Posted on by Matt Thomas

Andrea’s Travels, Part I: The Flight to Seoul

She’s got the Eye of Fatima/ on the wall of her motel room.

Camper Van Beethoven

Dateline Buenos Aries: Friday Morning

The plane eases into its docking point, 15 minutes late. Andrea wasn’t fretting; she’d been around a bit and knew that things sometimes worked. Other times, well they didn’t.

She is not on the run, not exactly anyway. Nonetheless, the 27 hour trip from Buenos Aries to Seoul via Atlanta will put half a world of distance between her and M. Azur. Welcome distance for Andrea, as the formerly desultory attentions of her blue friend have recently taken a turn for the more incessant. In short, he’s been calling her daily, one thin pretext after another. “Everything’s thin,” she mused, and M. Azur could thin paint. A classy guy who makes decisions and implements is what she needs, not some milquetoast beta-male in the medical tubing industry.  For Christ’s sake already. So Seoul beckoned, and the plane, the plane was late.

Andrea scratches her nose, adjusts her glasses. The turnaround crew would need 20, 25 minutes minimum to turn the plane over for the flight. A quick scan of her messages shows three new bleats from her would-be paramour. Pretext, text, context—still a no. She could handle herself, could Andrea. “Many apologies, I have been so busy,” she texts. “Dinner meeting is not possible this week. Tubing sales are up—talk again.” M.Azur would be a blue mist in no time. Ground staff opens pre-boarding, and Andrea, zoned in section 4, makes a lateral move into zone 3 to make sure her carry-on has the room it needed. “Who’s better than me?”

Andrea settles into 14A, a window seat. Bottle of water, headphones and a sleeping mask. Structured correctly, a plane flight can be made to feel like an undersea journey. All it requires is a little imagination.

Andrea has all she needs to swim a little up there in the ether. Her phone is set to airplane mode and the seat next to her is vacant. Bonus, she tells herself. A non-descript business traveler has the aisle. He looks more like a brown than a blue. Won’t be an issue.

Andrea is a lady, a women really, somewhere in her later 20s, probably. We won’t ask. Attractive, but no waif, she enjoys fine dining and a glass or three of wine. When she drinks her cheeks get rosy red which accentuates her dimples. The gym is not the place to find a girl of her kind; the Mr. Blues of the world are advised to try the patisserie instead. Buy her a piece of pie. Cherry, lemon, coconut cream. Pumpkin, peach, pecan. Andrea might be a little picky with her guys; her pie game is more omnivorous.

Without really trying, she has the attention of a half-dozen men within a thirty-year age range, all of whom she deflects with the grace of a fencer. Buenos Aries, Rome, Tampa, Algiers it doesn’t seem to matter where she goes there will be a guy or two. Boys on board and boys on deck. What’s the opposite of a chick magnet? Andrea might not be quite that, but she has options. A passing funny thought, so she dials up an early Bitch Magnet record on her phone.  That was Sooyoung Park’s first band, pre-Seam. Little Park, big city, Korean heritage. Going to Seoul, apropos. Bitch Magnet rocks.

What does Andrea do? It’s a question she can’t quite answer herself. Broadly speaking, she is in sales, a cog in the vast machinery of deal making between multi-nationals. In other words, she is around transactions, helps to facilitate them. An “industry conference” awaits in Seoul. The Korean word for blue is “puleun.” Will there be any puleuns at the industry event? almost surely. Andrea sighs at the smallness of it all. White wine please, make it a double.

The plane is well up over the Pacific by now and Andrea is tipsy at thirty-thousand feet. Where is she really from? It would take a month of pies to get that out of her.  A month of pies and a month of Sundays. So we shall say she is post-racial, like the women in Code 46.

“In a dystopian future, insurance fraud investigator William Gold (Tim Robbins) arrives in Shanghai to investigate a forgery ring for “papelles,” futuristic passports that record people’s identities and genetics. Gold falls for Maria Gonzalez (Samantha Morton), the woman in charge of the forgeries.”

Is “topian” the opposite of dystopian, she wonders? Three drinks and an hour of Bitch Magnet in and she’s feeling a little topian herself. Andrea would be fine in the world of Code 46. Hell, she’d probably thrive.

to be continued…

Dedication: For a good friend who gave me some pieces. 

Posted on by Matt Thomas · 1 Comment

The Thin Man in Rome, Part III: Reading Maya’s Chart

Dateline The Jazz Club: November 5th, 20:29

The saxophonist and theremin player jam for about fifteen minutes before taking a break. Nothing is announced, and the thin man can’t tell what’s going on. Was that the opening act? Are either of these players part of the trio? Where is the trio? Which if any of these people is Peter Andreessen? Information is thin. A guy in a black and white striped shirt brings out an electric organ and begins setting it up while the theremin player hits the bar. For a moment the thin man forgets about his assignment and just allows himself to enjoy the scene.

Maya is sitting with Philip, McKnight, and the other young man from before. This group as currently constructed does not look particularly permeable, so the thin man bides his time. After a while, the organ player starts playing a riff, high on the keyboard, lots of black keys. The saxophone player comes back out and act two of the show is underway. This duo is actually really good, and the thin man envies the organ player’s facility. The dude can play.

A few stools down from the thin man and Ali sits a woman with dark blonde hair, fully made up, wearing a fur shawl and spiky leather boots. She looks to be in her mid-40s, give or take a few years. She addresses herself to the thin man.

“Sit here,” she says, gesturing to the stool next to her.

The thin man considers this request. On the one hand, she doesn’t seem like his usual type, for another thing, he’s working. That said, the thin man is a gentleman of a kind, and doesn’t like to say no to ladies. He moves over to next to her.

“You’re not from here,” she says. Not a question.

“No. I just got in from Singapore.” This much is true.

“You’re cute,” she says. “Buy me a drink.”

“What would you like?”

“Manhattan. He knows how I like it,” she says, gesturing to the bartender. This woman, the thin man takes it, is a regular. “I’m Vivian,” she says.

“Jack Bishop,” says the thin man.

“Hi Jack Bishop,” she says and lays her right hand on his arm. “I’m glad I met you tonight.”

The thin man’s usual type she may not be, however she is a well-put together woman for sure and her initial moves seem pretty promising. The thin man takes her hand below the bar and they exchange smiles. The thin man sneaks a glance at Ali, but the driver’s face is impassive. Ali has seen it all—therefore sees nothing.

The organ and saxophone set turns out to be a longer than the first, and after about 20 minutes the thin man sees Maya heading back to the lobby, alone. Vivian is going to have to wait; he’ll be back later, if possible. He slides along the left side of the room back to the lobby where he finds Maya, smoking a menthol.

“May I join you,” he asks, taking out his American Spirits.

“Sure, want a light?”

“That would be fantastic.”

Maya lights the thin man’s cigarette as he looks around. The theremin player has established herself behind the merch table and there are about 20 different items for sale, CDs, vinyl, some kind of flash drive thing with music on it, etc. Peter Andreessen is one prolific individual, thinks the thin man, if there even is a Peter Andreessen. The thin man remembers that Philip had said that Maya liked action, and the plurality of merch choices gives him an idea.

“Want to play a game?” he asks Maya.

“What kind of game?”

The thin man takes her arm and steers her over to the merch table. “Pick a number between one and twenty.” The thin man knows that very few people, beautiful temptresses not excluded, can resist picking a number.

Maya flushes slightly. “14,” she says. “I like 14.”

“14 is my lucky number,” says the thin man. “Let’s count.” And he starts counting off the items from the top left one by one until he gets to 14.

“I’ll take this one,” he tells the theremin player. She looks at the CD and smiles. “That’s one of my favorites,” she says.

“I’m sure it’s awesome,” says the thin man. He pays for the record with some of Grey’s Euros and turns back to Maya.

“May I buy you a white lady madam?”

She laughs lightly.

“Are you trying to pick me up? Because you should know I’m taken.”

The thin man has already decided to take a direct approach.

“I’m not trying to pick you up,” he says. “I’m just hitting on you.”

Maya blushes outright. “Are you always so straightforward?”

“Just a straight arrow, that’s me.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” says Maya. But she stays put.

The thin man decides it’s time to tack back to safer ground.

“Have you known Alan long?” he asks, even though he has already gleaned this information from Philip.

“Sure, I’m his bae,” says Maya.

“What’s a bae?”

“It means before anyone else, silly.” Three weeks and already a bae? thinks the Thin Man.

“Oh, so you’ve been together a while then?”

“Actually no, I’m not really his bae. I’m just the slut on the side.”

Now this is information the thin man can get behind. Time to push his chips in.

“Do you have a cellphone?” he asks. Yes, she does.

“Let me borrow it for a second.” Maya looks at the thin man quizzically.

“What for?” she asks.

“I’ll do your chart. Do you know your birth time?”

“I think so. It’s like 1:34 in the morning.” Maya has her phone out and the thin man slides it into his own hands.

“May I open a browser?”

“I guess so,” says Maya. “I mean if you are going to do my chart and all.”

“What’s your birthday?”

“February 3rd, 1989.”

“Ah, an Aquarius. Figures.”

“What do you mean ‘figures’?” she asks, “what figures?”

“Well I just mean that you’re an air sign, which makes sense to me. I’m an air sign too. You think fast and move fast. I like that about you already.”

“Oh you do do you. Well we’ll see about that.” She pauses, and then, because having your chart read is just basically addictive, she asks, “What else do you see?”

The thin man points to the glyph representing Mars. “Mars is in your 6th house—that’s a strong placement for a career woman. I’d say you are a powerful force in your own sphere, am I right?”

Maya smiles coyly. “Maybe. Maybe I am. Is there anything else about my career?”

“Well Mars is square Venus in the 2nd house. That’s interesting. That could mean a lot of things. It might mean that your work life and love life are connected. Maybe there’s something there that’s being worked out.”

Now you might think that the thin man is playing it a little too fast and loose here, but he knows what he’s doing. He’s no expert in astrology, but he’d picked up a bit from a bartender called Jessica who he’d worked with back on the cruise ship. Jessica was a pro, and would read customers’ charts on the regular. The thin man had watched her performance many a time. From Jessica he knew that when reading someone’s chart you can basically say anything as long as you ground it in a little actual astrological theory. So it was with the Mars-Venus square, a perfect opening into Maya’s secret world.

“Are you suggesting I’m sleeping with my boss?“ she asks. “Because he’s not my boss. And anyway I’m barely sleeping with him.”

“I didn’t mean anything of the kind,” replies the thin man smoothly. “From looking at your chart I’d say it’s more like there is something in the realm of love that will be a turning point for you professionally one way or another. I’m not sure what that could be.”

“Oh my gosh, it’s exciting,” says Maya. “Tell me more about my chart.”

Running out of ideas, the thin man stalls. “Let me look more carefully. There’s a lot here.”

“Am I complex?” she asks.

“Very complex. Complex and deep I’d say. A lot of planets below the horizon.”

Before the thin man can delve further into the mysteries of Maya’s chart, two men approach. The one in front is heavyset and looks to be a native Italian. The other one is lighter with blonde hair and a slight sneer already in place. The thin man guesses he is from Northern Europe, Germany maybe. The heavyset man squares his stance just a foot or two from the thin man and Maya.

“You two are getting pretty cozy back here, aren’t you?”

“And this matters to you how exactly?” asks the thin man.

“She’s my sister,” says the man, “and I don’t want some creep like you hanging around her.”

The man was not Maya’s brother, this much the thin man knew. However he played along.

“You have a very interesting sister,” he says “do you know she’s a natal Aquarius?”

“How about this,” says the man, “how about you shut the fuck up and fuck off?”

“Now that’s not very nice,” says the thin man. “I thought we were just starting to get along.”

The blonde man steps forward. “We’re not asking twice pal,” he says. He’s seen one two many movies this guy. The thin man turns to Maya. “Looks like you got the manners in the family,” he says. But Maya turns away.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I had probably better get back to my group.” Kin they may not be; however the men have some kind of hold over her, and she heads back to where the show is kicking off once again.

The thin man is prepared to beat a strategic retreat when the heavyset man starts in again.

“What were you doing on her phone?”

The thin man considers his response carefully. On the one hand he could tell the truth—we were just checking out her birth chart—but that might only further aggravate the man. The thin man guesses that these two are some kind of minders sent from Pelican corp. to keep an eye on Maya. They are probably worried about her phone containing sensitive information. Before the thin man can reply Mitchell Grey appears as if from nowhere.

“Is there some kind of a problem gentlemen?”

“No problem old timer,” says the heavyset man, “this guy was just hassling my sister.”

“I don’t think so,” says Grey. “I don’t think that is what was going on at all.” Grey may be in his sixties, but as he squares his shoulders and lifts his chin slightly it’s clear that he is not a guy to mess with. The heavyset man registers this, takes a beat. Slowly he pulls back the right flap of his jacket to reveal a gun on his hip.

“What’s that?” asks the thin man.

“It’s a gun.”

“Let me have it.”

The man barks out a laugh. “The fuuck are you two?”

“We’re not the guys you kill,” replies the thin man, “We’re the guys you buy.”

“Well, I’m the guy you kill,” says Grey, “but not tonight I think.”

The heavyset man has heard enough, and balls his fists, holding them slightly in front of his body. “You motherf…” he starts, but gets no further because Ali is already behind him and twists his right arm up behind his back, hard. The man yelps in pain and Ali slams him against the wall. The German takes a step back and raises his hands slightly as if in surrender, his sneer turned to fear.

“Looks like you’re outnumbered now,” says Grey as cool as can be. Why don’t you put it back in your pants and let’s go have a little talk.”

to be continued…

Posted on by Matt Thomas · 1 Comment

The Thin Man in Rome, Part II: At the Jazz Club

My baby’s gonna pay for me.

The National

Dateline The Jazz Club: November 5th, 17:54

The thin man met Grey in the lobby as promised where Grey handed him several hundred Euros as well as some American dollars. “Just in case we get separated,” Grey said. The thin man could take care of himself ok at a poolside party in Singapore, however tonight’s action already felt a little different. He wondered if Grey was carrying a gun. Happy as he was to have the cash, the thin man hoped Grey would not stray too far afield. The driver had the car ready, and they drove the 20 minutes to the jazz club.

Once inside (the doors had actually soft-opened sometime before 18:00) the thin man takes the place in. It’s a pretty large club with a stage area at floor  in front, a bar to the left, and a sound booth in the middle with aisles on each side so that patrons can feed back into a lobby area where another bar is set-up, as well as space for the “merch table.”

There are already 20 or 30 people inside, drinking, talking, smoking. The thin man decides to buy a pack of cigarettes–cigarettes are a great ice breaker and the thin man will need to break some ice later on. He asks for American Spirits, purple, and the bartender hands them over.

“Who’s playing tonight?” asks the thin man in English.

“The Peter Andreessen Trio,” replies the bartender in the same language. “They are pretty popular, and a little far out.”

Far out, thinks the thin man. Far out is good. I can work with far out. He sees Grey across the room, sitting with two younger men. Neither of these looks much like a senior vice-president. The thin man starts to move toward the group but Grey shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. Guess we don’t know each other, thinks the thin man. Makes sense. He recalibrates mentally for a second–he’s just here to take in a little jazz and maybe hit on some women. Or one particular woman perhaps.

He orders a white lady, gin and Cointreau, on the rocks. The thin man is a dabbler, in life and in alcohol, and white ladies are there to be dabbled in. He starts to circulate, moving easily, just looking to make conversation. One of the men Grey had been talking to is at the back bar and the thin man approaches.

“Hi, I’m Jack.”

“Hey Jack,” says the man, “I’m Philip. You here for some jazz?” Philip has what sounds like an American accent, and the thin man guesses he works for Company X in some capacity.

“Sure am,” says the thin man. “I’m a big jazz fan, but I don’t know these guys tonight. Do you know anything about them?”

“Yeah, I saw them play before here in town. They’re from Norway and they’re pretty far out.”

“Cool,” says the thin man, “sounds like fun. Where are you from Philip?”

“From the USA man, Kentucky originally. But I’ve been living here in Rome for about two years.”

“What do you do?”

“I work for a company called Company X. I’m in the marketing department, and I report directly to a vice-president over here. It’s a pretty good gig.”

“Company X huh? I think I’ve heard of them. Aren’t they in talks to buy the Green Group or something?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” replies Philip. “You’re up to speed on the business news.”

“I dabble,” says the thin man, “but I don’t know much more than that. Is anyone else from your company going to be here tonight?”

“There should be a few of us, yeah. I think my boss is coming too, with his new girlfriend.” Philip leans closer to the thin man and says quietly “you gotta check this chick out man. She’s got it all going on. She’s called Maya and she just arrived in town like three weeks ago. My fuckin’ boss moves fast man.”

“It’s good to be the boss I guess,” says the thin man.

“Yeah man,” says Philip. “What ya drinking?”

“It’s called a white lady. You should order one too.”

“Maya’s a white lady too I think. Not really sure. I think she was in Eastern Europe before somewhere. Anyway, I should stop talking about Maya, it’s bad form I guess.”

The thin man laughed. “Not bad form at all. I’m interested. What does she do here in Rome?”

“I’m not really sure. She’s living at the Plaza, probably on my boss’ dime. I think she’s in corporate in some way. You can ask her yourself, she should be here soon.”

“I’d like to meet her,” said the thin man. “If you would be kind enough to make an introduction.”

“Sure thing. I’m not sure you’re her type but you never know. She likes action, and money.”

“Well I don’t have any money,” replies the thin man, “but maybe I can generate a little action. Let’s see how things go.”

The thin man and his new friend chat a little more, before a woman who looks to be in her early thirties comes in with an older man in a suit with no necktie. The suit looks sharp, maybe not as sharp as our driver’s outfit, but sharp, however the man inside it looks like he’s got some things going on. His hair is slightly out of place and he looks around the club rapidly. He’s a little jumpy. The woman is dressed in a stunning black dress with a fur coat on top, kitten heels, and a necklace with an inset ruby. Philip waves at them and they wave back. This must be Maya, thinks the thin man. Very intriguing.

As Maya checks her coat, the VP approaches the bar.

“Good to see you Philip,” he says. “Maya was running a little late as usual and I was afraid we’d miss the first part of the show. What are you drinking?”

“It’s called a white lady,” says Philip, “he turned me on to it.” Philip gestures toward the thin man who has already turned slightly to face the duo. The VP offers his hand to the thin man.

“Alan McKnight,” he says, “white ladies eh?”

“Jack Bishop,” says the thin man. “Yes sir, there is nothing more satisfying than a white lady after a long day.”

“I have no doubt,” says McKnight, “but I think I’ll just have a beer. Maya might try one of those though, she like her fancy cocktails.”

His beer arrives as Maya comes over to join the group. She glances at the thin man before turning to McKnight.

“Buy me a martini darling. Two olives.” She speaks with the absolute assurance of someone who never has to pay her own way.

As the bartender is mixing her martini a few notes from a saxophone drift back from the area of the stage. The band is setting up, testing instruments.

“I won’t even have time to enjoy my beer before the show starts,” complains McKnight. “I wish you didn’t take so long to get ready honey.”

Maya turns up her nose–McKnight’s salvo doesn’t even merit a reply. The thin man still hasn’t been introduced to Maya, so he comes one step closer and says “hi I’m Jack. I was just chatting with Philip before you guys came in. Philip says you’re new to Rome?”

“This time around, yes,” she says. “I used to live here though, so I know the city.”

“How long will you be staying?” asks the thin man.

“As long as he’ll have me,” she replies, turning to McKnight. “Right darling?”

McKnight is not paying attention. “Uh, right, uh huh.”

“I said you’re going to keep me around aren’t you?”

“Of course I am.” McKnight has regained his focus. “You know how much I treasure you honey.”

The thin man finds all this talk pretty banal, but it does provide some insight into Maya and McKnight’s relationship. McKnight might well treasure her, however he is also clearly unhappy with certain aspects of their relationship. In addition, he is continuing to look around as if he was expecting someone or something. The thin man wonders if McKnight has a suspicion that all was not what it seemed with Maya. He might realize this on an instinctual level without guessing, for example, that she might be a corporate spy.

“Shall we go up front? The show’s about to start,” says Philip.

The group takes their drinks and moves past the sound booth to get a good view of the stage. The thin man looks around surreptitiously but sees no sign of Grey. He does see the driver however, leaning against the inside bar and smoking a cigarette. The thin man makes a strategic decision to separate temporary from the Company X crew. If he’s going to make a move on Maya tonight it’s better that he approaches from a more oblique angle anyway.

The thin man walks across to the bar and stands next to the driver. Although Grey had indicated that the he should act like a stranger, the room is filling up and he feels like a little chat can’t hurt anything. He keeps his voice low though, just as a matter of tradecraft.

“I didn’t get your name before,” says the thin man. “Mine’s Jack.”

“Ali,” says the man. “Making any progress?” He is apparently entirely up to speed with this evening’s operation.

“Hard to say. I’ll need more time. Do you work for Company X as well?”

“Not I,” says Ali in perfectly inflected English. “Grey doesn’t either, really. We’re contractors.”

“I see. Have you worked together long?”

Ali looks at the thin man and pauses. For just a second the thin man sees something flash in the man’s eyes, something close to sadness. Then it’s gone, and the man says matter of factly, “I’ve known Grey for thirty years. We’re partners.”

All of the sudden a tallish women comes on stage and, without a word, begins playing what looks to the thin man like a mini-theremin. The keening notes of this unusual instrument fill the room, and Ali looks at the thin man with a slight smile and shrugs. Mini-theremin may or may be not be Ali’s cup of tea, but he’s a gamer, and the thin man feels warmly toward him. The theremin player starts ramping things up and a second musician joins her on stage and, again without a word, begins playing the saxophone, loudly and erratically. The show has begun.

to be continued…

Posted on by Matt Thomas · 1 Comment

The Thin Man in Rome, Part I: Meeting the Hired Hand

Dateline Rome: November 5th, 10:00

The plane lands at the airport in Rome around 10 AM and the thin man, feeling semi-human after running a Lysol scented wash towel over his face, deplanes and cleares immigration with the passport from Alejandro. Alejandro does good work, he thinks, not for the first time.

As he departs security, he scans for his name among the line of folks holding placards upon departure. “Jack Bishop,” “thin man,” or any other suitable appellation would have sufficed, but the thin man sees none of these. When he has navigated the whole line, however, he sees a man who appears to be in his early sixties standing with an alert posture at the end of the queue. He stands about 5’10 and has salt and pepper hair cropped close. Ex-military or something, thinks the thin man. The man holds no sign, but nods meaningfully at the thin man. This is the guy.

“Jack Bishop?” the man inquires.

“Yeah, but most people call me thin man.”

“Mitchell Grey,” says the man. “We have a car waiting for you. Right this way.”

The thin man and Mitchell Grey exit the terminal into a parking lot where a dark grey Mercedes is waiting. The thin man slides into the back, where the requisite bottle of water and box of mints await. The driver, who looks to be in his early fifties, and wears a crisp white shirt under his blazer, asks if his new passenger wants any particular kind of music.

“Do you have any Red Krayola,” asks the thin man.

“Best I can do is Pere Ubu,” the driver replies.

“Fair enough.”

Mitchell Grey and the thin man relax for a moment as they cruise through the streets to “Non-Alignment Pact.” Then Grey turns to the thin man.

“Do you know what you are doing here?”

“No idea. Alejandro just told me to come over.”

“OK. Company X has a little problem we need to handle.”

“What kind of problem?”

“A certain senior vice-president has been messing around with a woman who, we have reason to believe, is employed by a competitor, the Pelican Corp. He has, to put it plainly, fallen into a honey trap.”

“I see. Corporate espionage.”

“Indeed. Alejandro said you are a bit of an expert.”

“I just got lucky once.”

“Well, let’s see if you can’t get lucky again. We need to find out what the woman knows and neutralize her position. Then we’ll let the vice-president know his time at the top is done and he needs to skip town.”

“Alejandro said Company X is respectable. I didn’t know we’d have to neutralize anyone.”

“There are various ways to neutralize someone, most of them non-lethal. And Company X is respectable. You and me are just in the respectability management business.”

“I guess we are,” said the thin man. “What’s our first move?”

“There’s a jazz trio playing tonight at a little club downtown. The woman in question will be there with the vice-president. You will ingratiate yourself with her while I have a little warm-up chat with the VP. She is called Maya, and likes intrigue. So intrigue her.”

“I see. Have you done this kind of thing before?”

“I’ve done a lot of things,” said Mitchell Grey. This, muses the thin man, was undoubtedly true.

The driver pulled up to the Westin Excelsior and Grey and the thin man get out.

“Your room is on the 6th floor,” says Grey. The show starts at 19:30, but doors open at 6 for drinks. We’ll get there early to get the lay of the land. See you in the lobby at 17:15.”

Jesus thinks the thin man. Another brutal turnaround, same as it ever was. But he doesn’t let it show.

“17:15, sure thing. What should I wear?”

“Whatever makes you comfortable at a nightclub. And thin man, bring your best smile.”

“Copy,” says the thin man. This all sounds like work, but he allows himself to experience a slight twinge of anticipation for the evening. Honey pots, Maya the goddess of illusion, powerful men behaving badly, a little jazz—it might be fun. He’d try and bring his A-game this time.

to be continued…

Posted on by Matt Thomas

The Thin Man in Singapore Part V: Alice’s Birthday and a Guardian Angel

You clean yourself to meet/ a man who isn’t me/ you’re putting on a shirt/ a shirt I’ll never see/ ’cause you’re too smart to remember/ you’re too smart/ lucky you

The National

Dateline Singapore: November 3rd, 13:06

The phone rings, jarring the thin man out of sleep. “Where the/ what the/ who the…” Images in shards–his grandmother’s house and he is six, sun streaming through a late afternoon window. He rolls over. No by god, a bed, an adult body within. He picks up the phone. “Uh huh?”

“It’s Alejandro. Your passport will be ready tomorrow morning and you’re on an Emirates flight to Rome via Dubai tomorrow at 9 PM. In the meantime Alice is having a birthday party and you’re invited.”

“Alice?”

“Miller’s secretary. You might have heard the rumors, but she’s a cool cat and it’ll be fun. 17:00 at Chijmes. Be there.”

“Seriously? I don’t know Alice and, I’d rather just rest up you know.”

“Not an option. You’re not invited, more required. From Miller directly. Buck up man and see you at 5.”

Holy Jesus, another evening. The thin man rises, splashes cold water on his face and when this doesn’t do the trick, fills the sink with cold water and plunges his face into the water, eyes wide open. He exhales; water goes everywhere. He dabs at it with a hand towel. Breakfast is long over–lunch is a maybe. 20 minutes later he has showered and shaved and limps downstairs.

“Lunch is still open?”

The man’s smile masks a scowl. Rolling into a buffet that closes at 14:00 at 13:46 is no way to endear yourself to staff. He takes a seat by the window, wanders the buffet. Two bowls of mushroom soup, two watermelon juices, a roll with butter, salmon sashimi and an Americano. Vague feelings of humanity follow.

On his phone the thin man peruses “The Essentials of Casino Game Design” as he eats. This is more out of habit than interest–he has no desire to re-enter the gambling demi-monde. Reflex is a bitch though. The waiter circles, pressing his point from 5 feet away. “I got you babe,” thinks the thin man. He makes marginal eye contact, figures he has another 20 minutes give or take. He resolves to relax into the spacetime as fully as possible before the waiter pulls rank. He has no desire to make trouble but at the same time, a customer is a customer and soup is soup. A game for two players. Eventually, he makes his move before the waiter is forced to make his.

“On my room please, 727,” he says, with studied nonchalance. Everything takes all afternoon.

The thin man has a number of flaws but he does clean up well. That’s a skill, a blessing, a bonus. Re-showered, shaved, and an app-assisted breathing exercise later, he shows at Chijmes on time and on point. Miller himself greets him with a slap on the back.

“Mr. Bishop, your work is appreciated. Much appreciated. I heard that you will be staying with the firm. Rome is beautiful this time of year. You are a lucky man.”

“It is my pleasure to be of service.” The thin man is not serious, yet not unserious. The work is the work and he has no other. “Anyway, happy birthday to Alice hey?”

“Hehe, haha. Alice, yes,” salivates Miller.

Another day, another passport thinks the thin man. Several people he doesn’t know are there. The crew moves to an outdoor restaurant; the usual wrangling over orders ensues and Long Island Ice Teas appear. There is no drink more perfectly positioned to cause trouble than a Long Island Ice Tea. The thin man downs two before the Nachos arrive. A waitress circles. “White or red,” she asks. “Both please” replies the thin man. It’s early and he has no intention of sticking with this group after dinner. Why not make the most of the moment.

The food is a B at best, but the drinks are loaded. The sun shines in the late evening. The usual Singapore rain squall has not appeared today. 6 PM, the magical hour, and the thin man begins to fade into the perfect liminality that only occurs between drinks three and four.

Titters from Alice. Winks from Alejandro. Miller sits straight up, what a spine. The thin man is bored. Time passes; the sun sets.

“One more?” asks Miller.

“How about the hotel bar?”asks the thin man. The sooner near home the better. Miller covers the bill and tracks are made.

The thin man and crew enter the bar and the mood is boisterous. The thin man feels as thin as paper. He needs an ally. As his party makes its way to a table, he approaches the barmaid. Her tag identifies her as “May.” Always approach service workers with kindness and respect–they get so little of it so it goes a long way.

“Good evening May. My friends and I are looking to enjoy the bar tonight. Only, I have been on the road for weeks and I’m a little tired.” He slips her a $50 bill. “I know bars don’t love to serve water, but if you could keep an eye on me and refill my water glass I’d be in your debt.”

May looks him up and down.

“No problem. Rely on me.”

The thin man makes it to the booth where Company X holds court. Miller and Alice’s hands dance a protracted duet. Alejandro sits a foot away, just keeping an eye on things.

A round of drinks, another. May keeps her end of things and the thin man hydrates, for a while. A woman called Marta had introduced herself at dinner and slides into the booth next to the thin man.

“How do you know Alice?” she asks.

“I don’t.”

“Oh. I have a bet with Jeffrey over there. He thinks you are on his team.”

“On his team?”

“You know,” she drops into a stage whisper, “Jeffrey likes men.”

“I see. I don’t have a team,” replies the thin man. “I’m a free agent.”

“Not so fast,” interjects Alejandro, who seems to register everything that is said at the table. “You are on our team. You have a contract.”

“A contract? I haven’t seen anything like that. And besides I don’t see how that would be possible. Text is dead, or that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Don’t mind him,” says Alejandro, “he likes being heavily humorous.”

Marta doesn’t seem to mind. Somehow her arms and legs are entangled with the Thin Man’s. How does that even happen? he thinks. He’s lost the touch he never had, but matters seems to be progressing anyway. Amazing. He hears Jeffrey calling for champagne. Now, even from deep in a haze the thin man knows that ordering a bottle of champagne in a hotel bar is not exactly value for money. A commotion is taking place across the bar. Men from the Green Group are hassling the bar staff, something has gone wrong with an order they allege. The Thin Man swivels his head around to take a look and his mind recedes into fantasy:

Shut your traps and stop hassling the waiter! We’re trying to enjoy a birthday! And if I have to tell you again, we’re gonna take it outside and I’m gonna show you what it’s like! You understand me? Now, shut your mouths or I’ll shut’em for ya, and if you think I’m kidding, just try me. Try me. Because I would love it!

He glances at the bar, catches May’s eye. She shakes her head imperceptibly, reading his mind. Absurd ideas of accosting the group and defending her honor recede. He breathes a sigh of relief.

A second bottle of champagne arrives, a third. We are at the stage of the evening where petty arguments break out all of the sudden, and are as quickly forgotten. The thin man, Marta and the sofa seem to have merged into a single entity. This is pleasant.

He snaps back into consciousness. The party seems to have thinned out. Miller and Alice are gone. Alejandro gets up to leave and Jeffrey waives off his efforts to pay. It’s true Alejandro drank only club soda. A steady hand, this guy. He leans over to the thin man, lets him know his passport will arrive in the morning.

“We’ll be in touch.”

“Oh good.” It’s all he can think of to say. He sees 120 Singapore dollars on the table, begins to calculate. The bill will be a lot higher than that. What’s happened here is he has fallen prey to the cruel economics of party leaving whereby early leavers underestimate their impact on the total bill. Marta is warm but the future is cold. It’ll be him and Jeffrey splitting the bill.

“Maybe we should call it an evening,” he says. He draws himself to his feet, a mighty effort, and approaches May. “What do we owe?”

“It’s all taken care of,” she says.

“Miller paid on his way out?”

She shakes her head, whispers in his ear, “your bill was charged to the Green Group. They probably won’t know the difference and if they do, they check out the day after tomorrow so…” May places her index finger on thin man’s lips and presses gently. He goggles, is in love.

“You are an angel,” he says.

“Shhh, silly. You’ll get me in trouble.”

He circles back to the table. “The bill is paid,” he tells Marta and Jeffrey. “Leave the cash as a tip.” They don’t bat an eye–too far gone to care. “I told you he isn’t on your team,” says Marta. “I win the bet.”

“It’s too early to tell,” says Jeffrey.

The thin man gives Marta a kiss goodnight. “I’ve got to fly tomorrow.”

“I know.” Theirs was an encounter based in a specific locale, a specific moment. Some encounters are like that.

Dateline Singapore: November 4th, 10:00

Ah the Sabbath. The thin man had managed to set his alarm for 10:30 but it’s not needed. The phone rings at 10 AM, and the receptionist tells him he’s been cleared for a late check out of 17:00. How did that happen? She doesn’t know. “It says right here sir.” 11 hours before the flight. What would a human do with 11 hours, he thinks? He takes a swim, showers, eats mushroom soup and indulges in a few slices of roast beef this time. He remembers a much loved song:

I’m so sorry but the motorcade will have to go around me this time/ ’cause God is on my side

That’s attitude. He tries to summon 1/10th of that mood, says a little prayer to his angels. On the way back to room 727 a maid smiles at him. “You must be the British gentleman,” she says.

“Oh, why is that?”

“Because your room, it’s so neat and clean.”

British rooms are neat and clean? That’s news to the thin man. Am I British, he wonders? The reason his room is clean is because there’s next to nothing in it.

“Thank you. Have a wonderful day.”

“You too sir.” There is nothing that he has ever done in his life to deserve such respect, he feels. Life is good.

Under his door there is a manila envelope. Inside is a passport in the name of Jack Bishop and $3000. There is also an index card with a phone number. At the bottom of the card he reads “May.” Life is good? Hell, god is good man. The thin man smiles and packs his valise. 8 hours later he is airborne en route to Rome.

to be continued…

Dedication: For Mint.

Posted on by Matt Thomas

The Thin Man in Singapore Part IV: Marcus

Señor, señor, I can see that painted wagon
Smell the tail of the dragon
I can’t stand the suspense here anymore
Can you tell me who to contact here, señor?

Bob Dylan

Dateline The Alligator Pear: November 2nd, 16:25

The thin man met the accountants for an early drink at the Alligator Pear as promised. They drank Mojitos, a ridiculous drink that is invariably watered down. The thin man had a vodka and soda, a safe choice ahead of what could be a long night.

The mood of the men swung between giddy and glum. One of them was on some kind of app, choosing an escort for later on. The men advised him on his choice with the surgical precision of serious professionals. The thin man hoped that he could be as precise in his own operation tonight.

“Did you folks get wristbands yet?” a waiter in his early 20s asked. They hadn’t, so they did. Yes, the event security is poor, but to be fair they all looked the part of party goers. And so they were. All going to the party.

The party must have been paid for weeks ago because all the stops were turned out. A full bar, lobster tails, sushi, fondue, steak tartare, champagne. Sometimes the best way to look prosperous is to look prosperous. The guests were high in no time. The future was unwritten, terrifying. All they had was tonight.

Nursing his second vodka and soda, the thin man scoped out the scene. Anderson was not present, nor was Rink. The highest ranking Green Grouper seemed to be a regional vice-president called Lewis. It was he that gave the toast, “to a glorious future, the Green Group!” Salut. Lewis was in his early 40s, too young and too on the spot. The thin man needed someone older, someone with less to lose.

Outside on the pool deck a group of three men had lit up cigars. This was surely against regulations, however a payment must have passed under the table, either that or tonight was one of those nights were regulations just weren’t in effect. Regulations are like that, even in Singapore. They are human created and human maintained. Or, in this case, not.

Cigar smokers, mused the thin man. Cigar smokers tend toward the genial and the venial. Toward the cynical and the amoral. Toward the reckless and the egotistical. In that moment, he loved cigar smokers. Cigar smokers were excellent. The only issue was he might have to have one too.

He approaches the group a little gingerly. The move here is a little different than cozying up to the accountants. There he wanted to be taken in as a peer and fit in. Here, his role is of the acolyte, the younger man. Now which one is our mark? Individual one appears in his mid-sixties, and sports a brown jacket that is at least three years past its prime. His feet are shuffling an alcoholics’ shuffle. No thank you. Individual two is in his 50s dressed in a tux. Hair slicked back with pomade, a little glassy eyed. A greaser who got lucky. No.

The third man, however, is of a different type. Also in his 60s, he wears a pale red sweater over a tieless pink shirt. He is handsome for his age, white hair adding a touch of distinction. He is slightly overweight but in a way that suggests ease not sloth. The thin man cages a cigar from the brown jacket, lights it, and stares into the middle distance. A few puffs later he casually turns to the man in the red sweater.

“Jack,” he says, “quite a view eh?”

“Marcus,” says the man, “view of the end of the world if you ask me.”

“The company? The rumors?”

“Rumors? Boy, ain’t no rumors about it. We’ve got a ringside seat on the Titanic.” His laugh is actually merry. The thin man is elated, an emotion he subsumes into wide-eyed curiosity. He wills himself to look 10 years younger, like we said, an acolyte.

“I heard Rink is making his move by Monday,” says the thin man. He has heard no such thing, it just makes sense in context.

“Made his move already. Anderson is bleeding like a stuck pig. Rink will announce the coup on Monday at the latest. The wires may have it before then.”

The thin man is getting warm. He turns gently to face Marcus, cutting off communication lines with the other men. Drink in his right, he stretchres his left arm out part way as if he is about to put his arm around the older man. But not quite. It’s all in the mechanics. Marcus takes a few steps away from the edge of the pool and toward a padded bench for two.

“Can I get you another drink, sir?” asks the thin man.

“You sit with me boy,” says Marcus. “Drinks are his job.” He gestures to the young waiter. “Two Gibsons, and make ’em strong.” At they sit the Thin Man channels “boy.”

“So Rink will really pull it off eh? That should get us right back on track.” Fishing.

“Balls boy. Back on track! Anderson siphoned so much money out of the company that Rink will have to go hat in hand to Company X. Won’t have a choice.”

“Oh, the merger? I forgot about that. Well, we should get a good price right? I mean, our fundamentals are still strong.”

“Fundamentals? Boy what have you been smoking? Anyway, Rink doesn’t want to lead Green Group any more than I do. He’ll sell and take a pretty title, head off to the desert on his dune buggy.”

“At a good price, of course.”

“Phah, he’d like 60% on the dollar and would die for 51%.”

“I see. And what would he take?”

“45%. Lot of whores out there on the dunes boy. Rink’s no dummy.”

“Naturally. And what will you do sir, once the ship has sailed?

“Fuck off to Venice and blow the lot. Or, stick around and see how things develop.” Marcus leans in close to the thin man. “Do pass that on to your paymasters, will you? Marcus is ready to play ball. Marcus knows where the bodies are buried and where the light shines.” He puts his arm around the thin man, paternally which just the slightest touch of menace. “Take care of old Marcus, eh kid?”

The man knew, or guessed. The thin man draws a breathe to recalibrate. “I’ll see what I can do.” And he meant it.

Dateline The Street Outside the Swissotel: November 2nd, 16:25

It is still early-ish and the thin man has what he needs. He decides to phone Alejandro, and makes sure to exit the hotel and walk around the corner before he places the call. Alejandro picks up on the second ring, and the thin man fills him in on the basics. Alejandro tells him to come to the office, gives an address. It is a 10 minute taxi ride. The taxi driver is an ex-policeman. “I drive for my enjoyment and because it gets me out of the house,” he explains. I could drive a taxi, thinks the thin man, there are plenty of worse ways to earn a living.

Alejandro meets him at the door and escorts him through building security. The security guard asks for the thin man for ID and Alejandro shakes his head vigorously. His whole being shakes with indignation.

“We are going to the 14th floor,” he hisses with equal parts insistence and menace. “The 14th floor.” The guard, recognizing a losing hand when he sees one, waves them through.

“That reminds me, says the thin man,” I need a passport. The company can take care of that yes?”

“Sure,” says Alejandro. “As long as you’re willing to take a job overseas we can provide identification. Are you still Jack Bishop?

“Yes.”

“OK Mr. Bishop. Let’s go make the report and see where else you might be of use in this little world of ours.”

On the 14th floor the team is waiting, 11 people strong. The man in the middle crosses the room and shakes the thin man’s hand. “I’m Mr. Miller, Head of Operations for the region,” he says. “I hear you have some news for us?”

“Yes. Anderson’s a dead duck. Rink will have control by early next week. He’ll take a haircut on the shares and a sinecure. You’re good to go.”

“How much of a haircut?” asks Miller?

“Offer him 41%,” replied the thin man. It’s a brutal lowball, and the thin man feels great saying it.

A man in a yellow jacket pipes up from the left corner. “41% is nothing. We’ll risk poisoning the negotiations entirely with such a number. Where is your information from?”

“The information is sound.”

“Who did you have to deep throat then,” asks the man in yellow.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I’m director of security. It’s my job to assess risk.”

Standing in a fucking room on the 14th floor. The ocean is a great place to watch movies, and the thin man had seen his share. He turns to Miller. “I came here because Alejandro asked me to. He asked me for a favor.” He points to the security man. “I said, the real favor, follow my advice and fire his fuckin’ ass because a loser is a loser.”

You can hear a pin drop. “41% percent,” repeated the thin man. “Thank you for this opportunity. And, there is a man called Marcus, as in Aurelius. He’s an asset.” He’s bone tired as he turned to walk out the door.

Alejandro tags behind. “Well done, well done. Miller is pleased.” Alejandro possessed the eternal skill of reading the boss’ moods from micro-inflections, a true corporate survival skill.

“Thanks,” says the thin man. “When is the earliest I could get that passport?”

“Day or two. Let me get into it.” The black market economy is a marvel of efficiency, thinks the Thin Man. To live outside the law you must be honest. “And you’ll be available for international work?”

“I’m available.”

“Then we are all good.”

“See you on the dunes partner,” says the thin man. Alejandro’s look is quizzical.

“Sorry, inside joke.”

“Yeah, inside to you and you alone.”

“See you around,” says the thin man. What he means is, “it’s funny to me,” but he doesn’t want to push it. He staggers back home in a second taxi, making no eye contact until he is safely ensconced in his room. He manages to take his shoes off, and doesn’t even text Desiree before he passes out.

Dedication: I had a cigar once.

to be continued…

Posted on by Matt Thomas · 1 Comment

The Thin Man in Singapore, Part III: The Drinking Accountants

The elevator was a padded cell/ for the socially insane/ and the chronically unwell/ up three flights of stairs/ to the girl I knew/ she wore skin on skin/ with amphetamine/ on the hair of her lip/ the key doesn’t fit the lock no more.

Happyness

Dateline The Alligator Pear: November 1st, 17:08

Groups of male drinkers are highly permeable. Groups of female drinkers are also basically permeable, however, for various reasons that you will be aware of, somewhat less so than their more devolved counterparts. With these truisms in mind, the thin man prepared his cover.

He selects the largest of the group, ruddy complexion running to seed through a noxious combination of hotel living, corporate ineptitude, and nature, and opens with the most anodyne possible comment. “That’s a tough one,” he says extending his hand. “I’m Jack from marketing, over from London. You wouldn’t believe what happened to me today.”

The men give him a quick once over. This is more than enough. “You wouldn’t believe what happened to US today” says the big man. “Jesus what a day.” He sits down and “Jack” is established. Just like that.

Three hours later and the thin man has learned the following:

i) “Bill” is Bill Wetherington, Head of Accounting for the Green Group Asia. Aristocratic name, upper-middle class title, garden variety courage.

ii) The drinkers are also in accounting.

iii) Green Group is under internal pressure based on intensifying rumors of shady financial action at the very top. The current CEO, Anderson, is being challenged by a new board member, Rink. The rumors are rampant yet unproven, and the three men know relatively little about what is going on.

iv) Bill’s absence means that the men have no one to take their cue from re their stance on the firm’s political climate. Predictably they have been drinking for days. They are easy marks, too easy, but they don’t know enough. The thin man will have to attend the party tomorrow and scout an insider.

v) The men drank whisky alternated with beers and the occasional shot, tequila or vodka, which always came with roars of achievement and slaps on the back. The thin man gave himself to the role; he slapped back.

Eventually one of the men did circle back to Jack’s role in the firm. The thin man kept it vague, of course, claiming to be a kind of internal consultant and using a lot of words. A small amount of information communicated verbosely is a sure recipe for boredom and soon enough the men moved back to their own woes. It was a quarter after midnight when the thin man had heard enough and he bid them goodnight. By this time they were fast friends, and had agreed to meet for a pre-event drink the next day. The event space is pre-permeated; the reception folks don’t stand a chance.

Dateline The Thin Man’s Room: November 2nd, 0:32

Now we have a little confession to make. While the thin man may appear the picture of competence in the events depicted above, competence is a) relative; and b) often pretty narrow. He can ply information from drinkers in a company on the brink, sure, and this is a skill that pays. And while his severance pay was still running some women were around the general lifespace. Which was all good. However while the thin man may spend his days in a blur of undirected motion, he does have specific tastes in certain matters. The thin man, for instance, likes women to tell him what to do from a distance. More precisely he enjoys instruction from a non-copresent muse.

On the ship he and the crew didn’t always have the ability to live entirely on the internet as the modern human is wont to do, however since washing ashore in Singapore the thin man has established contact with some women he has never met. Of course there are plenty of guys who pay for the privilege of being under the thumb of a woman, there is apparently a whole industry around it. Good for them. That particular industry is a bit on the overt side though, and the thin man is not of it. He may, however, be quasi-adjacent. In any case after a shower the thin man texts Desiree.

What he wants here is, basically, for Desiree, who is 23 half French and half Romanian, to give him feedback in the form of some word, action, or idea to integrate into his espionage performance. A whisperer stage right, who can introduce the element, the thrilling frisson, of the random. A stylist, a sequencer, a psychically co-present muse. Desiree plays this role only moderately well; she is studying to be a dancer, goes to auditions, and generally alternates between attention and absence. Are you familiar, dear reader, with the interplay of attention and absence? I thought as much.

Anyway, tonight Desiree comes through. Fear, she says, fear is the operating mood of the Green Group employees. Young she may be, but she is smart our Desiree. Ingratiating oneself with the fearful is easy she says. And she is right, if the instability runs all the way to the top so will the fear. He just has to find the right mark and he’ll get what he needs. The idea of pocketing the $20,000 is appealing, 100%. He thanks her and tries to keep her on but she is done. Oh well, you get what you get. Some form of sleep and wake up as Jack. No problemo senor.

to be continued…

Posted on by Matt Thomas · 2 Comments

The Thin Man in Singapore Part II: The Ask

Well apart from the things that I touched/ nothing got broke all that much/ and apart from the things that I took/ nothing got stolen babe, and look.

Matthew Houck

Dateline Singapore: October 30th, 8:02

The thin man woke at the 1887 happy to be alive and went on down to breakfast as instructed. He picked out his guy immediately. The broker was perfectly of his type, his suit barely disguising, indeed almost accentuating, the hustler inside. The thin man ordered orange juice and eggs, the broker drank coffee. He had probably already eaten.

The broker, like all of his kind, couldn’t give a shit who he was pimping as long as he got his 10% commission. He took the thin man’s data points and promised to turn them into a resume that would emphasize the high stakes, low reference point nature of his previous work. “I’ll get something going,” said the broker.

Dateline Singapore: November 1st, 11:43

The thin man stayed on at the 1887, hoping that the bill was paid for a few days at least. On Wednesday the phone rang, and the man on the other end introduced himself as Alejandro from Company X. The broker knew his lane, apparently.

“I have work for you,” Alejandro said.

“What sort of work?” asked the thin man.

“The best kind, the kind where you get in and out.” The thin man could hear Alejandro’s razor thin smile through the phone.

“I deal cards,” replied the thin man, “I’m not a safecracker.

“Of course not. We are a respectable company with a 400 year history. This work is simple. The company is in negotiations around a merger with Green Group Ltd. They are playing hardball and we need to know their real intentions.”

“Basically you want to know if they are bluffing?”

“Precisely. And who better than an operator such as yourself to find this out?”

“And what do I have to go on?”

“The Green Group will be having a party at the Swissotel downtown tomorrow night. There will be about 200 guests. You will infiltrate the party and get the lowdown. That is what you British say yes, “the lowdown.”

The thin man was not British but it didn’t matter. “Yes, that’s right. OK, book me a room on the club floor starting today. I’ll need a new suit, a haircut, and a cell phone. How’s $500 a day for expenses and $20,000 for the job?”

“What about the broker?”

“That’s your end,” said the thin man. My end is $20,000.”

“Deal. Don’t fuck up.”

“I don’t intend to.” And with that the conversation was over. The thin man had acquitted himself well, but only by the grace of god. Several things were running through his mind;

i) was $20,000 a lot or a little for a one-night stint of corporate espionage? Alejandro had bit right away so perhaps he was underselling his services. Or, Company X was desperate;

ii) 200 people at the party and the thin man knows not a one of them. He’ll have to research, chose a few likely targets, although after five weeks of carousing there wasn’t a lot of research energy left. He’ll need to make minimal and efficient moves;

iii) he has no bank account. His severance was paid in cash and he does not intend to stay in Singapore forever, however appealing the locale. He’ll need to get legal sooner rather than later.

Dateline Singapore: Around 17:07

The thin man is up for the job, however like we said he could use a little up-front information. So he checks out of the 1887, which is all paid up, and grabs a taxi to the Swissotel where he checks in, showers, and scopes out the premises. The Alligator Pear is the poolside bar at the Swissotel, fancy, and the thin man figures tomorrow’s party will be at held around the pool. Thus, this visit is classifiable as reconnaissance–this visit is billable, baby. A single couple lingers over a menu across the way.

“What’ll it be?” asks the bartender?

“Do you have any eggnog” asks the thin man, more out of habit than preference. The bartender gives him a sideways look, as if he is not sure who the joke is on.

“No sir, I am afraid we only serve eggnog during the Christmas week. How about one of our signature Manhattans?”

Manhattans, they taste like mouthwash.

“Sure a double Manhattan. And pop an egg in it would you?” This time the bartender doesn’t even blink.

“Of course, sir. One Manhattan with a raw egg.”

The drink is served and the thin man knocks it back straight. It is as disgusting as an adult beverage can be. “Perfection,” says the thin man. I’ll take a double martini with a sprig of Rosemary please.” As the barkeep makes his second drink the thin man turns to survey the space. Despite knowing no one and nothing about tomorrow evening’s party, he has a few advantages. First, event spaces are inherently permeable. More on this later. Second, he has nothing to lose. Nothing whatsoever. The $20,000 is what you call a titular payment. Hypothetical. His sainted mother has long passed; his widowed sister could be anywhere. The Costa Rican chick who claimed he’d knocked her up in ’04 was probably still out there, but he had no confidence in her presentation of events. He was only on shore for 48 hours and months on the water tends to take a few miles off a guy’s fastball. She was sweet, but it was probably a hustle. So like I say, nothing to lose, and therefore easy to underestimate. That’s what the thin man is counting on.

He’d better; the bastard’s precious little else.

The martini is served and the thin man takes a deep drink. Three men approach the bar, lanyards around their neck, ties beginning to come undone, voices high. The Green Group, thinks the thin man, excellent. He takes a deep breath and turns his head slightly to the right, cementing his presence in their field of vision without being in any way threatening or intrusive. “Can you fuckin’ believe Bill?” asks one of the men. Pulling up sick on a day like this, the company going to shit?” “I think he’s faking,” says the second man, a lifer in his early 50s. “He’s always been weak like that. Looking to cover his ass.” “Fucking wanker, if you ask me,” replies the first man. “Pussy.”

The thin man looks up at the men and smiles. He sympathises. He will be their good friend tonight. Corporate espionage, he decides, is like everything else. It’s just a matter of intention.

to be continued…

Dedication: For salarymen everywhere. I sympathise.