Dow reached over and turned off the radio. She took one of the glasses of orange juice, then took a small sip.
“Why did that DJ say that?” she asked.
He didn’t have an answer.
After she had drunk half of the orange juice, she put the glass down, rose from the sofa, thanked him and left. Whatever it was she had wanted from him, she had not found or she had found it and decided it wasn’t what she had wanted after all, he thought. He didn’t try to stop her from going. He sat alone listening to the birds outside. For about an hour, he glanced through the papers and photos Ross had collected on Addison. The heavens above seemed to have abandoned the earth below. He took the folders outside and burnt them in a clay oven. The flames crinkled the old photos, the papers turned yellow, curled up, then turned to black ash rising into the air before falling back through the bamboo and banana trees and into the uncut grass.
3
CORTEZ’S TEMPLE
by
Harry Purcell
THE FABRIC OF the human condition is flawed. Montezuma’s view of the existence of three ideas—gods, omens, and legends—is a textbook illustration of the flaw. Before Cortez had touched shore the Aztec wizards—like modern journalists—had recorded lightning striking a temple, fire streaking through the daylight sky, winds boiling a lake, and a strange creature captured in a fisherman’s nets. What was the response of the Aztecs? They commanded an increase in the number of human sacrifices. Orders were issued and obeyed. If conveyor belts had been invented, the carnage would have been more efficient, better organized. Primitive technology did not stop a carnage from taking place in the temple grounds, which became chambers for fresh slaughter. It wasn’t killing for killing’s sake. The killing was done without malice or grudge. Killings were offerings for the fear the Aztecs felt, having read the omens. This fear spawned the belief in a god who relished human hearts and blood. Feeding this god was a spiritual act of worship and this god would give them courage to face their fears.
When Montezuma first learned about Cortez and his soldiers’ movements through the country, he assumed—from questioning his prophets and wizards, who read the omens—that Cortez, along with his nine-hundred-man force, were themselves none other than—gods. If you assume soldiers approaching on horseback are gods, you automatically connect with the idea that man and horse have all the power, immunities, and privileges sufficient to make them immortal. And that they have the right to belong where they want, take whatever they choose, and decide when they wish the good times to roll. No longer would priests offer hearts and blood to idols fashioned from vegetables. They had real gods to replace the idols with carrot-stick noses. Montezuma invited Cortez and his men into the Aztec capital. Next he gave an order to round up the usual suspects for a human sacrifice in honor of Cortez. The captives were brought in, heads down, scared, watching these gods eating and knowing that they were next on the menu after the tortillas, and the Spaniards were thinking as they ate plates of tortillas that this was some nice place. All the natives were falling at your feet, they invited you into their city, gave you the city key, prepared all kinds of Aztec food (including red-deer steaks), and then had entertainers in the wings to deliver a live floor show. The Spaniards were among the first Europeans to feel, for a few hours, what it was like to be tourists. They had almost forgotten that they were warriors. In this small frame of time, they could be forgiven for the belief that they were on a package tour. Whatever their actual thoughts, their speculations suddenly changed as they watched the spectacle of Aztec junior priests with ritual knives hacking, cutting, and ripping open the breasts of the captives. They yanked out many fresh hearts and held them up, blood dripping down their hands, and the Spaniards saw more than they had ever wished for. They stopped chewing tortillas and looked at each other with “what the fuck” expressions on their faces. More hacking followed. Cups were lowered under bleeding heads and filled to the brim. The cups were then held out for the Spaniards to drink. This was never in the guidebook under the section about native restaurants. Human blood cocktails were the last thing Cortez’s men had any intention of drinking.
The Aztecs were confused: why had the Spaniards failed the god test? Was the blood a little too thin? No one could accuse them of serving up day-old blood. It was fresh. The Spaniards had witnessed the cups being filled with their own eyes. Cortez’s men vomited up their tortillas and red-deer steaks, screamed, cried, tore out their hair, and refused point blank to sip even one teaspoon of human blood. They showed fear in the face of blood. This was the first, unmistakable sign that Cortez was not a god. But once Montezuma had made his mistake about gods, he still didn’t give up on the idea. He ordered his magicians to work spells to make the Spaniards sick or die. The cursing ceremony failed. Montezuma was at a crossroads: he could choose to believe spells were worthless against human beings or that Cortez really was a god to survive the spell. He once again could not stop his thoughts about the nature of spells and gods from controlling his action. But Montezuma could not control his fear. When Cortez made a personal inquiry about Montezuma, he fled the scene like a Bangkok ten-wheel truck driver who had crashed into a school bus. By the time Spaniards had killed a temple full of Aztec priests performing human sacrifices, Montezuma knew he had been conned. But it was too late. He was already Cortez’s prisoner and held in chains. His fears and confusion destroyed his command.
Cortez questioned Montezuma about this insane notion that he and his men were gods. Whatever could have put such an idea in the head of the Aztec? At this point, Montezuma was not about to admit his captor could have ever been mistaken for a god, so he pawned off another story. Montezuma explained the Aztec legend that at a time outside the lifetime of any living men, Aztec ancestors had invaded this land and taken the land by force of arms, and many Aztecs had stayed on as an occupation force. Many married with local women. The ruler of the original invaders had returned home but his descendants had refused to come away with him. Guilt and more guilt was felt by the Aztecs. They had rebuked their old ruler. This made them fearful. They lived in a state of perpetual fear and anxiety, waiting to pay the price. They believed that sooner or later the great lord would come back again and they would be destroyed. Cortez, said Montezuma, was a case of mistaken identity—he was wrongfully thought to be that great lord or at least his representative.
Spaniards versus Aztecs was the Purcell family’s first important battle. The Purcell fortune rested on understanding that fear was often irrational, largely misunderstood, and sometimes destructive. All an arms dealer required was sympathy with his client’s plight. All clients for weapons worried about the same fate—the arrival of the alpha males who appeared in the form of strangers from another land or arose from within their own ranks—who would challenge their command, their gods, and seize their gold and women. Why have the Purcells worked so closely with manufacturers to name battlefield weapons after powerful, deadly animals—Cobra, Leopard, Hawk, Stingray, Wildcat, Tigershark, Hornet, Sea Wolf? It is the human condition to fear jungle animals. To fear an alpha wolf attack in the middle of the night. How far removed is our species from jungle survival? Weapons must have names which inspire confidence. What comes from the jungle are strangers hungry for land and command. Arming men with Cobras, Leopards, Hawks, and Stingrays puts the terror of the jungle on the side of command. Commanders have always been jungle fighters. The Purcells’ insight into the use of lethal weapons with animal names and the fear inherent in the human condition ensured their order books would always be full.
4
WHORE TIME
A Denny Addison Documentary
Running time: 32 minutes
Black and White
THERE IS A sitting room with bare wooden floors. The sofa is covered in red upholstery. Inserted into the wood paneling are two French doors with the louvers painted blue. Seated on the sofa is a whore named Roon. Roon has large exposed breasts and is smoking a cigarette. She is wearing long black boots w
hich lace up the front. On her left wrist is a fake Rolex watch. Roon, who has worked on Soi Cowboy for five years, looks to be in her mid-20s.
“Roon, you know why I want to make this film?” asks Addison off camera.
Roon nods her head as she stubs out her cigarette inside the neck of an empty Singha beer bottle.
“Because you pay me two thousand baht to tell you about whore time.”
“Right,” says Addison. “So tell me about whore time. Whatever comes to your mind. You don’t have to think. Just talk to me like you did in the bar.”
“Okay, remember, I say to you how sometimes farang angry with me because I tell him I go to his house. I make appointment with him. He come to bar on Saturday night. He say, ‘Roon, you make appointment with me. Can you do that?’ I say to him, ‘Yes, I can make appointment with you. Yes, I know your house. I go there before, two, three times.’ Then he say, ‘Thursday, can you make appointment at eight o’clock? You come to my house then. Can you do that, Roon?’ I say, ‘Yes.’”
All the while Roon talks she threads the lace up the front of one of her boots. Her slow gentle touch shows the pride in making each loop perfect.
“Then on Thursday, what happened?” asks Addison off camera.
“I not go to house of farang. I stay in my room and sleep. The next night he come to the bar very, very angry with me. His face red and I think maybe he will hit me. He say to me, ‘Roon, you are a bad person. You promise to come to my house. You make me appointment. I wait and wait. I think you come. I not sleep all night thinking maybe Roon have accident.’ He say, ‘Why you not phone me and say you not come? Why you lie to me and say you come when you know you won’t come?’ Then I get very angry with him. I want to kick him. But I say to myself, jai yen, jai yen. Keep a cool heart. Then I tell him what I say to you at bar. Farang not understand how Thai girl think. Why he angry with me? I not go make appointment I lose five hundred baht. That is very much money. Someone steal five hundred baht from me, I think I kill him. So I not go to make appointment I punish myself very much. I hurt myself, stealing my own money and throwing it away. And where is my money? It’s in the pocket of farang. He’s angry with me? Why? He has my five hundred baht. I say, why he angry? He have Roon’s five hundred baht that I steal from myself and put in his pocket.”
“And you call this whore time?” asks Addison.
Roon is working on the lace of her other boot.
“Farang say that. He say to me, ‘You talk whore time, Roon. Whore think about time like you think. I think maybe I have relationship with Roon. I think you liked me. I think you like appointment with me. But I was stupid man. I not understand whore time. Now Roon tell me I punish her because she not come. Roon say I owe her five hundred baht, keep in my pocket, but never mind can keep, because Roon not make appointment.’ I think he not understand how Roon think. He not like I break appointment. I not like not have his money. I think each person have hurt. But my hurt is more hurt because when you have money you not hurt so much as when you lose money.”
“But you were not late for our filming today,” says Addison.
She smiles into the camera.
“Cannot.”
“Why doesn’t whore time work here?”
“Five hundred baht, Roon live on whore time. Two thousand baht I live on farang clock time, sure.”
5
THE NIGHT AFTER the killings ended Crosby arrived at HQ wearing a T-shirt advertising a brand of condom called “Tigers.” There was a cartoon of a soldier with a condom over the barrel of his gun, and printed underneath was written: Suit up in a Tiger before going into battle. Crosby slipped into the booth with a beer in one hand and a big smile on his face. He waved a piece of paper at Purcell and Snow.
“I passed,” said Crosby.
“The war’s over and they’ve allowed you to stay. Fixed your residency permit problem,” said Snow. “So you don’t have to move to Liberia.”
Before Crosby could straighten out what was on the paper, Mae, an old-time HQ favorite performed a back flip onto Crosby’s lap (worthy of a 9.8 score card rating), wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his lips. Mae was a little drunk, and had the sour smell on her breath of someone who had been drinking all day.
Purcell resumed his discussion about guns. Before Crosby had arrived they had been in a heated debate about the relative merits of small and large bore handguns.
“You’re an expert on handguns?” asked Purcell.
“Hey, man, anyone from America qualifies as an expert on handguns. We have as many gun-runners as lawyers. Gun-runners provide a useful function in American society,” said Snow. Guns in the United States—a conversation topic which ranked in popularity right up there with sex and rock ’n roll for the former turkey farm employee.
“What is the offensive weapon of choice?” asked Purcell.
Purcell was no fool; he played to Snow’s ego. It was this kind of grass-roots research which had been a Purcell family tradition. It was the man on the street who had to use the guns which generals bought for protection. It was the man on the street who was sent into battle.
“Let’s say, a kid goes to school and wants to pop another kid,” replied Snow. “He packs an offensive handgun. The kid goes for a .22. Easy to carry. Easy to conceal. The shooter walks over to the other kid and pops him. The .22 is ideal. Because there’s not much sound. The dead kid drops to the ground and the shooter walks over to the water fountain, takes a drink, then strolls off for his next class. No sense interrupting his education. I know what you’re gonna say, ‘Yeah, a kid thinks a .22 is an offensive weapon. But what about the big boys?’”
“In America they think like children,” said Purcell, his long pure-white hair making him look like a combination of God and Santa Claus.
“Unlike Europeans who hit middle age by their sixth birthday. All I can tell you is the mob in New York and Chicago are no different from the mob in England or Hong Kong. Their best gunmen use the same weapon for a hit. A standard .22 pistol. But if what you want is defensive stopping power, then you go for a .357 magnum. If someone is coming at you in a pick-up, you want fire power that goes through doors and glass and cuts him down behind the steering wheel. Pack a .357 magnum.”
“Maybe you bought a customized surface-to-air rocket kit for your caravan? Or did they come as standard equipment?” asked Crosby, as Mae shot off his lap and headed toward one of her regular johns.
“Get out of here, Crosby. It’s not a caravan. It’s a Winnebago inhabited by me and a half-dozen Miss Lilos along with a current list of all hot 900 numbers. But to answer your question. I keep a stock of both offensive and defensive weapons.”
Purcell watched the show, thinking Kleist might be coming soon and they could go back for another shot at Stalingrad.
“One in each hand?” asked Crosby.
“It depends on the drugs I’m taking,” added Snow with a wide smile. “There are guns for uppers which aren’t to be confused with those used with downers.”
“I’ve always wanted to sell T-shirts to Americans,” said Crosby. “Cartoons of guns, cars, bunkers, underground weapons depots, and computerized radar screens.”
“You’re a card, Crosby. Unfortunately not all your holes got punched in the right sequence. So your personal understanding of life came out slightly warped.”
Purcell spotted the piece of paper Crosby had been waving until he was cut down by the beer-guzzling Mae. He spun it around and glanced at it. He had been thinking it was time to leave. Then he remembered what Crosby had said the night before about getting his test results. Purcell slid the paper over a Kloster beer bottle Mae had left. Snow had arrived from America with his HIV negative certificate from the family doctor, and challenged everyone else to produce their clearance or explain why not. The HIV negative certificate had become like a sexual .22; it was an offensive weapon, one that gave confidence to walk up beside someone near the jukebox and pop the question. “You wanna go with me? On
e purple, okay?”
“You made it to the clinic,” said Purcell, looking Crosby straight in the eye.
It was a spooky look and Crosby’s head snapped back. A smile appeared slow-mo on his face; the pained look like that on the lips of zebra pulled neck first into the dirt by a lion on a National Geographic TV Special.
“HIV...” said Crosby, pausing.
Snow swallowed hard. “Yes…”
“Negative,” added Crosby.
“Crosby, if you are HIV negative then AIDS must be a government conspiracy to make us crazy; keep our feet on the ground and off the bed. A way to scare the fuck out of us. You are the original bareback rider of HQ. You have never used a condom.”
“I only take the clean ones,” said Crosby.
“You crazy shit. You come off like a teenage bar girl. He looks clean, so he must be healthy. How a girl looks has nothing to do with what is in her blood.”
A Haunting Smile Page 28