Banging the Monkey

  The walls of the room were painted luminous pink. I felt like Jonah in the belly of the whale. I’d brought along my notebook—a broad-ruled pad for school-kids with Mickey Mouse on the front—just in case Fitch said anything I needed to remember. I sat at the metal table, drumming my fingers and looking up at a photo of General Perek, Madu’s President. A pudgy man with thick glasses and bad skin, he smiled in front of a fake sunset.

  I heard the jangle of keys in the lock. In walked Fitch, looking like he’d just left his manicurist. How he managed it in this relentless rain and heat, I couldn’t imagine. Behind him was Ms Jeruk, the same humorless drudge I’d spoken to on the phone, carrying a manila folder with my name on it.

  “Fitch,” I said. “You took your time.”

  “I apologize, Mr O’Kane, but it’s been a rotten week, absolutely rotten.”

  “Busy over at the TV Bar?”

  “This is my assistant, Ms Jeruk.”

  “Pleasure.” She looked like she was sucking on a bad lozenge.

  We all shook hands and sat down.

  Jeruk passed Fitch my file.

  “So,” Fitch said, crisply. “How are you getting along?”

  “I’m alright. Friends are helping out,” I said. “And I ponied up for a private cell.”

  “Good, good,” he said. “It’s not exactly Club Med, but I’m told prisoners can usually get what they need.”

  “Westerners can. Madunese prisoners can’t afford many perks.”

  “Well, as to your situation.” He opened the file and leafed through it. “I have some good news and some bad news.”

  “I only want good news.”

  “The good news is that we finally received your new passport. That’s all taken care of. No worries there.”

  “Great,” I said. “Where is it?”

  “Yes, well, that’s the bad news. We were required to turn it over to the police, pending the outcome of their investigation.”

  “You what?” I burst out. “Oh, great. Do you have any idea how corrupt these people are?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr O’Kane. There’s not much we can do. Protocol, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re afraid?”

  “Now,” he cleared his throat. “As chief US consular officer, I am obliged to advise you of your rights as an American citizen in foreign incarceration, and to inform you of what Consular Services can and cannot do for you under these circumstances. First, what we cannot do.”

  I lit a cigarette and waited.

  “We cannot demand your release or otherwise cause you to be released. Nor can we represent you at trial, give legal advice, or pay legal fees or fines with US government funds.”

  “So what exactly can you do?”

  “I’ll get to that. First, I need to ask you a few questions,” he said, passing a checklist to his assistant. “Have you been abused in any way?”

  “No more than anyone else in here.”

  He he turned to Jeruk. “Prisoner appears to be in good health, exhibiting no signs of physical abuse.”

  She checked a box.

  “Second, how would you describe your mental state?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Any depression?”

  “Well, I was certainly a hell of a lot more chipper before I was jailed without trial for a crime I had nothing to do with.”

  He ignored this. “Thoughts of suicide?”

  “I won’t off myself on your watch, Fitch, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  His jaw tightened. “Prisoner does not exhibit outward signs of suicide risk.”

  “Third, is your family aware of your circumstances?”

  “My mother knows I lost my passport. But that’s all she knows. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Yes, well, that’s understandable. Prisoner does not request family notification services at this time.”

  “Now,” he went on, “we strongly urge you to seek out legal representation. Although Consular Services cannot refer any specific counsel to you, unofficially we are allowed to pass on this list of local lawyers that other American citizens have used in the past.”

  He handed me a sheet of paper.

  “I already have a lawyer.”

  “Oh. Good, good,” he said. “So can I assume your counsel has already advised you of Madunese legal procedure?”

  “If you mean him telling me who I’ll have to bribe to get out of here, then yes, he did.”

  He glanced at the door—then at Jeruk. “Prisoner has retained counsel.”

  “Now look, Mr O’Kane,” he said, lowering his voice. “Speaking officially, we are here to do anything within our rights and powers to assist you. That includes protesting any mistreatment or abuse to the appropriate Madunese authorities. However—unofficially—I would strongly advise that you not speak to members of the press about conditions inside the prison or the Madunese legal system.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Are you kidding, man? The system works great. It’s the most efficient extortion racket I’ve ever seen.”

  Jeruk narrowed her eyes. “You are no longer in America, Mr O’Kane.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Not in Kansas anymore.”

  Fitch shuffled his papers and went on. “Consular Services can relay a request to third parties for money or other aid. Would you care to initiate such a request at this time?”

  “I’m dealing with it.”

  “Well, then,” he said. “Is there anything else we can provide at this time?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, there is. Provide a sworn statement to the police that you saw me in Dimana. Provide that.”

  Fitch looked at Jeruk.

  “The consul is a very busy man, Mr O’Kane.”

  “That’s what everybody keeps telling me.”

  “It was all I could do to free up thirty minutes in his schedule to come visit you today.”

  “And I’m ever so grateful. But after the two of you waltz out of here, I’m still going to be showering with psychopaths.”

  “Unfortunately, Mr O’Kane, any legal deposition given by the consul must be requested by the police or the courts.”

  I turned to Fitch. “Look, man, you saw me in Dimana. I know you did. Just tell the police there is no possible way I could have killed anyone in Joro. If you can’t do it as the consul, just do it as a man—as a human being.”

  “I will, Mr O’Kane—as soon as the deposition has been formally requested via the appropriate diplomatic channels. Protocol again, I’m afraid.”

  “’I’m afraid, I’m afraid.’. Do you know what it means to be afraid? I’m fucking petrified.”

  There was a long and awkward pause.

  “Perhaps we could we bring you some books or periodicals—a Bible, perhaps?”

  “A Bible?” I laughed. “Man, you’re so full of shit.”

  I sat in my cell, brooding. I don’t know what I’d expected Fitch to say or do. It was clear to me long before he walked in that I was seriously fucked. The US government was not about to send in the cavalry to rescue one more hapless rube who’d stepped into some shit far away from home.

  I had pegged the consul as a man of straw from the very beginning. Still, I’d hoped for something less predictable than another empty show. Seeing him at the TV Bar that night had given me the impression Fitch might have a surprise or two hidden behind his bland facade. Even a hint of reticence about the corruption in which he played a part would have raised him in my estimation.

  But you don’t get ahead in the civil service by rocking the boat—especially when you harbor shameful little secrets. Like every other pretender, Fitch lived in fear of being exposed. He was all too willing to kowtow to the real power-brokers in this farce: a venal gang of vultures masquerading as just and honest men.

  The d
ays passed. The rain droned on. I succumbed to the torpor of prison life.

  Word had got around that I was in Neraka for murder. Ludicrous as this fiction was, I did nothing to dispel it: the other inmates kept their distance. But solitude gave me too much time to think. I lay staring at the ceiling, watching beads of condensation swell to terminal mass and fall, as my mind traversed ever-constricting circles.

  I couldn’t explain my fever dreams in Dimana, could find no logical explanation for my hallucinatory premonition of Frank’s death.

  When I wasn’t obsessing about the murder, I felt myself slipping backward into the darkness inside myself. All my life’s missteps and mistakes returned to haunt me. I began to feel I deserved to be in here, as though the great karmic pendulum had swung back to wreak its vengeance. For me, Neraka was a prison full of ghosts—the ghosts of my drunkard’s past.

  The Voices returned in a strident monologue that echoed in my head. I longed to squelch them out with alcohol, as I had always done before. I craved a king-size bender. But there was no easy way out. I knew the prison I really needed to escape from wasn’t Neraka. The dog was still scratching at the door.

  We are at Windows on the World, atop the North Tower. Blake is radiant, and she’s my girl. Champagne glasses held high, we toast the success of my debut novel, XXX, feeling as lofty and invincible as the towers themselves. Our breath fogs the cool window as we gaze out on a sea of lights that shimmer like a million golden opportunities.

  Then comes the horrid flash, the swift silent sucking of air from our lungs. As the floor falls away I see my horror mirrored in her eyes. For an instant our bodies hang in the air, tethered to the sky, suspended like unanswered questions. Then we fall.

  I jolted upright in a cold sweat, craving some basic human contact to wash the dregs of the dream from my consciousness. For now, Blacky and Cupcake were all I had.

  “Dammit, Blacky! You cheat, that’s what I think!” She sighed theatrically and slipped out of her pink tube top to reveal a push-up bra.

  “And I think you’re deliberately losing, just to torture us.”

  Blacky pulled a tin box from his pocket and began rolling a spliff.

  “What? No! I just no good at stupid strip poker,” Cupcake said. “Anyway, so hot in here!”

  She fanned herself with her cards for a moment, then tossed them on the table. As usual, her tinny radio played Madunese pop and she shimmied to the music.

  “I like my body. I no ashame. These titties not cheap, you know! You no like my body, Blacky? Mark like my body, ja?”

  “Very nice,” I said.

  “Why you no play with us, Mark?”

  “I’m not much of a gambler.”

  “Oh, you just shy,” she said, punching me on the arm. “Mamma’s boy.”

  “Your deal, Cupsy,” Blacky said.

  “Ja, ja.”

  He lit up the spliff and took a long hit. “So you worked for Frank Fochs, hey?”

  “Yeah, not anymore. You knew the guy?”

  “Small island, Madu.” He rearranged his cards. “Friend of mine, Mick—well, maybe friend’s too nice a word—substance-related acquaintance, let’s say. Mick did odd jobs for Frank now and again.”

  “Welsh Mick?”

  “That’s the geezer. Complete fucking nutter.”

  “No kidding. What kind of jobs?”

  “Mick didn’t go into specifics, like. But I gather the last gig had something to do with relocating some antique sculptures that Frank needed relocated. Sounded quite dodgy.”

  “What, like religious stuff?”

  “Yeah, moldy old wooden heads and that.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, half a year ago, at least. He’s kind of fell off the face of the earth, has Mick. His old lady comes looking for him ‘round here every now and then, wondering if he’s washed up inside. What’s her name again? Bung? Dung?”

  “Nung.”

  “Yeah, that’s her,” he said. “Wouldn’t mind a bit of that myself! Anyway, sadly, no, I tells her. Ain’t seen hide nor hair. Mick was my main supplier, and all. Been tough to get me stuff since he gone missing.”

  He took another hit on the spliff and offered it to me.

  I shook my head. “I’m paranoid enough, already.”

  “Let’s get back to the game, then. What you holding, Cupsy?”

  “No, you show me yours first!”

  “That’s what she said. Alright, three tens.”

  “Oh, Blacky! You so bad! You always cheating!”

  She started happily removing her shorts, swaying her hips to the music on the radio.

  My mobile rang. “Excuse me a sec.” I slipped out to the balcony.

  “Cowboy? That you?”

  “Cooney. So nice of you to come fucking visit me in fucking prison.”

  “Sorry, but no way, no how. That place gives me The Fear.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Never mind. I may have something for you.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, I was thinking about it and remember I told you how a couple weeks before you showed up at the saloon that Nung had scarpered for a week or so?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, rumor has it she ran off to New York with your man Frank.”

  “I’m pretty sure I saw her there.”

  “Well, you best believe the taff was none too pleased. Positively apoplectic. Ranting and raving at the bar every night about all the nasty things he was going to do to Frank the next time he sees him.”

  “I believe it.”

  “Course I didn’t pay it much mind at the time. That lunatic is always shooting his mouth off about something or other. But in light of the dead kraut, it takes on a bit of a different cast, don’t it?”

  “I guess it does.”

  “And that ain’t all. Nung’s been all sixes and sevens the last few weeks. Sloping about the place, depressing the hell out of the regulars. Finally I sit her down and tell her to spill it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “At first she doesn’t want to talk, but after a few araks she breaks down and tells me the bastard hasn’t been home in a couple of weeks. I reckon she’s afraid to go to the cops on account of what he might have gone and done.”

  “She’s come here looking for him, too, I’m told.”

  “She said the last time she saw the bugger was just before the monsoon hit—right around the time your boss became fish food.”

  “That doesn’t look good.”

  “Yeah, right? I was just talking to Monty, and he reckons the police might want to hear this little theory. So don’t give up the fight just yet, Cowboy.”

  “Thanks, man. You just brightened up my evening considerably.”

  “Oh, by the way. You know any Cambodian fellahs? At least I reckon he was Cambodian.”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Some guy came around the bar asking funny questions about you and the kraut. I didn’t like the smell of it, so I played dumb.”

  “Not much of a stretch.”

  “Hilarious. Anyway, I thought you might wanna know.”

  “Wait a minute. Tall? Kind of effeminate?”

  “Now that you mention it.”

  “I bet that was Kala.”

  “The tranny from the TV Bar? He wasn’t in drag.”

  “He’s searching for Frank too.”

  “What’s the tranny got to do with all this?”

  “I don’t have a god-damned clue.”

  Back on my mattress, my eyes tracing the confines of my cell, I found myself thinking of Buster. I tried to imagine how my uncle would have handled being stuck in a place like this. More than likely he’d have breezed through on a grin and plenty of piss and vinegar. It cheered me up just to think of
him.

  Buster had loved the English language, especially the doggerel of everyday speech. He collected vernacular the way other men hoarded girlie magazines. His memory was vice-like: he had a colorful curse for every occasion, and his face lit up whenever some spicy slang was on the tip of his tongue.

  One of his favorites was ‘banging the monkey.’ The way my uncle’s war buddies threw it around, I suspect the expression had its origins in Vietnam junkie parlance. The phrase could convey just about anything, depending on how it was deployed. It could mean to fail spectacularly—something like ‘screwing the pooch’. Or it could describe a legendary bout of partying, as in, “We really banged the monkey last night, eh, boys?” It could be applied to sex or gambling—any kind of mischief.

  But Buster usually used ‘banging the monkey’ to describe a hopeless situation with no satisfactory solution—no honorable escape—yet you fought on, because surrender was unthinkable. Sitting in my cell, I finally understood its meaning: beating your head against the wall, fully aware your cause was already lost. This was banging the monkey.

  My mobile rang again.

  “Mark, my friend. How are you coping?”

  “Raj! Where the hell are you? To be honest, I’ve been better.”

  “Still in Singy. Finally getting to the bottom of this icons business, and I must tell you that my source at Singapore Customs informs me your company has been implicated.”

  “You mean Frank’s company. Implicated how?”

  “It’s really quite fascinating. Apparently, Naga has for some years been supplying counterfeit antiquities to this man Yow.”

  “Yeah, I know. So?”

  “So Yow sold the pieces on to mid-level dealers in Bangkok, Amsterdam, Paris, etcetera—along with forged documents establishing their historic bona fides. The Singy authorities, receiving their fair duty, were none the wiser. Yow knew he was dealing in fakes, of course, as did the art dealers. The ones in the dark were the foreign collectors. Business was positively booming—until it finally began to go sour.”

  “Why?”

  “High-profile scandals in EU. European dealers were found out passing off forgeries. Collectors got foxy and began consulting Asian appraisers before purchase. Yow realized his old business model was now defunct. He needed to deal in the genuine articles. But where to obtain them?”