The car pulled up next to an ambulance and another police car. A small crowd of curious Thais stood around looking at a dead body on the ground. Turk was shocked.
“Shouldn’t they put a sheet over him or something?”
The Thai officer shrugged.
“Then there’s nothing to see.”
They got out of the car. Turk hesitated. He didn’t want to get any closer. He looked at the man—the poor guy looked like he’d been worked over with a baseball bat—and then quickly turned away and tried to climb back into the car.
“Nope. Never seen him before.”
Ben grabbed his arm.
“I know it’s not pleasant. But it’s important.”
He dragged Turk within a couple of feet of the body.
“Take a good look.”
Turk looked. He didn’t know it, but it was the dead cheapskate from Seattle, his head bashed in, his skull deformed, blood caked across his face, the ever-present flies still swarming the wounds.
The first thing Turk thought was that it was a fake. It wasn’t a dead guy. It was some kind of prop, a special effect concocted to freak him out. He looked around; there had to be a hidden camera somewhere. But Turk’s state of denial didn’t last long. One whiff of rotting carcass and he knew it wasn’t anything you could fake. His stomach turned. He didn’t barf or gag, but somewhere deep inside his guts queased up on him.
“Let’s go.”
Ben pulled out his notepad.
“Do you recognize him now?”
Turk nodded.
“Looks like Freddy Krueger.”
Ben wrote that in his notebook.
“Where do you know Mr. Krueger from?”
Turk looked at Ben and shook his head. He didn’t want to be an asshole, so he walked back to the car.
On the drive back to the hotel, Ben tried to impress upon Turk the importance of the U.S.’s adopting a no-nonsense policy in dealing with terrorists.
“Now you see what they’re capable of.”
Turk lifted his sunglasses and fixed Ben with his petulant—fuck-off—rock star glare.
“And that’s supposed to make me what? Not want to get my wife back?”
Ben tried to be reasonable.
“You have to understand. We don’t make deals with terrorists. It only encourages them.”
“So how is getting Sheila back encouraging them? They’re already totally encouraged; you said it yourself. Are there different levels of encouragement? Like are we on an orange encouragement alert? Or is it a red one?”
Ben could see that Turk was angry, but he didn’t know what else to say.
“It’s possible that when they realize we won’t be paying them, they’ll release her.”
Turk glared at him.
“How is that possible?”
“It could happen.”
“Has that ever, in the history of hostages, happened before?”
Ben nodded. Turk knew a line of bullshit when he heard it, and grew increasingly irate.
“If they are terrorists like you suggest, then it’s also possible they’ll chop her fucking head off and show it on TV. Isn’t that a possibility?”
“I can’t make any guarantees.”
“Seems to me that paying a million bucks to keep my wife from getting her head chopped off is a bargain.”
Ben could see that Turk just wasn’t going to be reasonable about this, so he decided to take a hard line, an approach he hoped his supervisor might later commend him for.
“I’m sorry. But if you try to contact them or give them money in any way, you’ll be arrested and prosecuted under provisions of the Patriot Act.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Like it or not, Mr. Henry, the United States is at war. We take the war against terrorism very, very seriously.”
Turk looked at Ben for a long beat, and then used an extended middle finger to push his sunglasses back up his nose so they covered his eyes.
…
When they got back to the hotel Turk stormed off to his room without saying a word to the ICE asshole, the Thai policeman, or the hotel manager. As far as he was concerned they could all go fuck themselves, or each other, or their mothers. He didn’t care.
Turk entered his cabin and went right to the minibar. He cracked open a Singha and took a nice long drink. The cold beer burbled down his throat like the clear mountain brook they always showed in those stupid ads. Sure, it was refreshing, clear, and cooling, but those ads annoyed Turk. You couldn’t drink water from some mountain stream. It’d have raccoon shit in it, or acid rain, or toxic runoff. Mountain streams were teeming with parasites, mercury, DDT, all kinds of stuff that would kill you. But beer refreshed and relaxed. Beer was better than stream water any day. Turk burped. Then he picked up the phone and called his manager.
Heidegger’s assistant, Marybeth, picked up the phone and immediately bombarded Turk with questions. Was he okay? How was he doing? Did he think Sheila would be all right? Was there anything she could do for him? Anything? Her voice was warm and honey-coated, filled with empathy and concern. Turk tried to remember if he’d ever fucked her. It seemed to him he had. He must’ve. Right?
But he didn’t have time to chat, and told her to connect him to Jon right away. Turk heard a beep, a blast of new wave rock, and then Heidegger’s voice came on the line.
“How’s it going? Did you talk to the authorities?”
“They’re fucking useless.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some asshole from the government told me they’d arrest me if I tried to pay.”
“What?”
“He said she’s been abducted by terrorists. It’s against the law to pay ransoms to terrorists.”
“Terrorists?”
“That’s what he said.”
“That’s unbelievable. Can they really do that?”
“What the fuck do I know about it? He seemed to think they could. But then he told me to sit tight and he’d try and deal with it on the QT.”
The line was silent for a moment. Finally Heidegger spoke.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Listen, Turk. I don’t like this. You tell that government anus that if they arrest you for trying to save your beloved wife they’ll have every media outlet in the known fucking universe doing a story on how they’re a bunch of soulless bureaucrat cocksuckers. Keeping things on the QT is the last fucking thing we’re gonna do. You get your money and save your wife. The embassy twat can go fuck himself.”
Turk loved when his manager got angry. That was the great thing about having “people” and “handlers.” It was Heidegger’s job to be a raging asshole, whiny baby, righteous advocate, avenging angel, and whatever else his clients needed him to be. He could say the things Turk wanted to say without actually having to say them and come off sounding like a big fat jerk.
“Did you get the money?”
“Yeah. Everything’s cool. Let me give you the address so you can pick it up.”
Turk looked around the cabin.
“Wait. I need a pen.”
“No you don’t. It’s the Bank of Phuket on Phuket Road in Phuket Town. Just keep sayin’ Phuket and you’ll find it.”
“Thanks, Jon.”
“After you get her back we need to talk. I think I got you a record deal.”
Turk brightened.
“Really?”
“Save the day. Then we’ll talk.”
“Okay. I’ll call you later.”
“Oh, and Turk. Listen. Take a big suitcase. It’s a lotta fuckin’ money.”
…
The transcript of Turk’s conversation with Jon Heidegger appeared as an e-mail on Ben’s Blackberry. He’d had the foresight to request that the intelligence station back in Bangkok tap Turk’s hotel room phone line. Any calls the rock star made would be recorded and sent to him. Ben had to squint a little to read it, the type being so small, but he got t
he gist of it. Turk Henry was going to be a problem.
Twelve
Sheila slipped out of her clothes, carefully folding them and putting them on the floor, and walked over to the makeshift shower. Captain Somporn had provided her with a new loofah, some expensive moisturizing soap, and a jar of all-natural coconut oil. It was like he’d turned this little corner of his hut into some kind of spa.
“Is there anything else you need?”
Sheila turned to look at him. He was sitting on the floor, his legs crossed in front of him, a cold bottle of beer in one hand, a smoldering cigarette in the other, watching her, like a patron in a cabaret waiting for the show to begin.
“No. This is fine.”
“The coconut oil is for your skin. It’s very good. Very healthy.”
Sheila smiled and then stood under the hose and unhooked the clamp. Warmish water trickled out, and she began to soap her body, building up a thick, rich lather.
The Captain’s attentions reminded her of the ad campaign she’d done for a French soap company. They had wanted her skin to be glowing, healthy, and blemish-free and had sent her to a series of experts who prescribed exotic scrubs, herbal wraps, mud baths, and moisturizing sessions. They’d even hired a nutritionist to prepare her meals and make sure she drank four liters of water every day. For two months all Sheila did was get treated like a prize pig before the state fair.
The French soap company had spared no expense; it had hired a famous Dutch photographer, and the best, most creative makeup artist, a tomboyish British woman with a yogarific aura, had been employed to dust her skin with subtle orange-gold hues. They’d gone so far as to bring in Carlos Lemoyne, the world-famous eyelash specialist. He’d arrived with a whole team, shoved the makeup artist and photographer aside, and got to work. He spent three hours hand-painting each of her eyelashes so they became miniature works of art. Sheila loved them, because they made her green eyes pop out of the photo. Even though her breasts were fully exposed, people noticed her eyes; they couldn’t help it, they looked that good.
That campaign should’ve made her an icon, the rare supermodel who’s forever attached to a hugely successful product, like Cheryl Tiegs and Olympus cameras or Tyra Banks and Victoria’s Secret. Sheila would’ve been set for life, but her daily habit of hoovering several grams of Peruvian marching powder had finally caught up with her. Her left nostril had sprung a leak, bright red blood gushing from it like a broken water main.
It had taken about an hour, but she’d finally got it to slow to a trickle. The photographer and makeup artist had worked valiantly to control and conceal the constant ooze but they only got off a handful of shots before it became impossible to continue. As the makeup artist ran off to get more cotton gauze, and the photographer stomped off in a hail of unintelligible curses to smoke a joint, Sheila calmly chopped herself a couple of lines of blow and snorted them up her good nostril. What with all the drama going on, she needed a bump.
When Carlos saw that, he had become so enraged that he physically attacked her, knocking her to the studio floor and attempting to remove her eyelashes with a sharp pair of tweezers.
Sheila had been left with a deviated septum and a destroyed reputation.
Still, the photographs were strikingly beautiful. They became the central image of the ad campaign. Sheila’s face and body were plastered on billboards, in magazines, and on the products themselves.
No one had paid that much attention to her body since then, not even her husband, and although she was a little confused and frightened by Captain Somporn, there was no mistaking the intensity of his gaze.
Sheila poured some shampoo into the palm of her hand and began to wash her hair. She turned her back to the shower, letting the water rinse the soap out of her hair, giving the Captain a full frontal view of her body.
She looked over at him, hoping to see a sign, some clue of what he was thinking. A lick of the lips, a twitch of the eye, a boner maybe. But the Captain was stoic, unreadable. He would calmly take a drag on his cigarette and watch.
When she was finished washing and drying herself off, he asked a question.
“What do they eat in Sweden?”
Sheila had never been to Sweden but she had been to IKEA, the Swedish furniture megastore.
“Meatballs, mostly. Salmon. And lingonberries.”
Somporn finished his beer and reached for another one in the cooler near the wall.
“Lingonberries?”
“They love ’em in Sweden.”
Somporn opened a Singha for her and held it up. Sheila didn’t bother to cover her breasts with the towel as she bent over and gratefully took the beer. She noticed that Somporn inhaled sharply as her breasts dangled close to his face, but he made no move to touch them.
“What do they look like?”
“Lingonberries?”
Somporn nodded. Sheila tried to remember the lumpy red smear of sauce that came with the meatballs in the IKEA cafeteria.
“Little. Round. Red. They make a sauce with them.”
Sheila sat down on the edge of Somporn’s small bed. She let the towel drop and picked up the jar of coconut oil. She slowly began to cover her body with the sweet-smelling emollient.
“Have you tasted them?”
Sheila nodded.
“They’re sweet and sour. Kind of like the fruit here.”
“Like a mangosteen?”
Sheila didn’t respond; she was watching as her body began to glisten from the oil. It felt good on her skin. Better than any mud bath or herbal wrap she’d ever experienced.
It suddenly occurred to her that she and Somporn were lounging around like lovers, relaxed and warm in the afterglow of sex. This was normally the time Sheila enjoyed the most, the sex being either fun or not so fun; it was during the aftermath that she actually felt close to someone.
Somporn lit another cigarette.
“Those things aren’t good for you.”
The Captain nodded and waved his hand in agreement.
“The smoke keeps the mosquitoes away. I would hate for them to bite you and ruin your beautiful skin.”
Sheila calmly rubbed the coconut oil onto her breasts, neck, and shoulders. Then she looked at Somporn, their eyes meeting.
“Would you do my back?”
He nodded and took the jar. Sheila turned around and waited. Captain Somporn sat on the cot and began, very slowly and gently—she could feel his hands trembling—to rub the coconut oil into her skin. She tried to relax but, alarmingly, she found herself getting aroused.
With her back to him, facing a dark corner of the hut, she couldn’t see anything, just their shadows projected on the wall by the lantern, like a Balinese puppet show. But Sheila felt the touch of Somporn’s hand, the sweet oil nourishing her skin; smelled the earthy odor of the tobacco mixing with the strong scent of coconut and the malty tang of beer; heard the hiss of the lantern, and the wet sounds of the oil he was lathering onto her body.
Sheila realized, with diamondlike clarity, that this was what it felt like to be intimate with someone. It had nothing to do with sex.
…
Uncharacteristically, Turk had asked the front desk for a wake-up call. Under normal circumstances he let his circadian rhythms wake him up when his body was rested and his dreams were done, but today he wanted to get up bright and early. He wanted to be at the bank when the doors opened.
The phone rang in his room. Loud and jangly and annoying as hell. Wake-up calls, Turk realized, totally suck.
He climbed out of bed and rumbled into the bathroom. He figured he’d better shave, clean up, and look presentable. No one was going to give a million dollars in cash to a guy looking like a bum.
Dressed in a clean white shirt and tight black jeans—his gut extending out over his belt like some kind of rogue ocean wave, a spare tire, a flab tsunami—Turk emptied his suitcase, dumping all his clothes on the sofa, and headed out the door.
Several bellmen offered to carry the suitcase
but Turk shook his head; it was light and he was in a hurry.
There were no taxis at the hotel entrance, and a thoughtful doorman offered to telephone for one. Turk noticed a dirty tuk tuk parked in the drive and asked about that. The doorman tried to convince him to wait for a cab, the tuk tuk being loud and smelly, but Turk didn’t care. He was a man on a mission.
Turk climbed into the backseat of the tuk tuk and told the driver to take him to the Bank of Phuket on Phuket Road in Phuket Town. The driver flipped a switch and the tuk tuk gave a violent shudder, backfired loudly, and roared to life in a cloud of noxious fumes. As the three-wheeled transport lurched into gear and sped out of the hotel’s driveway, Turk got the distinct feeling that he was using a broken lawn mower as a getaway car.
The driver smiled at Turk as he performed a blind merge onto the main road. A tour bus honked and then blasted past. Turk couldn’t help himself.
“Holy shit! What the fuck’re you doin’, man?”
The driver nodded his head and smiled.
“Bus. Big bus.”
Turk had to agree.
“Yeah. Big bus. Dead bass player.”
Turk noticed that the tuk tuk had been custom-painted. The seats were upholstered in bright fabric with geometric designs and a little crescent moon dangled from the rearview mirror. Arabic writing covered the inside of the roof and above the windshield someone had written in English: All Praise Allah! The Highest Honor Is Death in His Service!
Turk clung to the frame of the tuk tuk as it went screaming down a long hill, the engine revving faster than it had been designed to do, the suspension—if there was one—shaking and rattling like a Japanese Zero on a kamikaze mission.
Turk realized he was scared. What if the ICE agent was right? What if this part of Thailand really was crawling with terrorists?
The highest honor is death in his service. What the fuck?
Turk held on to the side of the tuk tuk with all his strength.
As they got into town, Turk felt a little better. The traffic served to naturally slow down the tuk tuk as it careened along the roads, dodging the squat metal trash cans—at least Turk thought they were trash cans—set in front of houses, and jockeying with motorcycles, scooters, cars, and other three-wheel jalopies for some invisible advantage in a phantom race.
Salty: A Novel Page 8