Chakrabandhu Sintapiratpattanasai blinked lizard eyes at me and seemed as puzzled by the English language as I was by his name.
“No understand what you word say.”
We were on a no-name strip of beach in Mississippi, west of Biloxi. The land stretched from the water north for a hundred miles before there was anything that could be charitably called a hill. It was the billiard-table flatness that had allowed Katrina’s storm surge to steamroll the communities for miles inland. Sintapiratpattanasai was a short man, heavy and square, with jet-black hair glistening with pomade. Even though the sun was high, he wore a dark three-piece suit, his tie tight to his thick neck.
I put my badge wallet back in my pocket and tried rephrasing the question. “We’re trying to track down ownership of a piece of property. About a quarter acre that once had a house on it.”
Sintapiratpattanasai frowned. “Ay-ker? Prop-tee?”
I’d seen this act before and so had Harry. He pulled his handcuffs and nodded toward the Crown Vic.
“OK buddy, put out your hands so I can cuff them and let’s take a walk to the car.”
Mr S. startled back three steps, barked, “You from Mobile in Alabama. This Mississippi. You have no jurisdiction here.”
“That solves the language problem,” Harry said.
“We’re not here on any problem relative to you, sir,” I said. “We’re here about a property you own or owned.”
“Where this property?” he challenged.
I gave him the address.
“Own four houses there for years. I rent to fishermen, shrimp fishermen.” He wagged his head. “Tough bidness. Fishermen move when Katrina blow houses down in Alabama. I buy houses here now. Do rent.”
I’d seen Sintapiratpattanasai’s kind before. The archetypical slumlord, he’d buy houses or apartments on the cheap, fill them with poor like rabbits in a warren. Any repairs came late or never.
“What did you do with the house?” Harry asked.
“Sell.”
I heard a roar of heavy motorcycles to the north and craned my head to a pair of riders on Harleys burning hell-for-leather along the road. The bikers seemed to be looking our way.
I turned back to Mr S. “Who did you sell the place to, sir?”
“Man come, say he need place. I sell. This two month back.”
“What was the buyer’s name?”
“I think. I remember in a minute. Or I have written down.”
“Why did he need the place?”
“He like to fish. Not boat, but fish…” Sintapiratpattanasai jigged his hands as if casting a rod. “He was soon retire and fish all day long. Use house for fish house, fix up.” He paused and recalled the moment. “Ten thousan’ dollar, for that place? He either sucker or using somebody else’s money.”
“Did you use a lawyer, anything like that?” Harry asked, trying to find a paper trail. “Or handle the transaction at a bank?”
“Man gave me money, I sign paper saying house his. No big deal need banker. Banker is bullshit, take money to watch you sign paper.”
“You received a check?” I asked.
Sintapiratpattanasai held out his right palm and jabbed it hard with his left forefinger. “Fuck check. Cash money.”
I shot Harry a look. The transaction had all the signs of a street deal. Someone needed the property for a short time, paid for the privilege. But the deal was off the official books. The State would eventually find no taxes were being paid, check into things, but Sintapiratpattanasai had made his money, had a valid receipt, and the buyer had used the property and was long gone.
“Did you keep a copy of the paper you signed?” Harry asked.
“I keep everything so no get fucked by US government.”
“Can we see the paper?” Harry asked.
“Come in office and I find.”
We followed the landlord to a large black Lexus parked in the shade of twin palms. He popped the truck to reveal a pair of orange crates stuffed with files.
“Your office?” Harry asked.
“I own forty-seven properties all down coast. I need to know who pays so no one get free ride. People try cheat me all the time. They don’t come to me, so I go to them.”
I pictured Sintapiratpattanasai driving his files from place to place, checking names, making sure the rent came in on time. If not, there would be penalties, surcharges, evictions. All quite legal.
Mr S moved to the crate tucked the farthest back in the truck. “These old files. Alabama. No more property in Alabama.” He snatched up a file, pulled out an envelope, found the receipt in question within the envelope. I took it and stared at the page.
“It’s freaking indecipherable,” I said. “It looks like a damn prescription. I can read ‘Kurt’, I think. But the rest? Mathews? Masters? Martinas?”
Harry took a look, shook his head.
“The receipt is built to show nothing but a transfer of money from someone to Mr S for a quarter-acre parcel and four hundred-square-foot house, with six-foot-wide common access to a pier. Ten thousand dollars, paid in full.”
“You see my name, don’t you?” the landlord asked. “All right and legal bill of sale?”
“Clear as a bell,” Harry said.
The landlord started to tuck the page back into the envelope. Harry reached out and tapped the man’s wrist.
“We’d like a copy of the document, sir. Can we take it and return it after we inspect the page?”
The landlord went to the back door of the Lexus. “I make you copy.”
He opened the back door. A mini-copier was seat-belted on to the back seat, plugged into the outlet on the plenum. Beside the copier was a fax machine. On the other seat was a cooler. Lunch and supper, I figured, business on the fly. Sintapiratpattanasai pulled us a clear copy. It didn’t make the buyer’s name any more decipherable.
We followed him back to the trunk. He folded the receipt, and slid it into the creamy white envelope. Harry noted the saw printing on the envelope, grabbed it from the landlord.
“Did the buyer give you this envelope?” I asked. “Did it have the money inside?”
“Already spend money,” Sintapiratpattanasai said, suspicious of a shakedown. “Money all gone.”
“Did this envelope come from the buyer?” Harry repeated. “Answer the question.”
“Buyer man have money counted out and inside.”
Harry said nothing. He simply passed me the envelope.
“No,” I said, closing my eyes, trying to blot out the outside, inside and everything in between. “This isn’t happening.”
It was a tithe envelope for Kingdom Church.