Dying to Live

Chapter 17 - You Missed a Bit

There's a long-held theory that a phone call which wakes you in the middle of the night will invariably deliver bad news. I wholeheartedly subscribed to that theory, or was it a theorem? Anyway, there were no theories about mid-morning phone calls which wake you in Bangkok, at least none I'd ever heard. Either way, I wasn't expecting good news when I picked up the bedside phone.

"Hello?"

The response was an ear-splitting scream which forced the involuntary and immediate withdrawal of the phone from my head. What the fuck? I glared at the phone, as if the shrill noise had been its fault. I tentatively placed the receiver back to my ear, this time an inch or so away.

"Hello?"

"You are one stupid dick," said Hazel, she sounded furious rather than in any difficulty.

"What the hell was that scream about? I thought something dreadful was happening to you. Did you know there's blood all over the curtains and carpet?"

"That's a Campari and blackcurrant cocktail. You really don't remember much about last night, do you?"

"Oh," I said. "So what's with the screaming in my ear?"

"I couldn't wake you earlier, so I thought a more 'edgy' alarm call might work. And you deserved it."

"What?" My befuddled brain couldn't work out what she was talking about.

"Do you want to hear me scream again?" she said.

"No," I said, stating the bleeding-ears obvious.

"Then apologise," she said. "And not one of your 'I'm sorry if my actions offended you' pretend apologises. I want to hear you say 'sorry' and I want you to mean it."

My mind raced in a frantic attempt to piece together the story of the night before. Recollections of the evening were hazy but there were a few bits of the jigsaw to work with. I remembered our go-go pub crawl, the pole-dancing girls and the smell of sex everywhere. Glasses of beer were chased by way too many Tequila shots; like Keystone Cops chasing Charlie Chaplin, hilarious at the time but moronically stupid in retrospect. I half-remembered the sex show... no, a number of sex shows. A vague memory of sweaty naked performers asking for volunteers formed. Oh shit, did I volunteer after all the warnings not to?

"Jesus, Hazel, I am so sorry."

"That'll do, for now," she said. "Now listen, you need to get your act together. We need to keep focused on the plan. I'm not going to let you fuck this up with your stupidity."

"I'm sorry, I swear it won't happen again," I said still trying to remember what 'it' was.

"It's as well one of us is capable of doing what needs to be done. You do remember that I had an appointment with Mr Montri this morning?" she said. "About some diamonds," she added with more than just a little sarcasm.

"Of course I remember," I said. I did of course remember... now that she had reminded me.

"Well, I made it to the appointment on time, no thanks to you. I've just inspected the diamonds. Everything looks great but Mr Montri wants to take me to meet one of his contacts. He's happy to do a side deal with me this time but he doesn't want to do it again. He says he's not willing to put his relationship with MIB at risk."

"So where are you going?" I asked, wondering if she, or my hangover, would let me go with her.

"I don't know. He's not saying but I trust him. And this gives us a chance to put some pieces in place for the next time."