnutt.”

“Did Gary know about Donnutt?”

“He know Donnutt my friend.”

“Some Thai men,” I said, “have longtime, sometimes

lifelong, relationships with foreign men. It sounds as if you

never wanted that.”

A wilted smile. “Not without Donnutt.”

“How long have you and Donnutt been boyfriends? How

old were you when the relationship began?”

“Eleven.”

“You were eleven years old?”