Christopher G. Moore
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Bangkok is one of the great cities in the world, but unlike other great metropolises it has no noir tales to its name. Bangkok Noir puts that to right. In this first ever noir anthology of Bangkok, twelve seasoned and internationally known-Thai and Western-writers have come together to make a powerful collection of crime fiction short stories that portray the dark side of this Asian metropolis where the lives of most citizens seem as far away from heaven as its Thai name Krungthep is distant from its meaning-City of Angels. In Bangkok Noir, the twelve short stories of various shades of black involve gangsters and hitmen, love and betrayal, the supernatural, the possessed and the dispossessed, and the far distant future. Titles in this collection include: John Burdett's Gone East, Stephen Leather's Inspector Zhang and the Dead Thai Gangster, Tew Bunnag's The Mistress Wants Her Freedom, Colin Cotterill's Halfhead, Pico Iyer's Thousand and One Nights, and Christopher G. Moore's Dolphin Inc.
Zhang. I have already spoken to my opposite number in the Royal Thai Police Force, and he is happy for us to proceed. To be honest, Inspector Zhang, they would be content for you to solve the case and for us to fly the killer home to stand trial in Singapore.” “But if we don’t solve the crime, then the plane remains a crime scene and will have to stay in Bangkok for the foreseeable future?” “Exactly,” said the Commissioner. “And nobody wants that. The last thing we want is for the world to
the bedroom, as she usually did, Om gave me a special excited smile and showed me where she’d reached in Uncle Walter’s diary, which she was reading on her laptop. She had taken the trouble of inserting an electronic book mark, so that as soon as she had started Word, we were taken to a paragraph in Walter’s diary which read:- Spent all day yesterday at Mae Nak’s temple at On Nut, right on the Phrakanong canal. I don’t know what it is about that myth that grabs me. Hallucinations all night,
through my wife’s family connections and always made contact with my second secretary, who did nothing except network with my in-laws. My first secretary was trained in law and was brilliant at all she did but could not network to save her life. When I exchanged a glance with her she shrugged and jerked a chin at the waiting area. I nodded. She left the room to return a few seconds later with a tall, slim, wiry Southeast Asian man in his sixties with long gray hair in a pony tail, a wispy gray
didn’t I think of her before? But first I needed to get off the street and sit down. It wasn’t long, of course, before I found a Starbucks, which was perfect because in its bland international chicness, it erased Bangkok for a moment. In here there were no gangs, no mysterious money, no Kaews or Nops. Just tall or grande. “Evelyn, what do you know about the murder that happened last week on the Skytrain?” I asked. “You mean Kaew?” she replied. I was shocked that she was familiar with the name.
later, Sia Preeda found himself out of the police station in his Mercedes with the bailed driver. Leaving the premises, he spotted the shining blue BMW parked in the roofed garage under a sign that read “Superintendent.” The businessman could now guess where his donation would be going. The young police colonel eyed the white envelope he had just accepted from Sia Preeda. Yuddha knew that, according to the Criminal Code, he had just made another offence of willfully accepting a bribe. If caught