earlier.

Moving through the premonsoon Bangkok night heat felt

more like swimming in swamp water than walking through air,

and our polo shirts were soon drenched. The part of Sathorn

we passed through was a mix of city office towers and

apartment buildings on the main streets, and smaller shops,

restaurants, and food stalls on the sois that ran off them. The street food was as aromatic as I remembered it, and we paused

for some noodles in a pork broth with herbs. We sat on tiny

stools at a tiny table on a sliver of sidewalk and were served

from a tiny cart with a full kitchen inside it that was operated by a small nuclear family. Timmy said it was the best food he ever

ate. It cost a dollar, not that Ellen Griswold wouldn’t have

sprung for two.

Among the vehicles zooming by in the soi a few feet from

us as we ate were motorcycles, some with single male riders.

Timmy glanced up at these apprehensively from time to time, as

well as at the motorcycles upon which entire families were lined up one behind the other, the small children in front as if they

were air bags.

Lou Horn had obtained Geoff Pringle’s address from a

mutual friend and passed it on to me, and Timmy and I paused

56 Richard Stevenson

in front of the building. It stood along narrow but heavily

traveled Sathorn Soi 1. Cars, taxis and motorcycle taxis cruised quietly up and down the street — with an occasional three-wheeled tuk-tuk as a reminder of old Bangkok — with

pedestrians treading carefully along the narrow walkways on

either side.

Bougainvillea and yellow and scarlet flamboyant tree

branches spilled over white stucco walls along the route,

including one in front of Pringle’s building. An enormous

portrait in an elaborate gold frame of a gravely contemplative

King Bhumibol stood among the decorative plantings, along

with brushed stainless steel lettering identifying Pringle’s

building as the Royal Palm Personal Deluxe Executive Suites.

Many of the building’s balconies had potted trees and flowering

plants on them as well, talismanic reminders of the Thais’

origins as agricultural villagers, or in the case of most of the farangs, probably, pretty tropical ornaments.

A uniformed security guard in an orange vest stood under a

streetlight at the entrance to the building’s small driveway. I said sa-wa-dee-cap. He sa-wa-deed me back, and I said I was sorry to hear about Mr. Geoff.

“Oh, very bad. Mr. Geoff. Oh, Mr. Geoff. Bad. He your

friend?”

“He was my friend’s friend,” I said quickly. “Did he live up

there?” I pointed.

“Yes, fall down,” the guard said, indicating an area of low

foliage where some branches looked newly broken.

“Bad,” I said.

“Oh, bad.”

“Did you see?”

“No, no. No see. I hear.”

“You heard Mr. Geoff fall?”

“Yes, yes. Very bad for me. I hear him say.”

“He said something? After he fell?”

THE 38 MILLION DOLLAR SMILE 57

“No after. Before. I hear ‘oh-oh-no!’ He just say like that.

‘Oh-oh-no!’ I am in hut,” he said, indicating the small sentry

box a few feet from us. “I hear big sound. He fall down.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Very bad for me.”

“What time was it? Late?”

“Very late. People sleeping.”

“Did anyone else see or hear it happen?”

“El-suh?”

“Was it only you who heard him fall?”

“Only me. Bad luck for me.”

“Did you phone the police?”

“Later. Police come later.”

“You phoned the police. But they came later?”

“Police? Ha!” He made some gesture with his head, but I wasn’t sure what it meant. It seemed to be a negative opinion.

I said, “Do you think Mr. Geoff fell accidentally or jumped

from his balcony?”

The guard may not have known all the English words, but

he seemed to understand the question. It was a question he

must have given a good deal of thought to over the previous

week.

The guard said, “Maybe fall. No jump, I don’t think. Maybe

— bee-ah,” he said, making a guzzle-with-a-bottle motion.

“Maybe he fall. Maybe bee-ah. Maybe” — he got a hard look

now — “maybe I don’t know.”

I tried to learn from the guard whether any of Pringle’s

friends had visited him that night, or in recent days, but I had reached the limits of the guard’s English and didn’t make any

headway. I thought maybe Rufus Pugh could learn more. I

wished the guard good luck, and Timmy and I walked on.

“It doesn’t sound as if there was any serious

police…anything,” Timmy said.

58 Richard Stevenson

“No. I’ll try to find out.”

We turned up a quieter, less-traveled soi toward Griswold’s

condo. Bangkok’s Miami-like skyline glowed in the near

distance, but the prettily walled-off places along this tranquil lane were individual homes of the well-off — a lighted

swimming pool was visible behind one low wall hung with

flowers — and the back entrances to a couple of the smaller

European embassies.

When we passed the discreetly appointed entrance to

Paradisio, Bangkok’s best-known gay bathhouse, Timmy said,

“Oh, I’ve heard of this.”

“We may have to check it out in our search for Mango. Or I

may have to.”

“Me get left out? I don’t think so.”

“Bangkok is full of ghosts, the Thais believe. Maybe

Cardinal Spellman’s is over here keeping an eye on you.”

“An eye and a roving hand. His spirit is probably in there

right now frolicking. The Holy See is way over on the other side of the world.”

“What with such things being unheard-of in Rome.”

A taxi cruised down the soi and turned into Paradisio’s

palm-adorned driveway. Two farangs got out, paid the driver

and went inside. Timmy said, “This could be where Griswold

met some of his multiple Thai boyfriends.”

“This or any one of hundreds of other gay bars, clubs,

bathhouses, and massage parlors. But since Griswold lived

nearby, Paradisio is a good place for us to sniff around when we get the chance.”

Griswold’s apartment building was about a hundred yards

beyond Paradisio. It was one of the tonier in a tony

neighborhood, with meticulously tended gardens below and

balconies above, and an easy-on-the-eye white-with-silver-trim

art deco design.

The security guard standing in the driveway — apparently

building guards in Bangkok were not allowed to sit and risk

THE 38 MILLION DOLLAR SMILE 59

dozing off — returned my sa-wa-dee and smiled politely. I told

him I was Gary Griswold’s brother and was looking for Gary,

not having heard from him for some time. Did Griswold still

live at the same address?

“Yes, but he not here now.”

“When was he last here?”

“Mr. Gary come two weeks before. Then go. No stay.”

So Griswold was alive, at least. Or had been two weeks

earlier. “Are you sure it was two weeks? Not three?”

“Two weeks. Today Saturday. I no work last Saturday. Mr.

Gary too much no here. He go ’way.”

By establishing that I was Griswold’s brother, a term that in

Thailand can mean sibling, cousin, second or third cousin, or

close friend, I was able to engage the guard long enough to

learn that Griswold had visited his home only a few times in the past half year. And those visits had been brief and late at night.

Griswold had arrived and departed by taxi and had been

unaccompanied. If he had carried anything in or out of the

apartment, the guard was unaware of it.

I asked if I might look inside Griswold’s apartment to see if

he had received mail from me, but now I was pushing it. The