Carl had spent a few hours in Candy’s bar being prodded and pulled in all directions by the scantily dressed girls. He felt exposed being back there but was comforted by the knowledge that George was out on the street watching all of the comings and goings on Suriwongse Road. Candy’s was busier than on his previous visit. Several barstools were occupied by early evening drinkers who had come straight from their nearby offices for fun and games before dinner, the usual crowd. Carl finished his drink and walked to the toilet at the back of the bar. Mick Flynn grabbed him roughly as he went through the door. Mick was an extremely heavily muscled Irish building contractor with a drinking problem and permanent nosebleeds from the buckets of cocaine that he shoved up his nostrils all day and every day. He was dabbing at his nose with a blood-stained handkerchief with his left hand as he grabbed Carl’s arm in a death-grip with his right hand. His breath stank of Irish whiskey and there were minute particles of white powder above his top lip. “What the fook are you doin’ here?
