© 2006

MUCH LATER, WHEN THE glass had stopped flying and the screams of pain and fear had died to moans and whimpers and the hoarse rattles of death, when the bodies had been taken to the morgue and the injured to the hospitals, when the television cameras had gone and workers had begun to clear the rubble and business along Central Street began to return to a shaken sort of normal, very few people remembered the two men who had been standing on the corner of Soi Cowboy when the bomb went off.

They were definitely Asian, or so said a vigorous, middle-aged woman who owned a pornographic comic book store nearby. Slim, short, narrow eyes, sallow skin, neatly clipped straight black hair, she remembered them clad in identical short-sleeved shirts and light cotton slacks in nondescript colors. A hundred like them sidled into her tiny shop every day to thumb through her merchandise, avoiding eye contact as they made their purchases.

A young man, the proud owner of his own car who specialized in delivering takeout to the pleasure palaces on Soi Cowboy and whose car had been parked twenty feet from the Fun House when the explosion occurred, had been blown backward the entire length of the block. He had landed hard on his back at the feet of the two Asian men, splattered with nine orders of pad thai and the brains of a twenty-year-old American marine on leave from Camp Butler on Okinawa. As he looked up at them, a man’s leg hit the side of the Pattaya Inn just above their heads, and what the delivery man found most odd was that the two men hadn’t looked at the leg, or even at him, instead focusing their attention on the chaos that followed the blast.