Pattaya has a well-earned reputation for a refuge of scoundrels. The city fathers campaign ceaselessly to promote the city’s other attractions such as golf, food, shopping, and the beach, but a pig is a pig is a pig no matter what color the PR flaks paint the pig.

Things have improved since the 90s, but the bars, go-gos, and nightlife collect a less than stellar crowd of Russian gangsters, German bikers, French credit card scammers, American deadbeats, British football holligans, Aussie mercenaries ad nauseum and then you have the Thais; the good, the bad, and a few of the in-between. Avoiding this tidal wave of filth is difficult, if not impossible, since people re-invent themselves ad infinitum in Pattaya. Some of them can be trouble, so I only drink at my regular hang-outs, such as the short-time bars of Soi 6, the Buffalo Bar, and a few lesser-known establishment far removed from Beach Road or Walking Street.

I try not to associate with the farang criminal element or the Thai mafia, but sometimes you can’t help meeting a character who would make your mother rise from the grave and tug you by the ear out of the bar syaing, “What I tell you about people like that?”

“That they’re trouble.” My mother was more right than wrong about that you not only are what you eat, but who your friends are.

Last January Jamie Parker and I were drinking in a shadowy bar off Sai 3.

The naked girls on stage were listelessly whipping their naked flesh with thick hoses.

A lot of noise, but little pain.

Three Thai men entered the bar. The staff greeted them with deference. The mama-san offered them a bottle of Whiskey. Johnny Walker Red and not 100 Pipers. Two were definitely police. The third wore a Pancho Villa moustache. His shoes were imported leather. He sat down with a hand behind his back. A gunman checking his gun. He noticed my watching him. I smiled and said hello to him in Thai. We struck up a conversation in his language. After several drinks I told him I was a writer and he replied that he was a hitman.

“A hit man.” Murderers in the States were not so open and I asked, “You mean a khaat dta gaawn?”

“Yes, I kill people for a living.” The hitman seemed almost proud of his profession. “I go everywhere. If you want anyone killed, let me know.”

He handed me a card.

“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mine.

“You never know when you might need me.”

I nudged Jamie that it was time to go.

“What’s wrong?”

“This guy next to me is a hitman.”

“I know.”

“He has a card.”

“Can you think of anyone you want killed?”

“Off the top of my head?” It was a tough question, but after a few seconds I answered, “Dick Cheney.”

“Too expensive.”

“There’s the guy who beat me up in 7th Grade, but I’d only want him kneecapped.”

“He probably has arthritis already. Anyone else?”

“What about me?” I had been suicidal a year ago.

“I thought you were over that.”

“I guess I am.” I didn’t feel that way anymore.

“What about old girlfriends?”

“Not anymore.” My heart has always been forgiving. “Can’t think of anyone.”

“Me neither.”

“Pity, eh, here we have a killer on the cheap and we can’t give him any work.”

“Probably better that way.” I remained true to the 5th Commandment, except in the case of mosquitoes.

They get the death sentence 20 times a day. Even more if I hired the hitman. Somehow I think that killing insects might not be in his repertoire. I stuck his card in my shirt and waved good night. He smiled back and waved his finger at me.

It was a warning that while I might not have anyone to kill, I might be one someone’s else list.

I shuddered with anticipation. of that day.

It’s not easy being a good man in the Last Babylon on Earth.

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