Regan enjoyed every single moment. Fon’s English was acceptable. Okay, grammatically not perfect and sometimes she struggled to find the right word, but communication wasn’t a problem. They always found something amusing to laugh about. Fon told Regan about a handbook for bargirls. It could be bought in local Thai stores. It was supposed to help the working girls gain customers with phrases like, “You handsome,” “You big, please don’t hurt me with your thing,” and “I need more money. My mother fell off the water buffalo and in the hospital.”
It also contained a lot of English swear words. They laughed a lot when Regan explained the meaning of some she wasn’t familiar with. Fon was okay with ‘fuck.’ After all, it was a fairly universal word.
But Regan laughed loudly when she asked, “It say here pussy and cunt mean same thing, Steve. So when it okay to say pussy and not cunt?”
It got difficult when Regan tried to explain why in some circumstances it was okay to call someone a pussy but not call them a cunt.
During these conversations Regan watched her face. He waited for the smile to erupt, the dimples to form, and the mischievous glint light up her eyes. Then came the foreplay. That consisted mainly of Fon taking charge of putting a condom on to Regan when she felt he was ready. Like all bar girls, and Fon used to be one before Mama-san, it was a case of “no condom, no boom-boom.”
Regan found it erotic the way Fon slid on the condom, making sure it was secure. He was always ready after she had performed the condom routine. He found the sex divine. The way she rolled and pushed her hips blew his mind. She was like no other he had experienced. He also learned about Thai attitudes to sex. Kissing was out. They thought it unhygienic. But their attitude to sex was healthy. It was a natural act.
Not once did Regan think of Fon as a hooker or Mama-san. He did not care what she had done before or now. The only thing that mattered to him when they were in bed together was what they felt. It was good for him. On the third night, he sensed it was good for Fon too. Mouth to mouth kissing was off limits but there are more ways to kiss than on the mouth.
Regan lay his head on her breasts after sex. They lay there a while without talking. Fon pushed the top of Regan’s head. She pushed down firmly and carried on until his head was between her thighs. Regan opened her thighs, gently kissed her shaved mound. Fon moaned. Regan got to work with his tongue. Fon moaned more. After each moan, she was wetter. Light, long moans until the last one. She shuddered and moaned loudly. Regan and Fon held each other.
Fon told Regan her life story. She was still married. She had a daughter aged ten. Her daughter had been born one year after she was married. Shortly after that her husband disappeared. No one knew why or where he had gone. Fon’s home town was in the north east of Thailand about one hundred and fifty kilometres from Bangkok. There was no work there so Fon left home to work in a factory in Bangkok. Her parents and sister cared for her daughter in her absence. Fon explained that was normal in Thai culture as the eldest child was expected to support the family.
“Why not stay in Bangkok? At the factory?”
“Bad pay. Long hours. The bosses expected a free fuck. That’s the way it is in Thailand for a single woman. Some women expected free sex too,” Fon said without a smile.
“A friend at the factory, she suggested bar girl work. I say okay. Good money. Easy work. Only sex. No feelings. Just sex.”
Regan understood.
“Many guys they come here on holiday. Many old guys. Just want to talk. Pay me to talk and they have someone to talk to. If they want boom-boom, I make it good so they come quick. Then they sleep. Easy money. I send home for my mother and father and my daughter.”
Regan was struck by her candour. After he heard her story, he decided he still liked her. He liked her more than before. Regan knew he was falling in love with Fon.
6
Chiang Mai, Thailand
Carlo Vitale liked Thailand.
He liked the food, climate, and most of all the women. His choice of woman was young. He had arrived in Chiang Mai, northern Thailand, five days after flying out of Vancouver. He had an air-conditioned three-bedroom, single-storey villa to live in complete with a cook and housemaid. It was a short taxi ride into the city proper. He had a choice of bars, bar girls, and good restaurants.
The cooler climate in the north of Thailand also agreed with him, preferring to live there than in Bangkok, though BKK would be closer to Watkins. The villa was connected to the outside world by landline telephone. Vitale had read about mobile phones coming on to the market in the future and wished they were available right then. He picked up the handset and dialled the number for The American Steak House.
Watkins answered the phone. “Carlo! How are things in the frozen north?”
“Bene. Good as can be expected. How’s things with you my Texan goombah?”
“All’s good here. I have a lot to tell you.”
“What you waiting for? Shoot.”
“Okay. Got a girl for you. Sweet, young. Fucks like a rabbit. You want?”
“Yeah. Send her on up here soon. She can stick around for a while if she’s as good as you say. But after we sort out the unfinished business. You found anyone yet?”
“Meet a guy tomorrow. Irish. Think he could be the one.”
“You better be right. Can’t be any more screw-ups. I have to get the goods stateside quick. The spooks at Langley are freaking me out.”
“The boat’s ready in Bangkok Port. Crew ready. Once I confirm Irish is the guy then we’re good.”
“Okay. Does he know what’s expected when the boat gets to Baltimore?”
“Not yet. That’s all planned for tomorrow.”
“Where you find this guy?”
“Phuket. He’s a bar owner. Tried to score fifty grand of smack so I checked him out. He’s no slouch.”
“Make sure he’s legit, right?”
“You got it.”
“Right. Speak soon. I have to call Miami.”
Vitale dialled long distance. An international call. “Tom, call me back. Use the sat phone.”
Five minutes after, Vitale’s satellite receiver rang. He picked up and waited a few seconds for the echoes on the line to fade. “All okay, Tom?”
“Fine. No issues. No problems anywhere in the east.”
“Good. They all got the message then? Behaving themselves?”
“Totally. Everyone knows you are in hiding. No one knows where. The point is no one is trying to take advantage of your absence.”
“You know why?”
“Yes.”
“Why, Tom? Tell me again.”
“You will waste them.”
“Our people still making sure they got that message through their thick skulls? I may be on the lam but I got a long reach.”
“Reminders are sent on a regular basis.”
Vitale laughed. “Love the way you talk, Tom. Business-like. Keep it up.”
“What’s the word from Thailand?”
“Should sail soon. I’ll let you know when and who.”
“Cargo secure?”
“Tom, this is a satellite. The Feds haven’t figured out how to tap that yet. Yeah. The cargo’s in place. Smack, and Russian guns in one container. Girls in the other.”
“How many girls?”
“Six for this first run. All pretty, all young, all fucked up on heroin so they are begging for more. That’s how we trained them. They were whores to start with. Now they are bigger whores. They will do anything to get their next hit. I mean anything.”
“I understand.”
“Understand this, Tom. Whorehouses will pay us top dollar for this cargo of sweet, young pussy. We get this first shipment to work for us then we increase the shipments. More product equals more money equals more profit. Hell, why am I telling you that? You trained as a bean counter.”
Vitale laughed before signing off. “Tom, got to go now. Speak soon, right.”
Vitale replaced the mouthpiece on the
satellite phone and stored it away at the back of a large wardrobe. He spoke to an empty room, “Irish? He’s Irish or he’s called Irish?”
He shrugged and made a mental note to speak with Watkins again soon about Irish.
* * *
Tom replaced the handset, and one of the other men present spoke. “What’s going on with the fat pig?”
Tom shrugged. “The usual belligerent crap.”
“Cut the big words, Tom. Crap, I understand. Belligerent, itinerant, fat pigerrent. Plain English, please.”
“Okay, Vinny, okay. He is putting final touches to a shipment.”
“The same crap product as before?” Vinny asked.
“Yes and no. He’s shipping whores and Russian guns, as well as the heroin.”
“Guns? Why Russian? We got enough guns here.”
“For the CIA. They’re not traceable.”
“This is bad. Bad enough the drugs. Bad enough whores. But freakin’ Russian guns!”
Vinny paused to think, and added, “He’s nuts. We gotta get rid of him. He’s got us at war with these other families. We are losing good soldiers and so are they. It’s gotta stop.”
Tom sucked in a short, deep breath before he said slowly and quietly, “So what do we do?”
Vinny looked at the other men present. They all nodded. “We got to send someone over there to whack him. Easier there than when he returns stateside,” Vinny said.
One of the other two gangsters, Phil, dressed ready for the golf course, said, “All right, all right, enough already, so let’s fucking do it. Everyone’s tired of jumping at the sight of their own shadow.”
Tom asked, “Volunteer?”
“What, go to Thailand? Not me. I hate spicy food. Besides, they have no pasta and meat balls there. Call the Lusardis. Tell them it’s a truce and go whack the fat pig Vitale,” Vinny said.
Tom looked at the men. “That what you want?”
All nodded in agreement. “Okay. Get out while I make the call.”
* * *
The other mafiosos left, leaving Tom alone. He picked up the satellite phone, and dialled a new number.
The call was answered abruptly in the study of a small mansion on the outskirts of Philadelphia. “Who is this?”
“Tom, Tom Quiglano.”
“What the fuck do you want? Are you off your freakin’ head?”
Tom said. “Who’s this?” He needed to know he was talking to the capo, the boss.
He was. Antonio Lusardi had been capo since his father and son were killed by the Philadelphia bomb. “Antonio Lusardi. Now get to the point and make it quick.”
“We want a truce. Let’s get things back to normal.”
“Normal! What’s normal about three bombs, my son and father dead? Ripped apart by that fat fucking pig of a coward Vitale.”
“I know. I know. What can I say? We want an end to the mattresses and get back to normal business. I can tell you exactly where he is hiding.”
“So why not whack him yourselves?”
“Impossible. He’s in Thailand. As soon as he sees one of us, he will freak. He will tell something is wrong.”
“Okay, so you’re suggesting we send someone?”
“Yes. It’s the only way.”
“Right. You got it.”
“Can I ask who you have in mind,” Tom asked.
“You can but I’m not telling you. Rest assured, Carlo Vitale is as good as dead.”
“The address.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll need an address in Thailand.”
“You trying to be funny?”
“No, Antonio. It’s my way to prompt you into writing it down.”
“Prompt. Schmont. Big fucking words, counsellor. Shoot!”
Tom looked at the address, read it over the satellite phone, and sighed.
* * *
Regan and Fon left Phuket in the Toyota pickup. Regan was expected to meet Watkins the next day. It was a long drive and Regan had no idea how the meeting would pan out so better to drive the day before. They found a cheap hotel room within walking distance of the American Steak Bar. It was clean, with a fan but no air conditioning. They ate at a street corner café selling inexpensive local dishes. Regan had a beer and Fon drank water. She rarely touched alcohol. They were both tired after the long journey so off to bed they went. The sex was brief but as good as ever. They slept well.
The next morning Regan and Fon had breakfast together at the same café as the previous evening. He devoured his vegetable fried rice with fried egg and checked his watch. Nearly ten in the morning. Another four hours until the appointment with Watkins. They killed time by taking a ferry boat ride up the Chao Phraya. Regan was fascinated by the river traffic. There was a vast array of different types of craft ranging from the ubiquitous longtail water taxis to small container ships at Khlong Toei Port.
Refreshed by the river breezes, they returned to their room, showered and changed clothes before packing two small overnight bags. Regan decided to wear jeans for once. Fon waited in the small reception area of the hotel while Regan stowed away the two bags in the Toyota.
They walked to the American Steak House, a restaurant and bar. At two in the afternoon six working girls were ‘on duty.’ Unlike Phuket, there was always the chance of a Japanese businessman calling in to unwind after a morning of negotiating deals. The girls waited for the early birds. Regan saw the girls and glanced at the well-stocked bar. He took in the restaurant area to the left of the bar with a quick glance, trying to get his bearings.
He heard Watkins. “Irish! On time too and with the good lady.”
Fon looked for Mae. She was sitting alone in a corner of the bar darkened by shadow. Fon glanced at Regan before saying, “I’ll go talk to Mae.” Regan nodded.
Both Watkins and Regan drew up a chair on the opposite side of the bar from Fon and Mae. “Coffee?” Watkins asked.
“Black, no cream, no sugar.” Regan removed his favourite Aviator shades, placed them on the table, and lit a cigarette. Watkins shouted the order to a young guy behind the bar.
He turned to Regan and said, “Before I go into business details, I need some answers.”
“Such as?”
“Such as exactly who you are. The people I’m involved with are the heavies of heavy. Believe me. I fuck, or you fuck with them and we are dead meat. I ain’t fucking joking.”
“So, what you want to know?”
“I want to know you aren’t a fed, a cop.”
“I’m not.”
“Give me your papers, passport, anything.”
Regan fished in his back pocket and handed his passport to Watkins.
“Okay. Looks good but I’ll keep it a while. I’ll have an expert check it out.”
“Fine by me. Just don’t lose it.” Regan smiled.
He knew it would pass muster. It had been crafted by a genius back in London.
7
Dilemma
Regan watched the Texan put the passport into his back jeans pocket. He heard Mae crying. Fon held Mae to comfort her. She walked the distraught girl over to Regan’s table. Fon pushed Regan in the chest yelling loudly in Thai.
This startled Regan, so he uttered, “What? What?”
He had never seen Fon appear so agitated. Regan took Fon by the arm to take her outside on to the pavement. Fon carried on screaming something in Thai. Watkins stared in disbelief at the commotion.
Once outside, Fon revealed what Mae told her inside the bar. It came out in short breathless bursts “Six girls imprisoned, drugs shipped to America.”
Fon continued in staccato fashion, “Mae threatened with same if she didn’t go to Chiang Mai with Watkins and meet his friend.”
Regan said, “Where are these girls and drugs?”
Fon answered, “At the back of the bar, in the yard, a ship metal thing.”
“A container?”
“Yes.”
Fon held Mae close to her. Regan held Fon on
the shoulders with both of his hands. He noticed Watkins step outside of his bar and on to the pavement. Regan saw metal glint in the sunlight. It was a long knife blade about twelve inches long with a serrated edge. Watkins held it in high in his right hand. Time froze.
The Texan placed the knife at Mae’s throat. He sliced into the skin, severing Mae’s windpipe. She gurgled blood and fell limp like a rag doll as Watkins pulled the knife to the right side of Mae’s neck. The carotid artery exploded, spurting crimson blood over Regan and Fon as Mae slumped to the ground. Fon and Regan dropped to their knees, attempting to stem the flow of blood from Mae’s neck. It was futile. There were a few last spurts then a slow steady trickle as Mae’s short life ended.
Both Regan and Fon were drenched in blood. Regan noted the knife in the gutter where Watkins had discarded it.
Dilemma. Regan’s instinct told him to pick it up and attack the Texan. But would that help or hinder?
Dilemma. Should he blow his cover? Bring Watkins to justice for murder, drug importation, gun running, and sex trafficking? But could he trust the local police?
His decision was made for him. From behind Watkins stepped an overweight Thai policeman. He wore some insignia that Regan interpreted as meaning he was some kind of chief. The cop was accompanied by a younger, slimmer policeman in normal uniform. The head cop carried a long stick. He beat Regan three times with it. Once on the head, then twice to the back.
Fon spoke sharply to the chief in Thai.
He shouted back in broken English. “Farang arrested murder girl here,” as he pointed to Mae’s dead body.
Fon whispered, “Do what they want. Trust me,” as she squeezed Regan’s arm gently.
The young policeman shooed away the few bystanders. Now there were no witnesses. He unholstered his sidearm, pointed it first at Regan, then Fon.
The young policeman said, “Come with me. We go to police house.”
No point in arguing, thought Regan. The prisoners, Regan and Fon, were walked around the corner to a waiting police van. The rear doors flung open, and Regan and Fon forced into the rear of the van at gunpoint.
Dilemma Page 4