For The Love Of Champagne

Book summary

"For the Love of Champagne" unravels the gritty reality of city life, where vice and violence demand unwavering courage and cunning. Police officers Billy Tanarat and Samiel Deboch find themselves ensnared in a web of corruption that spans the globe. As their paths collide, they are plunged into a shadowy realm where ancient tales and dark rituals resurface, challenging both the brave and the corrupt. This novel is a compelling exploration of integrity and deception, where nothing is as it seems and old superstitions reawaken to haunt the present.

Excerpt from For The Love Of Champagne

“Sometimes I wish we just had a girl. Less trouble in the long run,” says the man seated on the beige couch within the dimly lit hospital room, his Himma grating and formal in tone. He uncrosses his legs, smooths the slacks of his grey police uniform, then picks his nose.

“Even if she was born ugly, my position would provide more suitors than she could count. They would line up like ants attracted to a fallen piece of roti. I would just collect a nice, fat dowery, and use some of the fortune to spoil my grandchildren.” He rolls a glob of dried mucus between his fingers, then flicks it forward. “You know, my friends tell me that with daughters, you only need to worry about two things. Can they give you grandkids, for one, and is the son-of-a-bitch she marries going to be stupid about cheating on her.” He rubs the nape of his neck. “A bit of cheating is ok, of course. We all need new…inspiration once in a while.” His head is silhouetted by a veil of muted light creeping from underneath the curtain behind him. “But I have you. And I have to worry about whether you are going to get killed trying to be some action hero. And I have to worry about whether there is gas in your useless little pump. I am a fool, sitting here looking after a lump of shit while wishing for a fart.”

The air conditioning unit above his head shudders as droplets of condensation fall from the corners of the intake grille. He sits on a beige couch similar in style to the three beige-and-copper-colored chairs placed on the far side of the bed situated two meters from his feet. The cream-colored paint on the walls around him is faded in spots and water-damaged at the upper corners.

A massive wall-mounted television facing the plastic hospital bed silently broadcasts a World War II documentary, displaying faded black and white footage of families huddled in an underground tunnel, their faces flecked with dust and clothes frayed and disheveled. The young man lying on the bed winces as he inhales and winces as he exhales. His hospital gown is drawn taut over his pectorals, the short sleeves threadbare at the edges in failure at containing his biceps. As he watches the television, a tear wells at the corner of his right eye then falls down his cheek.

“I took point. What’s wrong with that, Dad? I am a police officer—”

“You are a spokesman. A press officer. Do you really think that I sent you to college in England and spent a fortune to get you this position to have you throw it away, getting yourself killed in some back alley?”

“I am a police officer and it is my duty to—”

“You dare lecture your father about duty? Your only duty is to look good on camera and give me grandkids, Billy. That is your duty. To your family. Not to your silly dreams of being Jean Claude Van Damme.”

Billy’s lip quivers, and more tears well then roll down his pale, waxen cheeks. “I was just trying to make you proud.”

“Well, you failed!” Billy’s father barks. “If you want to make me proud, give me a grandchild. Until then, we have nothing much to talk about.” He rises, his face now fully visible. His brow is wrinkled, his hairline receded and eyes are on the exit. He takes small steps across the room, pausing to look at the television.

“Don’t call until Cookie is pregnant. Don’t come by until Cookie is pregnant. Don’t speak my name to anyone until Cookie is pregnant. And if she can’t get pregnant, get someone else pregnant. And she damn well better be from a good family. Don’t you dare knock up some silly bargirl, or a foreigner. Don’t fail me again.”

“Dad—”

“What did I just say!” Spittle trails his words, his voice booms over the sound of the hospital machinery. He looks at his wounded son, sneers and shakes his head, then leaves the room.

Billy sniffles then weeps as the hiss from the hydraulic door closer punctuates his father’s absence. Tears cascade around his nose and fall from his chin, raining down like the ordinance pummeling London on the screen above.

Four hours later Billy dresses and leaves the hospital room, morphine fogging his vision and consciousness. Nurses sashay by with clipboards in their hands, their eyes tracing Billy’s physique as they pass. The stay in Police General Hospital slightly diminished the muscle mass he labors four times a week in the gym to maintain. His jaw is slender and pointed, his eyes are almond-shaped, brown and wide. He is wearing a white polo shirt opened to the top of his sternum, showcasing a gold chain with a small, modest stone amulet dangling down on his collarbone. His black tracksuit pants are smooth and shiny, and his skin is normally a warm beige but has lightened a shade or two due to his stay in the hospital. He walks through the sliding door exit, his hand over his brow at the sight of the bright Sawankosin afternoon. He climbs into a chrome Escalade parked in the drop-off area, putting his hand on the thigh of the woman sitting in the driver’s seat, swiping her finger down her phone.

She startles. “Did they charge you anything?” she asks in Himma. “You know we have our appointment in a week. We have to have enough money for that appointment.” She quickly kisses him on the cheek, holding his face in her free hand, then returns her attention to her phone while shifting the vehicle into drive and accelerating. Her porcelain skin glows in the muted sunlight. She is almost sickly thin, with long fingers, protruding shoulders and prominent collar bone. Her ears are large for her face and her eyes are close together, a look that invokes feelings of warmth laced with slight pity.

“Not a duang, not a single one. I actually get a bonus for going through all this. Cookie, I promise you that I'll even pay for the procedure, if we need one,” Billy says, wiping moisture from his cheeks, his demeanor shifting from piqued to neutral.

“Pumpkin!” Cookie’s eyes widen, displaying a thin ring of white bordering freakishly large ice-blue contact lenses. She beams, her dimples prominent and snaggle canine tooth peeking under her top lip. “Pumpkin are you sure? Pumpkin, how much did they give you?”

“Enough for the IVB—”

“IVF, Pumpkin,” Cookie says, glancing at her mobile phone while pulling into heavy traffic. Several horns blare and tires screech in the distance. Billy squeezes her thigh.

“And enough for a trip to Japan.”

“Pumpkin! Don't tease me, Pumpkiiiiiiiin!” Cookie giggles and swerves around a cement truck. “Pumpkin, don't tease me.” She pouts. “You promise, Pumpkin?”

“I promise. We'll go skiing. Cold weather is baby-making weather, at least that’s what I've heard. But I'm no scientist.”

“Yes, Pumpkin! Let's make a baby in the snow! We can name it 'Bunny'. That works for a boy or a girl. Let's name it Bunny, Pumpkin!” The motorbike taxi driver to their left swerves to avoid hitting the Escalade as Cookie uses a free hand to tap the screen of her phone.

“Bunny is a bit sissy, don't you think? How about 'Hammer'? Or 'Buck'?”

Cookie crinkles her nose. “Ewwww, Pumpkin. Those aren't good names for a girl,” she says, merging between two motorbikes then cutting off an ambulance and speeding through the intersection past a fully red light.

“Who says we're having a girl? The fortune teller said that we're having a boy, remember?”

“She also said that you would get a promotion this year, Pumpkin.”

“She said a raise, and I got a bonus for bravery, so that counts,” Billy says, gripping the armrest as they tailgate a rusted lorry hauling dozens of jangling gas canisters.

“Well, I think if we have a boy we should name him 'Felix'. I like that name. What do you think?”

“It is a bit, I don't know, a bit weird yet typical. Sounds like the name of a kid that pees his pants when he gets nervous around girls. Why Felix?”

Cookie honks the horn several times while driving centimeters away from the rear of a minivan. “It's the name of a cat in a cartoon I saw when I was a kid. During a trip to America. He was soo cute, and he had this magical bag.”

“Sounds a lot like Doraemon to me.”

“No, no, this cartoon was old, very old Pumpkin. And Doraemon is blue. Felix is black.”

“Whoa, wait, you want to name our son after a nigger cat? If we are going to name him after a nigger it should be someone cool. Like Fresh Prince. Or MC Hammer. Again, Hammer.” Billy gestures, then grabs the dashboard as they accelerate through a crowded crosswalk. “That is a name that commands respect. Felix is the name of the kid that cries when he gets his first blow job. And I am not naming my son after a nigger cat. A nigger rapper, sure. A nigger cat, no.”

“We'll see, Pumpkin. But first things first, I need to get snow boots. Can we go shopping tonight, Pumpkin?”

“Cowboy wants to take us out for dinner, and my whole unit will be there, babe. We can shop tomorrow.”

“Promise me we'll go shopping tomorrow, Pumpkin! Say it, or I'll frown and fart all dinner long. Promise me, Pumpkin! Promise me!”

“I promise you, babe. Shopping tomorrow, baby-making in the snow in Japan. What do the white people do in that TV show? Oh yeah, I pinky swear.” Billy offers his pinky to Cookie, with a boyish grin and bedroom eyes.

“If you break this pinky swear we'll have bad luck, Pumpkin,” Cookie says, locking her pinky with Billy’s and looking at him with doe eyes and puckered lips as their vehicle nearly collides with a fuel tanker truck.