LAUNDRY MAN (A Jack Shepherd crime thriller) by Jake Needham

was bullshit, but he refused to tell me anything about Howard’s business. He said it would be a breach of ethics.”
    “Yeah, well, there’s your answer.”
    “But it’s not bullshit, Jack. That’s the point. It’s all absolutely true.” Jello tapped the empty Heineken bottle against the table with a crisp little rat-a-tat-tat. “That’s when I started wondering if Dollar might be involved, too.”
    “Involved in what?”
    Jello just sat there impassively, looking at me with dead cop eyes.
    I shook my head. “Please tell me you’re not saying you think Dollar Dunne and Howard the Roach are working together to launder money for a bunch of Burmese heroin producers.”
    Jello didn’t say anything. He just looked at me with what might or might not have been a slight smile. Then he nodded.
    What in the hell was happening here? First Barry Gale was in cahoots with the Russian mob and now Dollar Dunne is supposedly moving money for Burmese drug lords? Whatever happened to the good old days when the worst thing you could accuse a lawyer of was ambulance chasing?
    “How long have you known Dollar?” I asked Jello.
    “Nine or ten years. A little longer maybe.”
    “And you’re sitting here now, seriously telling me that all of a sudden you’ve decided he’s the kind of a guy who launders drug money?”
    “I think he may be, Jack. God help me, but I think he may be.”
    Jello spun the empty Heineken bottle in his big hand.
    “Are you willing to help me find out for sure?” he asked.
    I should have seen that coming, I thought to myself. I should have seen that coming, but I hadn’t.
    “All I want you to do is poke around a little, Jack. Nothing heavy-duty. Just keep your eyes and ears open, really, then let me know what you see and hear.”
    “You can’t be serious, Jello. Dollar’s been your friend for a long time. He’s my friend, too.”
    “Friendship’s got nothing to do with this.”
    “Yes, it does. I’m not spying on Dollar Dunne, Jello. Not for you or for anyone else.”
    I pushed back from the table and stood up while Jello watched expressionlessly.
    “That’s the end of this conversation, Jello.”
    “I can see that.”
    “Now I’m going to get a taxi back to my office and you’re going to let me do that without arguing about it. Then I’m going to forget we were ever here today and I’m going to forget about everything you’ve said, and you’re going to let me do that, too. Do we understand each other?”
    Jello just looked at me without answering. After a moment I turned my back on him and started walking toward Silom Road.
    He didn’t try to stop me, and this time I didn’t look back.

FIFTEEN
    ALTHOUGH THAI INTERNATIONAL had more flights out of Bangkok than any other airline, I was on the Cathay Pacific four o’clock to Hong Kong.
    I usually fly Cathay or Singapore Airlines instead of Thai because of something an official in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had once told me at a cocktail party. He was a man who had to fly a lot and, being a government official, he had no choice but to fly on Thai. Making small talk at the party, I had asked the man how he thought Thai compared to other airlines. “Whenever you fly Thai International,” he told me with a glum expression, “always remember that your pilots got their jobs exactly the way everyone else in Thailand got
their
jobs.”
    I’ve never quite forgotten that. So I fly Cathay Pacific.
    The man sitting next to me introduced himself even before I had my seatbelt buckled. In spite of my best efforts not to, I learned in short order that he was a microchip importer from San Francisco and that he was going to Hong Kong to meet with a financial consultant after attending a trade show of some kind in Bangkok. This financial consultant, the man explained to me, was going to reorganize his entire company using offshore banks so that he could completely avoid paying any taxes. The scheme had something to do with utilizing offshore