| Chapter
8
Tik disappeared
into the back of the bar beside the stage. She spoke
with a girlfriend who casually stepped out of her street
clothes and slipped into a G-string. Looking at herself
in the mirror above the bar, the girlfriend fixed gold
star shaped pasties over each nipple. It was difficult
to make out from their whispers what was being said.
Calvino looked away and leaned back-taking in the rest
of the bar; not much remained of the original decor.
It was just another Patpong downstairs go-go bar. Not
many of the old timers were left around from those days,
thought Calvino. A moment later, he spotted Bartlett,
a freelancer from New Zealand who had wandered in alone
with a laptop in one hand. He waved at Calvino, ordered
a beer at the bar, and went over to his table. Bartlett
scratched the chin of the stuffed civet cat. He was
about five-three, sharp-chinned, with tiny, pale hands
and narrow feet-as if they had been bound as a child-and
an oversized head, his thinning hair combed straight
back.
"Funny
thing about this bar. It always makes me think how one
jungle can so easily turn into another. Especially in
your line of work, I suspect. Did you ever turn up anything
in the Jeff Logan case?"
After all
the years of operation, what remained of the original
were the exotic fish tank and a stuffed civet cat. And
a few fixtures like Bartlett who had been around since
the old days launched straight into a conversation as
if there had been a long pause between tongs.
"A lot
of questions."
"With
no answers. Ah, but that is Bangkok, isn't it?"
"You
turned a few bucks covering Jeff's murder," said
Calvino, glancing back to see if he could catch sight
of Tik.
"That
is called journalism. People want to know about young
men dying of heart attacks in Bangkok. It's reassuring."
"It's
a lot of things, but reassuring it's not," said
Calvino.
Bartlett's
forehead rippled with a wave of wrinkles. "There's
where you're wrong. A journalist knows his audience.
Reassuring, I'm afraid Is the right choice of words.
For the audience in America, Canada, England-you name
it..."
"New
Zealand."
Bartlett talked
in bursts, his deep, penetrating blue eyes looking at
the listener. He had a look that suggested he had belonged
to the original African motif; a well-used Lord of the
Flies youth look of someone stranded, shipwrecked on
a jungle island of childhood from which he could never
escape.
He brightened
his smile. "Even little New Zealand wants to be
reassured that the real, bad old world out there is
filled with dangers. It's better to stay home with the
old Sheila, eating pizza and watching TV, than flying
out to some strange land occupied by people waiting
to cut you down in your very prime. Editors love stories
like that. You get any more, just let me know."
He tapped the case of his laptop computer.
Bartlett had
the journalistic flare for gauging his audience's reaction
as he spoke, rearranging the adjectives and verb forms
to fit the mood of the moment. His childlike feet kicking
the back of the booth as he spoke. In Thailand, he had
found a country where he was average height and rooms
filled with available women, most of whom he could stare
eyeball-to-eyeball with at the bar. If they had removed
their high-heel shoes, that is.
"You're
here a little early," said Bartlett, smelling a
story. "Nice, looking girl, Tik. I had her about
... let me see, eighteen months ago. I took her short
time." Bartlett's face twitched around the nose
and eyes.
Calvino tried
to Imagine Bartlett stripped naked lying on top of Tik.
The Image didn't form easily. Bartlett fingered the
civet cat the way Ben Hoadly had once done. He sat silently
for a moment. "What happened to its ears?"
"I thought
everyone had heard that story," he said, kicking
the heels of his shoes against the booth.
"I'm
listening," said Calvino, glancing back at Tik
who stood in the back talking to her friend.
"You
listening?"
"I'm
listening."
"In the
old days the owner of the African Queen kept an eight-foot
python caged behind the bar. He had bought the snake
from a Thai stripper who had used "Monty"
in her act. The snake even got a billing. Noi and Monty
performed the world-famous love dance. It wasn't much
of an act. The snake hung around her neck. She stripped
slowly and danced around the stage. Pretty tame stuff,
really. She ended up marrying a guy from South Africa.
Since Noi was leaving the country and getting out of
the business' she sold Monty to the African Queen Bar.
The Thais are very practical people. The owner figured
that Monty wasn't going to have a free lunch. He had
to work like everyone else. After two in the morning,
when the bar closed, Monty was given free reign of the
African Queen. He was let out of the cage. This was
mealtime. The python hadn't eaten all day. He was a
big snake with a big appetite. He ate a ton of rats.
The African Queen was the one bar on the strip which
never had a problem with rats when that python was on
the lose. The rats blackballed the place. Rats are smart.
Every morning when the staff came in the python was
stuffed, curled up in a ball, its gut filled with rats,
and fell fast asleep. But soon the rats stopped showing
up. Monty was hungry and did the only thing a really
famished snake would think of doing. He went looked
for a new territory. If the rats wouldn't come to him,
he would go to the rats. So one morning the python disappeared.
It had broken out of the bar and gone on a tour of Patpong.
About a week later in an upstairs bar three doors down
from the African Queen, in the back a couple of whores
sat in front of a mirrored dresser putting on their
makeup. The python dropped down from the ceiling and
landed on the head of a whore. She freaked out, screamed
down the place, and fainted. The whores hated snakes,
especially rat-fed Pythons eight foot in length. In
all the confusion, Monty disappeared. The African Queen
Bar never got the python back. Although there are rumors
from time to time that someone has spotted Monty, most
of it is pills and drugs talking. You know, hallucinations."
Bartlett looked
off toward the ceiling.
"And
the civet cat's ears."
"Ali,
yes, the poor civet cat. Once the python left, the rats
returned to the bar. The rats chewed off its ears. Of
course, the Thais believe the rats did it for revenge.
A kind of rat language warning not to buy a new python.
Rat extortion, if you like. Myself, I think rats would
gnaw through about anything."
The civet
cat ended. Calvino finished his drink and ordered another.
'Who told you that story?'
"The
Worm."
"Who's
the Worm?"
"Ben
Hoadly. It was a nickname from school."
"Said
who?"
"Who
knows where a nickname starts?"
Calvino remembered
the Ben's computer file named Worm, and in another file
Bartlett's name on the list of people who had invested
in the SET through Ben. He wondered if Calvino was sorry;
he wondered if Ben had told him the story, and if so,
why he had never told him.
"You
have any theory on who might have killed him?"
Bartlett's
face twitched as he smiled. "Who wants to know?"
"I want
to know."
"Ah,
I get it. You've got another job. I wonder if my mother
would hire you if I turned up dead in Bangkok?"
"I hear
lie lost some heavy number for a number of -people."
Bartlett's
face softened. "He lost me a tidy sum. But even
in Bangkok, farangs don't normally kill another farang
because they suffered a financial setback. Certainly
not with a bullet in the back of the head. That's execution-style.
Chinese-Thai style, if you want my theory. Though, the
thinner addict might have done it." He looked at
the civet cat. "Anyway, it was a bit of a shock.
About Ben."
Calvino saw
a Thai in expensive Italian shoes, a black silk shirt,
and white pants enter with a couple of bodyguards.
"Here's
my interview arriving thirty minutes late," said
Bartlett,
rising from the table.
Calvino recognized
him from newspaper photographs. It was Chanchai. The
African Queen owner bowed and waied at the same moment.
Other staff-their faces a mask of fear-the same look
he remembered on Ilk's face earlier- and faded into
the shadows. It was like a boss going into a restaurant
in Little Italy spreading terror with a crooked smile.
"I must
be off," said Bartlett. "I hope you find Ben's
killer."
"Introduce
me, Bartlett."
"Well,
er..."
Calvino was
away from the table with his hand stretched out. "My
name Is Calvino. We were talking about snakes in Patpong
before you came in."
Chanchai stared
hard at Calvino. Then he broke out into a smile. He
was from the south, a Muslim, who came from a culture
of violence, revenge, and hatred. As a teenager he had
been a smuggler: electronics into Thailand, and drugs
into Malaysia. His mother had been sold to a brothel
when she was twelve. He never knew his father but he
has Malay features. His father had been a short time
brothel customer.
Chanchai's
first job in Bangkok was as a kick-boxer. He was uneducated
but street-smart, quick-witted, and played hardball.
He had reputedly killed nine men. He had the basic desire
of the rejected and Impoverished: a constant hunger
for power, respect, and acceptance. As a whore's son,
he had been treated as a nullity his entire life, he
has something to prove: and a family to create out of
nothing.
In Patpong,
Chanchai counted for something, Important people noticed
and feared him, respected him, honored him.
"Mr.
Calvino's a private investigator," said Bartlett.
Chanchai grinned,
set down his mobile phone and leaned forward, his two
five-baht chains swinging gently from his neck. He barked
for the owner to send Calvino another drink. Then he
extended his hand to Calvino who reached out and shook
it. Chanchai had a strong grip; he was someone who didn't
let go.
"The
drink’s on the house."
Bartlett,
Chanchai and the two bodyguards quickly were out the
door. Calvino stared at the empty bar, the civet cat,
and wandered to the back. Tik had disappeared from the
doorway. He pushed through a Chinese bead curtain which
led to a corridor. Off to the left was a sign to the
toilets and off to the right were stairs leading upstairs.
He checked the toilet first; it was empty. He retraced
his way back to the stairs. There was music coming from
above. A cassette of Ring my Bell played in the distance.
Calvino went up the stairs and found a series of small
back rooms where girls took customers for a price and
a smelly toilet with the water tank running. A naked
light bulb hung from the ceiling in the perpetually
dark interior. Several bookcases stacked with high-heeled
shoes lined the wall, small tables stacked with junk-newspapers,
pens, cups, small dead plants and a strong smell of
perfume and stale cigarette smoke hung in the air.
"Tik,"
Calvino called out.
There was
no answer. He called her name several more times, walking
down the corridor to the right.
"In here,"
came her voice. "My friend you, she talk to you
now. She tell you everything." Tik appeared in
the doorway of one of the private rooms. The moronic
lyrics of Ring my Bell blared from the bedroom behind
her.
"What
are you doing back here?"
"What?"
She couldn't hear him over the music.
"Why
are you up here?" He moved in close and shouted.
"You
talk, talk with your friend you. I bored very much."
She sounded a little angry. Bar girls hated extended
conversations between farangs in a fast, clipped English
they could not understand, and had nothing to do with
them. She could have cared less that rats had eaten
the ears off the civet cat. He caught a sudden change
in her expression. She looked puzzled and straight through
Calvino.
"Mae,"
she screamed, back-pedaling. Ring my bell, you can ring
my bell.
Calvino half-turned,
blocking a large knife which came at him, narrowly missing
his back. The katoey knocked him into the wall, and
pushed her hand into Calvino's jacket. She fumbled for
his gun. It remembered, he thought. The katoey spit
in his face and tried to bite him. Her teeth sunk into
his arm and he cried out in pain. "Asshole,"
she said, as he struck hard between the shoulder blades.
Her nostrils flared and her eyes were-wild with hate.
"Did
I ring your bell, sweetheart?"
Her elbow
in a karate-like uppercut thrust caught Calvino on the
side of his law. The force of the blow knocked him off
his feet. He crashed through a couple of small tables
and bookcases. High-heeled shoes, hairspray, paint thinner,
phony fingernails, rags, old newspapers, nail files-a
rat's nest of stale junk scattered across the floor,
breaking and smashing. Calvino pushed himself up against
the floor, trying to regain his balance. She Ignored
him and he followed her eye-line to the gun. "Oh,
shit," he murmured. The katoey dove for the gun
which had bounced on the floor. Tik ran forward and
kicked the gun away from the katoey. The katoey threw
a hairspray can at her. Tik retreated down the corridor.
"You
bitch, you cunt. I kill you, too, " shouted the
katoey. A door slammed behind Tik. Calvino heard the
lock click into place. She was safe, he thought.
"Longtime
no see," said Calvino, as the katoey recovered
her concentration, picked up the knife, and came after
him. "Where did you learn that karate shit. Not
bad. Maybe you could tell me who set me up earlier today?"
His hand had reached out and grabbed the first sharp
object it touched. Calvino came up with a HI-Super ballpoint
pen. "Let's talk before someone gets hurt. Okay?"
He palmed the pen and rose to his feet, slowly backing
up.
The katoey
lunged at him, making a swiping motion. She missed and,
in a half-crazed charge, the knife raised above her
head, her I ipstick smeared, thrust downward. She kept
on moving forward with the determination of a fanatic.
Her face was disfigured with sweat and bruises. She
licked her lips and gestured for Calvino to come forward.
He continued to back away in a crouched position.
"We could
be friends," he said. Under the glare of the naked
light bulb he saw a crescent-shaped scar below her right
eye.
"I kill
you," she said.
"I guess
friendship is out of the question," said Calvino.
The katoey
shifted the knife from one hand to the other. Calvino
tripped over a table which had been tipped over in his
fall. As he fell, the radiance of the bright light above
him, the katoey hesitated for a second, then rushed
forward, aiming at his chest cavity. He deflected the
knife with a bottle of antiseptic which shattered in
his hand. In the elapsed moment of confusion, as the
katoey, the curvature of her arched back a grotesque
shadow on the wall, Calvino used both hands to drive
the ballpoint pen through her eye. The HI-Super ballpoint
pierced through her eye. It was like sticking a candle
in a week-old birthday cake. The cornea busted like
an egg yolk. Three inches of hard plastic penetrated
the eye and traveled through tissue, blood vessels,
and into the brain. Ring my Bell echoed in the silence,
muffling her scream. For one exuberant moment, the katoey
shuddered as a faintly yellowish liquid and blood poured
from the hole in her face. Blood quickly soaked the,
floor.
Calvino crawled
forward through the trash on the floor, his hands wet
with blood, and found his gun under a plastic bag. He
pushed the bag away, spilling rat poison into the gore.
It had almost worked, Calvino thought. A perfect setup.
He rolled the katoey over on her back, felt for a pulse
and finding none, went down to the room where Tik had
locked herself in. Why had Tik kicked the gun away?
He should be dead. He called her name but there was
no reply. He tried the door, shaking the handle, then
banging on the door.
"Tik,
let me in. It's okay. You can come out." He put
his ear against the door. "No one Is gonna hurt
you." Still there was no answer. Calvino took a
deep breath and one step back, then forced the door
open with his shoulder. Rubbing his shoulder, he walked
into the small, dark room. He flipped on the light.
There was a single bed along one, side, a nightstand,
and some porno magazines, but no Tik in the far corner
a boarded-up window had been kicked open. She had fled
the scene like a Bangkok bus driver who had caused an
accident. Calvino walked back into the corridor and
dragged the dead katoey into the room and laid the body
on the bed. He switched off the light and closed the
door. He walked down the stairs and at the bottom a
small wooden gate had been drawn across. He unlatched
the gate and entered the ground-floor corridor. A customer
came out of the toilet.
"Man,
you smell ripe," said a farang about thirtysomething,
with Iong matted red hair and green eyes.
The antiseptic
from the broken bottle reeked from Calvino's clothing.
The flecks of blood spattered on his shirt were still
fresh and wet. Calvino buttoned his suit jacket and
passed the farang and pushed through the Chinese beaded
curtains, past the bar where about a dozen people sat.
Outside the African Queen, Calvino spotted Vichai in
his cowboy shirt and Reeboks.
"Let's
have a talk," Calvino said.
Vichai who
had stood leaning against the display of videos, took
off running through the light crowd of tourists who
were shopping along the stalls. Calvino gave chase only
to find his path blocked by a half-dozen touts and pimps,
fists clenched. The intimidation worked, stopping Calvino
dead in his tracks. if he had moved another step, they
would have attacked him wolf-pack style, with fists,
feet, razors, kn Ives, and pipes. Calvi no's law of
street fighting with Thais in Patpong was: Don't. He
caught a last glimpse of Vichai running through the
Top Hat restaurant. Calvino knew the back door led into
the maze of sois.
He turned
and walked away, passing the Bookseller he went to the
right off the main strip. On the glass door of the bookstore
was an advertisement for HI-Super ballpoint pens and
a sensual woman in a bikini holding one between her
fingers and smiling.
First edition (1992) / Current
edition (2004) Heaven Lake Press, 306 pp.
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