The 38 Million Dollar Smile - Stevenson Richard (бесплатные книги полный формат .txt) 📗
garishly on your screen there. Griswold may be in trouble, and
he needs help. I’ve been hired to help him, but of course, you
don’t need to be involved.”
“I intend not to be.”
“That’s up to you.”
He said, “It’s not that I don’t get it. I agree that Griswold
could well be up to his ears in some hideous mire — a swamp
of his own making or not — and he needs somebody to come
along and drag him out. All I’m saying is, Bangkok sounds as if
it can be a very dangerous place, and I’m frightened for myself
and for you.”
“I know.”
“And the other thing is, how objective are you being about
this? Wouldn’t it make more sense for the Griswolds to hire
somebody on the scene there instead of somebody who hasn’t
set foot in Bangkok for years? Maybe,” he said, “your judgment
is a bit off because you mainly want to get back to this part of the world you once found so compelling and do it at somebody
THE 38 MILLION DOLLAR SMILE 23
else’s expense. And maybe reconnect with Bank or Book or
Mango or Dragonfruit or like that. Is what I have just described a distinct possibility, or isn’t it?”
A relentlessly keen-minded piece of work was my beloved. I
said, “Yes, all that is a distinct possibility. And I want you to know that I am resolving at this moment — thanks to you —
to turn into a perfectly rational human being and to behave
accordingly.”
“Uh-huh.”
I added, “In my next life.”
He seemed unamused by me, gave up and tried Jon Stewart.
CHAPTER THREE
The photograph of her ex-husband that Ellen Griswold had
given me was about a year old, she said. In it, a lithe, well-
tanned, curly-haired man in his midforties stood in front of a
frangipani tree in splendid full bloom. Griswold wore khaki
shorts and a lime green polo shirt. While not striking in
appearance, he seemed a leaner, looser version of his older
brother Bill, a tense and weary business traveler with a five
o’clock shadow whom I met briefly at the Albany airport when
his flight from Washington unexpectedly arrived only twenty
minutes late.
In the picture, Griswold’s dark eyes shone brightly as he
peered confidently into the camera lens. His full-lipped smile,
while not beatific, looked natural and relaxed. Buddhists say we inhabit our bodies only temporarily, but in this picture, at least, Griswold’s soul appeared comfortable in its then-abode.
I looked at the picture and the other material on Griswold
on the first leg of my Key West flight, a two-hour ride down to
Atlanta. Ellen Griswold had provided regular-mail notes from
Gary and hard copies of e-mails sent from Thailand. Nearly all
were addressed to Ellen, not to Ellen and Bill. In his messages, Griswold spoke glowingly of his new home — he wrote, “the
Thais are a truly free people” — and of the contentment he had
found in Buddhist ethical systems and through daily meditation.
He also mentioned being pleased with a condo he had
purchased in Bangkok. This was about eighteen months earlier,
and Ellen had included the street address in her packet.
There were several references to what Griswold termed “the
romance department.” All the romances seemed to be with
Thai men. Early in his life in Bangkok, there was Keng, “a
sweetheart of a man,” and later “delightful” Sambul, and then
“quiet” Poom. No mention was made of any of these
relationships ending. It seemed as if when one halted or
dwindled out, Griswold just moved on to another. This left me
26 Richard Stevenson
wondering what the exact nature of these liaisons might have
been.
The last boyfriend mentioned, in an e-mail dated the
previous July 17, was Mango. Griswold called him “a beautiful
man and a fantastic human being.” He also said, “This one’s a
keeper, I hope.” This was a month before Griswold sold all his
holdings in the US for thirty-eight million dollars and two
months before he disappeared.
The other material Ellen provided me, at Bob Chicarelli’s
direction, was biographical and statistical data. I noted that
Griswold had been a business major at Cornell with an art
history minor. His resume consisted mainly of marketing
positions with Algonquin Steel, the family company. He started
low at Albany headquarters then climbed steadily, with his
company career culminating in his becoming head of marketing
in the US Southern region when he was in his early thirties.
Then Griswold left the company and ran his Key West art
gallery before departing for Thailand.
On the smaller plane from Atlanta to Key West, I looked
through the Lonely Planet guide to Thailand I had picked up
that morning at Stuyvesant Books. In the “Dangers and
Annoyances” section that Lonely Planet quaintly and helpfully
includes in all its guidebooks, unscrupulous tuk-tuk drivers were listed, as well as fake-gem scams. No mention was made of
drive-by shootings or police-run massacres. The emphasis in
Lonely Planet’s Thailand was on the green landscape, the
golden temples, and the smiles.
§ § § § §
“I have to admit,” Lou Horn said, “that in retrospect we
should have seen it coming — Gary mentally and physically
sailing off into the blue. There were signs.”
Marcie Weems added, “Thailand, swell — nice people, nice
place. And Buddhism, that’s fine, too — the ethics of tolerance
and acceptance and nonviolence. And, of course, all those cute
monks with their shaved heads and gorgeous orange robes. But
astrology? Numerology? I don’t think so.”
THE 38 MILLION DOLLAR SMILE 27
“And before his transformation Gary was so even-keeled
most of the time,” Janice Romeo said. “And smart and fun to
be around. The four of us took trips together, and Gary was
always a delight. He was focused, yes, even obsessive about
some things, like his bike racing and his good causes. But he
was never really muddleheaded. And after he got out of the
Algonquin Steel power job sturm and drang and opened the gallery, he was pretty relaxed too. Of course, it was also around that time that he started getting into the weirdness.”
“He was weird, but still not weird,” Weems put in. “Gary
was Mister Moderate-and-Conventional with most things —
food, alcohol, dress. Key West is famous for its eccentrics, but Gary was hardly one of the seventeen thousand four hundred
and twelve local characters.”
“And men,” Romeo said. “Don’t forget men — another
area where Gary was Mister Middle-of-the-Road. No Mangos
or Pomegranates or Pomolos for the Gary we knew. He went
for Lou, to cite a nearby example. An excellent, levelheaded
choice. Lou, are you hurt that we all think of you as a merely
reasonable object of desire?”
They all laughed as Horn digested the ambiguous
compliment. We were seated at a table at Salute, an open-air
mainly Italian place along the Atlantic Avenue beach on the nocruise-ships quiet side of Key West. A half-moon hung in the evening sky behind palm fronds rustling in a warm breeze. I had
my Sam Adams and the others their Ketel One vodka with a
side of ice, apparently the national beverage of the Conch
Republic.
Horn was a broad-faced man in his late forties with a salt-
and-pepper beard, a few skin-cancer scars scattered about, a
one-time middleweight wrestler’s build now starting to respond
to the tug of gravity, and a twinkle in both his eyes and his step.
He had brought along Griswold’s two other closest friends in
