Laundry Man (Jack Shepherd, Book 1)
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Once a high-flying international lawyer, a member of the innermost circles of government power, Jack Shepherd has abandoned the savage politics of Washington for the lethargic backwater of Bangkok, where he is now just an unremarkable professor at an unimportant university in an insignificant city. Or is he?
turned my head as we passed and saw one house that had been converted into a barbershop. A television set played soundlessly, and a pink sheet covered a little boy sitting in an ancient chair. A couple of dozen people, mostly other kids, sat silently in the darkness of the front porch, watching the little boy and the television set through the open windows. I found the big grove of rubber trees about three miles past the village, right where the map said it was. White-splotched trunks in
went to considerable lengths to avoid breathing the city’s air until it had been thoroughly dried, adequately chilled, and comprehensively decontaminated. Not only was the stuff hot and soggy, usually it smelled spoiled and a little sour, like it had been breathed by way too many people already. But this was January, the middle of winter in Thailand, and the southernmost edge of a large dome of Siberian air had slipped down from China and momentarily broken Bangkok’s muggy heat. The air had
again and I started wishing I had taken him up on his suggestion that I have one, too. “You know the things I’m talking about.” I didn’t know, but I nodded anyway. “Those things get fucked up and some people start thinking that I fucked up. Suddenly that would make me a problem for them. And I don’t want anything like that to happen. I don’t want to be a problem for these people. You can understand that, can’t you?” “I can understand that,” I said. I still didn’t have the slightest idea what
essentially still the same. What do I do now? I stood up, lifted the duffle bag, and dropped it on the bed. Unzipping it, I dumped everything out. There wasn’t much. If I was going to hang around Phuket very long, I was going to have to do some shopping. Maybe Benny Glup’s American Express card would come in handy after all. My dirty jogging clothes went into a drawer, my running shoes into the closet. I turned on my cell phone in case Tom called and it and the field glasses went back in the
that might have been for gasoline storage. The other two small buildings looked like guesthouses, except that one had four satellite dishes on its roof: three small ones and one very large one. Either there was a sophisticated communications facility in there or somebody watched a whole lot of television. The main house sprawled across most of the rest of the compound. It was built of black rock with shiny brass trim and oversized windows and doors. Overall, the whole effect was something like