Banging the Monkey

by Tod A

  The Rat Room was an isolation cell not much bigger than a coffin.

  “Anyway, you can get out of here anytime you want, if you’re willing to pay,” he said. “At least for a couple of hours.”

  Blacky had been to the Australian Clinic when a sore on his foot went septic. A day outside the prison walls, escorted by armed guards, cost about a hundred dollars. While a ‘day out’ was supposed to be used only for hospital visits, it was rumored that some prisoners had been able to enjoy an afternoon at the beach, a pub crawl, even a night at the local whorehouse. With baksheesh all was possible.

  If you coughed up enough dough, you could move to a private cell with electricity, as Blacky had done. His cell boasted a futon and a radio. He had a phone, a fan, and a fridge. Blacky passed the hours wallpapering his cell with photos ripped from magazines. Every couple of days his Madunese girlfriend brought him meat, drinking water, and more magazines.

  “Ah, it’s not so bad in here,” he said. “Same as everything, you get used to it after long enough.”

  I had no intention of hanging around that long. Neraka had the reputation of being a pit of sex, drugs, and violence. There was no division of prisoners by crime: murderers, rapists and pedophiles were housed together with hapless tourists busted for a few tabs of ecstasy. You never knew who you were standing next to in the shower.

  A notorious drug dealer named Mega had passed some time in Neraka. Mega had been generous to the warden, and his lifestyle was the stuff of legend. His cell was said to rival the splendor of Lucky Luxury Guesthouse. Blacky described it to me, his eyes wide with wonder.

  “Carpets on the floor, Sunshine. A fuck-off stereo, a bloody flat-screen on the wall. The bastard had a full-on entertainment system! Video games, pornos, you name it. A microwave. Full size fridge. We’re talking fresh meat, cold beer. Ice cubes, for fuck’s sake!”

  Eventually Mega expanded his domain into an adjoining cell by bribing the guards to knock down a wall. He’d continued dealing from inside the jail to pay his baksheesh and legal fees. No one found this at all strange. Everyone seemed to have a little game going.

  A prostitute pal of Blacky’s, Cupcake was on death row for killing a man in self-defense while turning a trick. While women were restricted to W Block, Cupcake was transsexual—not recognized as female by the legal system—so she’d been slung in with the men. Business was better than ever.

  Apart from crooked guards with machine guns the biggest enemy at Neraka was boredom. Outside of visiting hours there was not much to do but gamble or tend the garden. These days nobody could afford TV sets. Even books were scarce. Most inmates surrendered to the torpor of confinement, passing the time as best they could, usually by brawling or jacking off. The only real distraction for most mayat was obsessing about their case, and scheming how to drum up the cash to minimize their sentence.

  “Don’t believe your solicitor, and be careful with the court,” Blacky warned. “Remember, it’s only the dosh they’re after. Same with the pigs.”

  Everyone complained about the bribes. Ex-pats spent thousands in the hope of getting their sentence reduced.

  “Here’s how it works, my son,” Blacky explained. “You got to pay early, and you got to pay big. If you do, and you keep your mouth shut, you got a decent shot at walking out. If you can’t get the cash together right away, you can still pay during the appeal, when the hearings are closed-door. But once you go to trial, everything’s public, and your chances get very faint very fast indeed.”

  The mayat had it made in the shade compared to the Madunese, who could rarely afford the bribes. Apart from serving out his sentence, a Madunese had only two ways out: over the wall or inside a pine box.

  “What you seriously don’t want to do is get all high and mighty and make a big palaver in the press. If you do that you’re done for. You might be on the right side of justice with a capital J, but you’ll be on the wrong fucking side of the Madunese legal system. No bloody foreign journo is going to change the way they do things here. If you get in the papers, you may as well kiss your ass goodbye.” He spat on the ground. “If you’re exceedingly lucky, they might knock off six months for good behavior. But only if you’ve got a fat wallet.”

  It always came back to money. The authorities had a good shakedown going, and they knew it. Politicians had no incentive to make it easier on criminals: voters wouldn’t stand for it. Prison staff relied on the revenue stream. And just like the Dimana plantation scam, everybody got their cut.

  But for those who couldn’t afford it, the future was grim. Even prisoners who successfully plied the system weren’t truly safe. Sometimes they were made into examples. I wondered about Cupcake’s fate if her appeals were rejected. Failing some kind of miracle, Blacky said, she’d wind up like Mega.

  I asked Blacky what had become of Mega.

  “One morning his time was up, Sunshine.”

  “He was released?”

  “No, mate. They took him out and shot him.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  Even if you were a big wheel your luck could run out.

  “They come for you in the dark, see. Before dawn. They cuff you, blindfold you. Then they take you to this secret beach and tie you to a palm tree. They lay ten rifles on the sand, but only five got live bullets. They pick the guns up random-like so nobody knows who done the deed. Then it’s aim for the heart, and pull the trigger.”

  Enough bullets usually found their target, Blacky said, but not every time. Even when they did, death did not always come quickly. In the tropics even death could be lazy, slow to relieve the suffering of the doomed.

  “Seems you’ve got visitors, Sunshine.”

  I wiped the sweat from my eyes and scanned the faces at the security checkpoint. Monty and Kubu were waving at me excitedly, trying to get my attention. Raj was in front of them, arguing with a guard. As they made their way through security I rented some reed mats and bought water from a vendor.

  “Nice of you guys to finally pay me a visit. I hope there’s a fucking hacksaw in that plastic bag.”

  “Not a chance,” Raj said. “Security nearly confiscated our chicken. Claimed the bones could be used as weapons. Have you ever known such absurdity? Do we look like Neanderthals?”

  “Chicken?” I said.

  “Kubu cooked,” Monty said. “We thought we’d make a little picnic.”

  “Thank you so much, Kubu.”

  “Cooney said the cuisine in here was not exactly five-star,” Monty said.

  “And how is Cooney?” I asked, pointedly.

  “He sends his best,” Raj said.

  “Wanted to come,” Monty said. “But you know Cooney and authority figures.”

  “Yeah, him and me both.”

  Kubu began unpacking the food. The chicken smelled delicious.

  “I really must apologize for being unable to accompany you to the police station, dear boy,” Monty said. “But I was in no fit state to advise anyone. I’ve been positively scolding myself ever since.”

  “Positively scolding,” Kubu said, serving out chicken and noodles onto paper plates.

  “I’m not sure there’s much you could have done, anyway,” I said. “These people are as crooked as a barrel of fish hooks.”

  “I hope you’ll let me make it up to you by allowing me to serve as your council until this whole sordid mess is sorted out,” Monty said. “I’m no expert on Madunese criminal law, Mark, but theoretically their legal procedures are based on Dutch precedents.”

  “It’s kind of you to offer. But I haven’t got a penny.”

  “No worries, my boy. All pro bono,” he said. “What are friends for?”

  “Even if your friend is a suspected murderer?”

  “Fear not, Comrade,” Raj said. “Steps have been taken, and progress is being made.”r />
  “We spoke to the police this morning,” Monty said. “Most unpleasant people.”

  Kubu nodded. “Most unpleasant.”

  “They require two sworn witness statements to establish your whereabouts during the time period they believe the homicide took place.”

  “I myself signed a statement this morning,” Raj said. “And Monty finally got through to Wulan yesterday.”

  “I caught her during a break in the rains,” Monty said. “She was terribly concerned when I told her of your situation. She said she will make the journey to Joro as soon as physically possible.”

  “That’s fantastic,” I said, my mouth full of chicken. “When’s that gonna be?”

  “Unfortunately, the weather has worsened again up north,” Monty said. “Sea travel around the coast has been suspended indefinitely.”

  “How long is indefinitely?”

  “It’s up to the gods,” Raj said. “A few days—a few weeks, perhaps.”

  “Weeks?” I whined. “Wait, if we only need one more sworn statement, what about the consul? Fitch saw me on Longa and in Dimana.”

  “I’ve already reached out to the consul regarding signing a statement as to your whereabouts,” Monty said.

  I looked at him hopefully.

  “Sadly, I can’t get him on the phone.”

  “There must be some way.”

  “I did a little research. The Vienna Convention states that a consul can be compelled to give deposition in an overseas criminal trial.”

  “So let’s fucking compel him!”

  “Unfortunately, the Madunese government never ratified the Vienna Convention.”

  “Ugh,” I groaned.

  “You must try to be patient and remain calm,” Monty said. “These things take time. The police are currently tracking dental records to confirm the identity of the deceased.”

  “Dental records? What fucking century is this? Hasn’t anyone here heard of DNA?”

  “Unfortunately, it has no legal precedent in Madu,” Monty said.

  “Surprise, surprise,” I said. “So how long’s that going to take?”

  “They assured us no more than a month.”

  “A month?” I clasped my head in my hands.

  “Yes, well, hopefully less,” Monty said brightly. “But let’s be thankful that things are moving forward.”

  “Forward to where?”

  A chill breeze blew though the yard, rattling the palm leaves.

  “There’s just one other thing,” Raj said.

  “Oh, yes, I forgot,” Monty said.

  “What?”

  There was a distant flash, and a low peal of thunder rolled across the hills.

  “How are you fixed for cash?”

  “Will you guys quit beating around the bush?”

  “It’s the bail,” Raj said.

  “What bail? I haven’t been charged with anything.”

  A sudden gust threw dust into our eyes.

  “Well, not bail, exactly,” Raj said. “How did they put it, Monty?”

  “Expedition Fee,” Monty said. “Technically speaking, you are still being held on a simple visa violation, of course.”

  “Yeah, well, we all know that’s bullshit. So let them deport me.”

  The first fat drops of rain smacked the tile.

  “Nonetheless, due to a backlog of cases, they say it could be a considerable time before your case can be reviewed by a judge.”

  “How considerable?”

  The rain began to fall in earnest now.

  “I think we’d better get under cover,” Raj said.

  My friends scrambled to collect the food and escape the coming deluge.

  “How long, Monty?”

  “Six weeks, at least.”

  “Six weeks?”

  “Unless you pay the Expedition Fee.”

  Everyone in the prison yard was scrambling to get under the eaves.

  “And how much is that?” I shouted through the rain.

  “Ninety million rupees,” Monty yelled over his shoulder.

  The palm tops waved wildly in the gusts, shedding dead leaves. Gutter pipes spewed water like Bushwick fire-hydrants in August. I stood alone in the center of the prison yard.

  “Nine thousand dollars?” I screamed. “Where the hell am I going to find that kind of money?”

  The crowd watched me, wide-eyed, from the periphery.

  “Son of a bitch.” I trudged over to join the others.

  The four of us stood there, looking out on the mess of plastic bottles and cigarette butts and waterlogged napkins, as the rain hammered down.

  Raj glanced down skeptically at his soggy noodles, then took another bite.

  I sank to my knees.

  “Monty,” I pleaded, “I’ve got to get out of here, man. They shoot people in this place.”

  “Don’t worry, dear boy,” he said. “You’ll think of something.”

  { 14 }

  Banging the Monkey

  I would have to think of something. This was the sort of rabbit hole into which people vanished, never to be heard from again.

  It had rained steadily for two days and nights and showed no signs of stopping. I didn’t put much hope in Wulan making the trip down from back-island anytime soon.

  I bribed a guard to get my phone out of the lock-up and called the US consulate. Ms Jeruk, Fitch’s assistant, informed me in her bureaucratic monotone that the consul, though busy preparing for the imminent arrival of several diplomatic VIPs for Galung Gong, had been apprised of my situation and would pay me a visit as soon as possible, next week, latest. In the interim, she said, I would have to ‘make do’ as best I could.

  There was no way I was going to spend another night on the concrete floor with Kicky and Screamy—the dipsomaniac Belgian and the Spanish junkie. I threw down a hundred bucks, almost all the cash I had left, for a private cell with electricity and a toilet. Another ten dollars bought me a foam mattress and a charger for my phone. I managed to retrieve Buster’s Vietnam Zippo on a smile. Raj and Monty had promised to bring me food and cigarettes. But Cooney stayed well away.

  At least I was back on the wagon: I couldn’t afford beer.

  I lay listening to the steady drizzle in the prison yard, watching water drops congeal on the ceiling of my cell. The clock was ticking: where was I going to get nine thousand dollars?

  I knew that Frisco Steve was as broke as me. Blake was definitely out: while I was sure she had the cash, I wouldn’t be able to bear her I-told-you-so’s. My sister, Cat, had long ago given up on me, and I still owed her for legal fees from a previous arrest. I hadn’t spoken to my father in years, and something like this would only confirm his opinion of the lousy path my life had taken. My mother? I feared if I called her from a Southeast Asian prison she might have another aneurysm.

  I had no other option. After several rings I heard her bleary voice.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  “Hey, Ma. It’s me.”

  “Mark? Mark, honey? I can barely hear you!”

  “How’s it going, Ma?”“Where are you? What’s happening? I’ve been so worried. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “They called me from the American consulate. Some man, some Fitch man asking about you. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “No, Ma. Just some complications with my passport.”

  “Complications? What complications?”

  “How did they get your number?”

  “He said they found me on the internet. Can they do that now?”

  “Don’t worry, Ma, everything’s cool.”

  “What do you mean, ‘cool’? Why are these people calling me? And what’s all that racket?”

  Cupcake had chosen that moment to invade
my cell, transistor radio to her ear, dancing a bored striptease.

  I covered the phone. “Cupcake! Get lost!”

  “Who you talk to, Mr Mark?”

  “Who is that?” my mother said. “Are you with a girl?”

  “No, Ma. It’s just . . . nobody. Never mind.”

  “I not nobody,” Cupcake said, pouting.

  “Have you gone and got some poor native girl pregnant?”

  “No, Ma. It’s nothing like that.”

  “Well, what is it then? It’s five in the morning!”

  “Shit, Ma, I’m sorry. The time difference. I forgot.”

  “Mr Mark, you talk your girlfriend?” Cupcake said, slipping her arm around me.

  “No. My mother. Piss off.”

  “Who is that?” My mother asked.

  “Listen, Ma. I’m really, really, really sorry about this. But I need a favor. Just don’t ask me any questions, okay?”

  “You are in some kind of trouble, aren’t you? I had a bad feeling about this crazy job.”

  “Ma, I said no questions. Promise me.”

  “Okay, no questions.”

  “Promise?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “Alright,” I said. I took a deep breath. “I need you to sell Buster’s bike.”

  “What? You made me swear to never to sell that thing.”

  “I need nine thousand dollars.”

  “What do you need nine thousand dollars for?”

  “Ma, you promised!”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get the bike back. I just need a temporary cash injection.”

  Cupcake was swaying and singing along with some asinine Madunese pop song.

  “Cupcake, will you please give me a fucking break?” I hissed.

  “Who is that person?”

  “Ma, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”

  Fitch finally showed his face on Friday afternoon. I lay splayed on the mattress, sunk in my thoughts, when a guard rapped on the bars.

  As the consul was a VIP, we were allowed to meet indoors, rather than squatting in the yard. The guard led me through the prison office into the visiting room. He left, locking the door behind him.