Thais never expect you to speak their language. (Nobody does, really, except the French, who expect you to speak it badly.) More to the point, they don’t expect you to understand their language, and I have often acquired useful information as a result. I’ve thus learned to keep my linguistic ability a secret, and here I’d gone and tipped my hand to a floating pimp.

No harm in that, I decided. Who was he going to tell? He drifted off to plague someone else, and an old woman selling horoscopes and teak carvings took his place, and I defended myself once more in English. “No,” I said. “Not today. I don’t want any. Thank you. No.”

The teahouse was where it was supposed to be, just across the street from the Swan Hotel and a stone’s throw from the Grand Palace. There was a skanky-looking tobbo shop to its right, a store overflowing with electronic gear to its left.

I walked into the teahouse, and at first I thought it was empty save for the tired waitress leaning against the counter. Then my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, and I saw the sole customer seated at a table against the back wall. He was smoking a cigarette and drinking a Kloster beer, and he raised his eyes at my approach but kept his seat.

I said, “Mr. Sukhumvit?”

“Yes?”

In Thai I said, “Today the Chao Phraya swarms with crocodiles.”

In Thai he replied, “Elephants on the highway, crocodiles in the river.”

We both smiled, and he got to his feet. He was on the tall side for a Thai, around five-nine, and lean as a sapling. He wore black pants and a shortsleeve khaki shirt, and his forearms were wiry and muscular. He had a mustache and goatee, the latter consisting of a half-inch band running down the center of his chin.

“Tanner,” he said. “Welcome to Bangkok.” We shook hands. “Recognition signals are ridiculous, aren’t they? Crocodiles and elephants. Schoolboy nonsense.”