by Wiley Brooks
“Apparently to steal her stuff.”
They paid their bill and headed back to the Smokehouse. Joey’s mind was playing out different scenarios. What awful luck to run into Martin on their last night in town. Should he do something about it? Joey hated loose ends, but what could he do?
He and Jess made love in their four-poster bed. He tried to make it good for her, but he feared he was too distracted. After they finished, she went to the bathroom, then crawled in next to him again.
“Goodnight, Joey.”
“Goodnight, Jess.”
Day 21
Always the one for a plan, Joey hatched one as Jess slept. At about two in the morning, he eased himself out of bed, quietly dressed, grabbed what he needed and crept down the stairs to a back door. It was too far to walk and not be seen. He’d be too exposed with no place to hide. He drove to within a few hundred yards of Martin’s hostel, then walked in the shadows the rest of the way. Hopefully, Martin would still be the only one in the room. He knew what he needed to do.
Getting into the Happy Traveler was easy. The door was unlocked! There was a dim bulb illuminating the hallway. The men’s and women’s dorm rooms were clearly marked. The other doors, Joey figured, were for travelers on a more generous budget who could afford a private room.
He gently pushed open the door to Martin’s room, stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He stood motionless to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. After a couple minutes, he could see the dark shapes of four single beds. Looking more closely, he could see that only one was occupied.
Quiet as he could, Joey moved to Martin’s bedside. The German was on his back, snoring softly and clearly in a deep sleep. Joey removed his pearl-handled knife and opened the blade. He bent over Martin and then, in a swift move, cupped his hand over Martin’s mouth as his blade sliced deeply through the young man’s neck. Martin’s body buckled, but only once. His windpipe and jugular severed, he was unable to push air to yell out. But Joey continued to hold his hand over Martin’s mouth and settle the weight of his body over Martin’s.
It didn’t take long. When Joey was sure that Martin was gone, he got up and started the second phase of his plan. He made it look like a robbery.
He found Martin’s money belt. It contained nine-hundred German marks. Joey had no idea what they were worth. The belt also held four-hundred-eighty US dollars and five-hundred ringgits. A thin piece of fabric separated the cash from Martin’s passport and credit card. He took both, though he didn’t intend to keep them. He wanted nothing that would tie him to the dead German.
He threw the now-empty money belt on the bed to make it obvious Martin was robbed. He was sure Martin had other things of value, but he had taken the most prized items and all the police would need to call it a robbery. Before he left, he thought like a thief and found Martin’s pants. In his pockets were another forty ringgits. Joey left the pockets turned inside out and the pants on the floor next to the bed.
Done with Martin, Joey moved back to the door. He put his ear against it to listen for noises. The last thing he needed was to run into a young lady on the way to the common toilet. There were no sounds, so he cracked open the door and glanced into the hallway. Clear. He moved quickly to the front door and out.
Joey found a trash can a couple blocks away. He opened it, saw a discarded food bag, and added Martin’s passport and credit card to the bag. He put the lid back on the can, then jumped in the Toyota and headed back to the hotel.
He only had one problem. There was blood on the front of his shirt. He could throw it away, but would Jess notice it was gone? He had only packed four shirts. A decision loomed. Should he toss the shirt?
If he kept the bloody skirt on and then returned to the Smokehouse, where someone would be at work all night, it would raise all kinds of questions. And of course, the fellow on the front desk would share the story. He could envision someone hearing about the bloody murder, putting two and two together and calling the police.
He was about to toss the shirt when he realized that a bloody shirt might draw attention in the trash. Was he far enough away from the murder scene? He had to risk it. He drove around and found a bulging garbage can, stripped the shirt off and buried it as best he could. He was probably safe, he thought to himself. The police wouldn’t even know to look for a bloody shirt. He was being paranoid.
When he arrived back at the hotel, he strode in through the front door. He decided that he was going to tell the clerk that he had to run out to the car for something. To his amazement, no one was at the desk. He moved quickly and quietly up the wooden stairs back to their room. He stripped down and climbed into bed.
Jess rolled over to him.
“Where were you?” she asked in a sleepy voice.
“Couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk. I feel more relaxed now.”
“Hmmm,” she said and feel back asleep.
After a breakfast of ham and farm-fresh eggs, Jess used her American Express card to check out of The Smokehouse Hotel. The sun shone brightly and with luck, they’d be through the mountains and perhaps all the way to their next hotel before the rain came. It would be drier heading east this time of year, so their odds were good. Joey convinced her to let him drive.
They loaded the Toyota and headed north along Route 59 toward Kota Bharu. About an hour later, they had connected to Route 185. The constant switchbacks on Route 59 gave way to gentle ups and downs and curves. Route 185 reminded Jess of an interstate highway, except there was little traffic. Cutting across the heart of Malaysia revealed a largely undeveloped country. There were no real towns in more than an hour. Just jungle-covered mountains.
“Tell me about the business,” Jess said as he drove east.
“What?” Joey responded.
“A couple days ago you said something about needing to save money for a business. What’s the business?”
Joey had prepared for this moment. He knew exactly where to start.
“So, remember when you were on Koh Samui and you stayed at Joy Bungalow on Chaweng Beach?”
“Yeah. I loved that place.”
“Places like Koh Samui,” Joey continued, “have bungalow village after bungalow village along the beach. It can be like every hundred feet or so in some places.”
“There was like this daily ritual on Koh Samui,” Jess said. “People would start strolling up the beach in the afternoon to see what movies were playing that evening at which restaurants. Each little bungalow village had its own restaurant and they all showed movies on TVs. Some of the movies were almost new.”
“Counterfeit,” Joey offered.
“I’m sure. But every place had them. It wasn’t the movies so much that I liked, though. I liked how open the people were. During the day, people did their own thing. They’d lay on the beach tanning, or in a hammock reading. The more adventurous ones might go snorkeling or fishing or even hiking. But in the evening, the whole environment would change. It became super-friendly. Even if you were alone, you made friends.”
“Exactly. Thailand is a lot farther along on those kinds of places than Malaysia.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Thailand was never a colony, not counting the Japanese, of course. Malaysia had the Portuguese, then Dutch, then the English, then for a bit the Japanese, then the Brits again.”
“So you want to build a bungalow village somewhere in Malaysia?”
“One for starters. There is a beautiful beach area on the west coast of Langkawi that reminds me of Koh Samui. Beautiful. Right now, though, there’s no place to stay. Someday I expect that beach to be a backpacker mecca. I’d like to open the first bungalow village there. Market it to backpackers, get the guidebooks to visit. Build the Bungalow Paradise brand. Then add new ones in other beach locations around Malaysia.”
“Ambitious! A side of you I haven’t seen before. I like it!”
They chatted some more. J
ess asked him a load of questions about everything from the name to how he planned to build a brand. He had answers for most of her questions.
“So, what’s keeping you from doing it?”
“I want to be able to build it without partnering with some unscrupulous money guy. I’ve put my folks house up for sale back home. I should have more than enough to buy the land and build it once the house sells. It doesn’t take that much really.
“The problem is that the real estate market in Bentonville sucks. It’s not Atlanta or even Charlotte. If I reduce the price to sell it, I might not have enough to do what I want to do. If I keep the price where it is, though, it sits there unsold. I just keep telling myself to be patient. It’s a nice enough place. It’ll sell.”
“How much do you need?”
“I can get the first one going for about fifty-thousand dollars. Of course, that’s just to get it open. It will take time to build up business. I figure I’ll need enough to keep it and me afloat for at least a year, maybe two. Once it is self-supporting, I’ll build the second one. I’m thinking maybe on Tioman Island. But once I have at least fifty thousand I’ll buy the land and get started.”
“Fifty-thousand isn’t a lot in the grand scope of things,” she said.
“It is if you don’t have it.”
They drove on. After a few minutes, Jess spoke again.
“You’re an impressive young man, Joey Jackson.”
Mason bought a Cameron Highlands map of the area in the hotel shop. The clerk was a delightful young woman who spoke English very well. It turned out that she had spent a year in London with an uncle.
He gave her the usual not-quite-true story that a young woman’s father had hired him to find her. She hadn’t checked in for weeks and he was worried about her. Mason said he had tracked her and a traveling companion to Tanah Rata, but didn’t know where here they were staying. His plan for this day was to visit all the nicer hotels in the area and see if they were there or if anyone had seen them.
“Maybe I can help you,” she said, “at least a little.”
The young lady then had him open the map. “We are here,” she said, circling the Victoria on the map. It was one of only four hotels shown because of the historical significance, at least that’s what she told him. Using a pen, she marked locations for ten other of what she called the better hotels, offering a little commentary about each. He thanked her and headed for the Victoria’s main dining room for breakfast.
Over fresh fruit, cheese, sausage, an omelet and toast, served with a pot of tea, he mapped his day. He would start with the hotels closest to the Victoria, then work his way further south. He chose to ignore four hotels north of the Victoria. He would do them last, if he hadn’t had any success with the others.
It was a frustrating morning. At each hotel, he would ask around and show the photos. No luck. He decided to make one more stop before lunch.
He drove up to The Smokehouse Hotel, a well maintained, very British-looking place. He got a whiff of grilled meat, perhaps lamb. He walked past a few guests who were milling around the English garden that surrounded the inn. Maybe he’d have lunch here after asking around.
“Hey!” he said to a smiling young man behind the reception desk. “Perhaps you can help me. I’m lookin’ for an American couple who might be stayin’ here.”
He showed the photos to the man at the desk. The man looked at the photos, then back to Mason.
“One moment, sir,” he said and walked to a nearby office, knocked twice, then entered. A minute later he re-emerged with an older man.
“Good afternoon,” the man said. “I’m Lionel Hawthorne. I’m the manager. May I help you?”
Mason repeated the story about trying to find the young woman for her father. The manager took him in before finally speaking.
“I’m afraid they checked out this morning.”
“Dang! Did they say where they were headin’?”
“Not exactly. No.”
“Not exactly? What did they say?”
“I overheard the gentleman tell the lady that they would be on Route 59 with all the switchbacks for about an hour. He then told her the highway would become more like a freeway and they’d make better time.”
“You know this area far better than me. Where do you think they were goin’?”
“North obviously. Either Penang or the upper east coast.”
“I came from Penang and the highway was narrow and windin’ all the way from Ipoh.”
“Exactly. I believe they would be heading to the east coast. He was describing Route 185.”
Mason wanted to punch this guy. Why not just say that in the beginning?
“How long ago did they leave?” Mason asked.
“They checked out this morning. They’ve been gone at least four hours.”
Mason pondered the situation.
“Would you mind showin’ me their room?”
“Most certainly not,” Hawthorne said with a haughty attitude and a noticeably stiffer spine. Mason saw that the reception clerk rolled his eyes. “The Smokehouse respects the privacy of our guests.”
“I just wanna see if they left anything that might say where they were headin’. Sometimes people write itineraries or names of hotels on pieces of paper that they leave in the room.”
“Absolutely not,” Hawthorne said. He turned and walked back to his office.
Mason watched him leave, then turned back to the clerk.
“I would have been happy to make it worth his while,” Mason said and pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket to show the clerk. The clerk’s eyes widened. “I’ll be in the dinin’ room havin’ lunch, should the manager change his mind.”
Mason had ordered and was waiting for his food – it was roast lamb that he smelled on arrival - when the clerk walked into the dining room. He surreptitiously handed Mason a room key. On it in place of a number it simply said Glenlee Suite.
“Go now before the room is made,” the clerk said. “Second floor. I’ll tell the kitchen that you had to step away for a minute but will be back.”
The clerk walked toward the kitchen. Mason stood and headed toward the stairs, being careful to avoid the manager’s office.
There was little in the room, which didn’t surprise Mason. There was a notepad on one of the nightstands. Mason examined it. Something had been written and torn away. He looked around and found a pencil in a drawer and lightly moved the point back and forth across the pad. Soon he saw what had been written on the sheet above, but it made no sense to him.
“How much do I say?” It was underlined three times for emphasis. Had to be Jessica who wrote it. Say about what. He wondered? Maybe she hasn’t told him yet how rich she is.
He removed the paper from the pad, stuck it in his pocket and headed back toward the dining room. He saw the clerk at the front desk and surreptitiously handed him the hundred-dollar bill. “Thank you kindly,” he mouthed and continued to the dining room for lunch.
He kept asking himself what it could possibly mean?
Much of the drive was in silence. The scenery, as nice as it was, grew monotonous. They’d feed a new cassette into the in-dash player every forty-five minutes or so. Jess read for a bit, then napped.
It all left Joey alone with his thoughts. His situation troubled him. On one hand, she had more than enough money to finance Bungalow Paradise, but he strangely found that when he thought of what it would be like, she was there with him. Needless to say, that wasn’t the plan. Besides, would she even want to do that? He couldn’t imagine it.
He looked over at her, sleeping softly with her head resting against a small pillow on the door window. Even in her twisted, unflattering pose, she took his breath away. A woman had never affected him this way before. He was so very drawn to her.
He looked back over at her. His mind played with the thought that perhaps he could get her fifty-thousand dollars and have her stay with him as part of Bungalow Paradise. But he soon put that fan
tasy to rest. She would never settle for him, he told himself. She could have anyone. Did he say that out loud? No. He just said it with conviction in his mind.
She didn’t budge. He focused on the road ahead.
“Hey you,” she said to him some time later. He looked over at her, now awake and looking content. “A penny for your thoughts.”
He looked back at the road, then back to her.
“Jess, I. . .” but he was at a loss for words.
She smiled. “Yeah. I know. I love spending time with you, too.”
It was four o’clock when Joey pulled into the driveway at the Palace Hotel in Kota Bahru. This was a place he would never stay at. It wouldn’t be that he wouldn’t want to. No. He’d want to. But he could never have afforded such a place. Jess, though, had insisted as they drove past.
“Are you sure you want to spend this much money? It’s just a room,” Joey asked.
“Trust me, Joey. It has my name written all over it. It’ll be nice.”
They pulled up and a uniformed attendant rushed to the car, first opening Jess’ door then dashing around to open Joey’s.
“Will you be staying with us tonight, sir?” the attendant asked. Joey nodded they were. Almost instantly a similarly uniformed bellman pushed a cart toward them.
Joey tipped the first attendant five ringgits and followed Jess into the hotel. They approached the front desk where a sharply dressed middle-aged man addressed him in flawless English.
“Will you be checking in?”
Jess responded, which seemed to surprise the clerk.
“Yes. We’ll be staying one night,” she said, handing the man her American Express card and both their passports. “We’d prefer a non-smoking room,” she looked at his name tag, “Adam. Is that possible?”
“Yes ma’am.”
She completed the registration. The clerk photocopied the passports, then handed them back.
“Dinner is served in the Garden Room from five to ten this evening. Breakfast tomorrow will be in the Riverside View Room from six to ten.”