Salty: A Novel

by Mark Haskell Smith

  That fucking rock star. How did he get to be so rich? What had he done to earn it? He played electric bass—only four strings—and wore tight pants. He pranced around a stage waving his long hair. He married a model. It was a useless life, and for it he was rewarded with riches beyond imagine. Where was the justice in that? What kind of world were we living in where bass players became millionaires? It was wrong. Just plain wrong.

  Ben Harding had paid his dues. Hadn’t he? Wasn’t he the guy who busted his ass keeping helicopters in the air in Afghanistan and Iraq? Wasn’t he the guy who joined Immigration and Customs Enforcement to protect freedom and spread democracy? Wasn’t he on the front lines in the war on terror? He was a red-blooded, freedom-lovin’ American man, a first responder. At the last election, he’d voted for the candidate who promised to bring America back to greatness. He did everything the way it was supposed to be done and he paid his taxes on time. So how come some pudgy middle-aged rock star got to be a millionaire while Ben scraped by on his meager paycheck? It just wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just. Ben got paid about the same as your average elementary school principal in Asslick, Kansas. Better than the teachers, sure, but not really what a man who’s protecting freedom deserves.

  It irritated him even more to think that this wasn’t even all of Turk’s money. It was like pocket change. The rock star had millions more. He could just phone his banker and have another million sent over by tomorrow afternoon.

  Ben stood up and zipped the suitcase shut. He didn’t want to look at it. He squirted some sanitizing hand gel on his palm and rubbed his hands together. He grabbed a bottle of cold water from the minibar—some French brand, not the local stuff—and drank it as he paced back and forth. He didn’t want to think about the money, but he couldn’t think about anything else, so he forced himself to not think about anything even as he thought about everything.

  Eventually he lay down on the bed next to the suitcase and stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t believe it. A million bucks lying on the bed right next to him. One million dollars. A one followed by six zeros. Seven figures. He could buy a house in the mountains. Live in the woods away from all the people and pollution, the germs and the noise. He wouldn’t have to work again. Not unless he wanted to. With a million dollars he could live in Hawaii. He could play golf every day.

  As Ben daydreamed about all the things he could do with a million dollars—maybe he should’ve been a rock star—his hand reached out to the suitcase next to him and gently caressed it. It was a well-made piece of luggage. Manufactured with some kind of high-tech ballistic nylon, it was lightweight yet durable, practical yet fashionable. The kind he’d buy if he had a million dollars.

  Ben considered the traveling he might do with that kind of money. Maybe he’d go to Alaska. He’d heard it was clean up there. Fresh air, pure water. For sure he wouldn’t go anywhere in Southeast Asia. The hot and humid viral breeding grounds of Thailand, Vietnam, and Malaysia were too much for him. Way too many people; way too much weird stuff. Where else in the world could SARS, the avian flu, and God knows what next come from? With a million dollars Ben could avoid all that. He could get the hell out of Thailand and its festering melting pot of virulent disease. A million dollars could save his life.

  Ben lay next to the suitcase. The money had an almost irresistible pull, like a beautiful woman wasted on tequila; it set his pulse racing, it turned his palms clammy and his mouth dry.

  It was wrong, he knew that, but the tension was more than he could bear; he had to reach out and touch it. He couldn’t help himself. Like a teenage lover he fumbled with the zipper of the suitcase, his hands trembling, eager to get in and yet scared of what he’d find. He slowly tugged the zipper down until he could just slip his hand in. His fingers were damp and unsteady as he reached in and stroked the cool soft bricks of paper. They were so smooth; his fingertips could just make out the ink raised on the face of the bills, the firm band holding them together.

  It wasn’t premeditated. He hadn’t planned on it, not at all. It just kind of happened. Ben realized that he would never have this opportunity again. He would never have a million dollars to call his own, ever. His life just wasn’t going that way. And yet sometimes, when you least expect it, something enters your world and your life takes a turn. Everything changes. Like falling in love.

  Ben decided to keep the money.

  …

  At first Sheila was confused. Why was she sitting on the floor? Why were the handcuffs so tight? Where had the Captain gone? As she thought about this change of circumstance, this twist in the story, she slowly began to feel a strange and alarming sensation. It was the sting of rejection.

  Had she been dumped?

  She had been the pet pupil, the star hostage. Now she was back where she started, sitting on her ass with her hands and feet bound, sweating like a pig. It was as if all those peep show performances she gave the Captain had been for nothing. Her face flushed crimson; she was suddenly embarrassed that she’d exposed herself. What if Turk found out? What if the other hostages were recounting her escapades to the authorities right now? It was horrible, humiliating. She cursed herself under her breath as she squirmed to get comfortable on the bamboo floor.

  It wasn’t that the ropes around her ankles chafed or that the handcuffs were too tight. The Captain had locked her up personally—and not without a touch of tenderness—and told her he was taking the British couple into town and releasing them. It was being locked up in the first place. Sheila had assumed that they were past that. Weren’t relationships supposed to be based on trust? She was sure she’d read something like that in one of those best-selling marriage books her sister had given her before she married Turk.

  Sheila didn’t know that the woman from Seattle—the shit-smeared cheapskate—had died; all she knew was that someone had paid the British couple’s ransom and they were being delivered back to their hotel. So what was wrong with her husband? He had plenty of money—she had signed a prenup limiting the amount she could claim in the event of a divorce—and should’ve paid her ransom immediately. Even if it had been five million dollars, ten million. He had the cash. So what was the holdup?

  It occurred to her—the thought came bursting into her consciousness like some kind of toxic aneurysm exploding in her brain—that Turk didn’t want to rescue her. He didn’t want her back. For all she knew he’d already returned to Los Angeles and was auditioning new wives—younger, blonder, dumber—in their custom Jacuzzi.

  Sheila shifted on the hard wood floor. She was agitated, angry. Her physical discomfort wasn’t helping either. Her skin was hot and prickly, her clothes sticking to her and making her skin itch, and her ass had fallen asleep. Her stomach growled loudly, and she realized she was getting hungry. She’d eaten some kind of rice soup for breakfast but no coffee, no tea, not even bottled water. Why was the Captain suddenly treating her like a regular hostage? Had she done something wrong? Why couldn’t she take a shower?

  Sheila glared at the floor—there was nothing else to do—and thought about the men in her life. Men, she realized, were the root of all evil. This thought, combined with a sudden and calamitous drop in blood sugar, plunged her into a depression.

  But as the hours passed and her stomach stopped growling, she began to see things a little more clearly. Maybe, just maybe, it was her fault. Why was she relying on these ridiculous men? She needed the Captain to feed her and not kill her; she needed Turk to save her. It was absurd and, at the same time, fitting. The story of her life. Why did she always rely on men and not herself? Why was she waiting for some man to take care of her, to rescue her? Why not take matters into her own hands and escape?

  The thought of escape excited her—although she realized she couldn’t take her captors lightly. They had killed the guy from Seattle. They had guns. From what she could tell, they seemed serious and would kill her if they caught her. And then there was Captain Somporn. He was a wild card. She could tell he wanted something; she knew that much.
She could see the desire in his eyes. He didn’t want to fuck her, but he wanted something. Something sexual. Something that embarrassed him.

  Turk was another story. Pampered, spoiled, unable to do his laundry or mow the lawn. How would he ever figure out how to save her? The most menial tasks stupefied him. Sure, he could play the bass really well and even sing a little, but ask him to use a can opener or read a map and he was useless. Lovable in his way, and sweet to be sure, but deeply flawed and a mediocre lover. That’s the thing that cracked her up, the irony of it. The famous lothario—a legendary cockmaster—with hundreds of notches on his belt was boring in the sack. Sheila had been excited when they first became intimate. She’d expected all kinds of Kama Sutra craziness: bondage, role-playing, crazy sex toys, mind-blowing orgasms, and nights of unquenchable desire. But Turk was actually very meat-and-potatoes in his sexual appetites. Not that she minded that much. Sheila supposed that if she’d asked Turk to do something different he’d have readily agreed, but she was a little embarrassed by some of her desires.

  She and Captain Somporn had that in common.

  …

  Turk watched the broadcast in his cabin. Laid out on the bed, a bottle of beer balanced on his stomach, the volume turned up. Turk didn’t know it, but it was a riveting performance.

  Charlie and Sandrine Todd read their lines perfectly and acted with real emotion. Ben had gotten to them, getting them to change their harrowing hostage story to one about becoming accidentally lost in the jungle while on a hike. He’d convinced the British consulate to help him, citing “national security” and “ongoing antiterror operations” as reasons for the change of story. Ben was surprised at how cooperative everyone was being. His plan to keep the incident quiet was, apparently, running smoothly.

  Charlie recounted their tale of survival in the wilds with pride. A mix of cunning, ingenuity, and naturalist skills he’d picked up watching BBC adventure shows. Charlie also admitted to praying for their safe return, adding that he’d asked God to help Fulham avoid relegation and stay in the Premier League.

  Turk flipped through the channels, but the story was buried as a kind of afterthought on BBC Asia.

  Turk looked at his watch. The fact that the kidnappers had released everyone but Sheila was making him nervous. He didn’t like being kept in the dark. Steve and Bruno had always made the big band decisions without him; he hadn’t liked it then and he didn’t like it now. If the ICE agent wasn’t going to share information, Turk would find out himself—or, more accurately, hire someone to find out for him. Turk wasn’t going to sit on his ass and wait for someone else to make life-changing decisions for him ever again.

  Although Ben had told him he was confined to the hotel, Turk knew he had to make a move. He’d already reserved a plane ticket to Bangkok. A cab would be picking him up near the resort’s trash facility in a few minutes. Turk didn’t know if someone was watching the hotel or what, but he hadn’t taken any chances. He’d arranged everything quietly, in person, not over the phone. He needed money, reinforcements, someone to help him figure this shit out. He had to get to Bangkok tonight.

  …

  Marybeth looked at her suitcase. She’d already packed her essentials: the black leather miniskirt, the fishnet stockings, the see-through paisley shirt with the ruffly sleeves, her studded dog collar necklace, her makeup kit, a purple polka-dot bikini, a Metal Assassin tour T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and a fresh box of Trojan “Twisted Pleasure” lubricated condoms.

  But what else would she need? What did they wear in Bangkok anyway? All she could visualize were small brown women wearing sandals and those loose fitting sarilike things. They had to be loose and light; it was really hot there, she was sure of it. Hot and steamy. So the leather pants were out. The last thing Marybeth wanted was a yeast infection.

  Thirteen

  BANGKOK

  When King Rama I founded this magnificent city on the banks of the Chao Phraya River he named it “Krung Thep Mahanakhon Amon Rattanakosin Mahinthara Ayuthaya Mahadilok Phop Noppharat Ratchathani Burirom Udomratchaniwet Mahasathan Amon Piman Awatan Sathit Sakkathattiya Witsanukam Prasit.”

  Which roughly translates to:

  “The city of angels, the great city, the residence of the Emerald Buddha, the impregnable city of God Indra, the grand capital of the world endowed with nine precious gems, the happy city, abounding in an enormous Royal Palace that resembles the heavenly abode where reigns the reincarnated god, a city given by Indra and built by Vishnukarn.”

  Turk didn’t know it, but Thailand had never been invaded or occupied by any foreign nation. It was never ravaged by imperialism. It was not an outpost of colonial conquest. Overlooked and unmolested by marauding armies, Thailand was allowed to grow on its own, unique and exotic, like a wild orchid in the deep jungle, until it mutated into something extraordinary, almost alien to the rest of the world.

  …

  The wheels of the sedan beat out a syncopated ka-chunka chunk as they cruised along the elevated freeway at midnight. Turk sat in back, staring out the window. He felt strangely disconnected from himself and from the world as he knew it, like he was in that half-state between waking and dreaming.

  Bangkok spread out below him, the orange glow of the freeway lights cutting a path through the blue haze above the city. Lights twinkled from houses and apartments that seemed stacked on top of each other in a random jumble that spread out as far as he could see. Small fires glowed from late-night street corner carts, and Turk could see the slender silhouettes of people gathered around them.

  Larger buildings, not quite scraping the sky, popped up alongside the freeway, their modern architecture made surreal by the signage—a kind of indecipherable dream language. There were billboards plastered with smiling Thai faces and pictures of products. Turk tried to read them but the alphabet was foreign, not offering a clue as to where a word began or ended or even what the letters were. He searched the signs for something to hold on to—some punctuation, some kind of connection to the world he knew. When he saw the word “Panasonic” he felt a warm sense of relief. He hadn’t left the planet. It just seemed like it.

  In the distance he saw moonlight reflecting off a shiny black river as it snaked along one edge of the city.

  “Is that where we’re going? By the river?”

  The driver nodded.

  “Chao Phraya.”

  …

  The driver had met him at the airport—standing stiffly at attention in his white suit with white gloves and hat, he looked more like a naval cadet than a chauffeur—and had taken his bag, leading him to what looked like a fancy Toyota Corolla. As Turk got into the car the driver saluted and said, “Welcome to Krung Thep.”

  Maybe that’s what gave Turk a sense of unease. He had flown to Bangkok but arrived in Krung Thep. He was going to the Oriental Hotel but the driver called it Chao Phraya. Turk sighed and took a sip of the cold bottled water the driver had handed him. Normally Sheila—or the tour manager—would’ve handled all the arrangements. He would be whisked to wherever he was supposed to be without giving it a thought. Turk was proud that he’d managed to do it on his own; he’d actually arranged something. And not just anything—he’d pulled off a secret mission. Although the more the driver talked the more Turk had a nagging suspicion that he’d fucked everything up.

  When he arrived at the Oriental Hotel, his uneasiness vanished. The hotel employees, concierge, and night manager greeted Turk like he was visiting royalty. They took his Visa card. They offered him a cold fruit juice. They asked if he’d like something to eat. This, Turk realized, was the way it was supposed to be.

  Turk followed the bellman, passing under a massive and slightly bizarre-looking chandelier dangling from the ceiling, strolling past a tranquil, flower-covered fountain burbling in the middle of the lobby, and headed for the elevator.

  In his room, Turk tipped the bellman and closed the door behind him. Ignoring the deluxe fruit basket filled with all kinds of tropic
al delights, Turk headed straight for the minibar. He really needed a drink.

  Turk sipped his second Singha and opened the window. A blast of humid air and the fragrant fertile smell of the river blew in and smacked him in the face. Normally he might’ve wrinkled his nose at the smell, but he belched instead, and the yeasty beer mixed with the smell of the river to create a lively perfume. Moonlight bounced off the Chao Phraya in blue-black flickers, and across the river in the distance Turk could see some strange building jutting up into the night sky. A couple of barges drifted downriver, passing a boat that looked like a big loaf of whole-wheat bread puttering slowly against the current.

  Turk thought about Sheila. He wondered what she was doing, if she was all right. He was worried. It was natural, right? A man should be worried about his wife, especially when she’s in the hands of kidnappers—or worse, terrorists. Turk wondered if the ICE agent was right. What if they are terrorists?

  He took another sip of his beer. It was selfish, he knew, but he didn’t care who they were—kidnappers, terrorists, headhunting cannibals, or crazed fans—he was determined to get her back. Turk was going to get Sheila back, and he didn’t give a flying fuck what the U.S. government thought about it.

  Turk went to his dop kit and shook out an Ambien. He downed it with the rest of his beer and closed the window. He needed to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

  …

  The nights are extremely pleasant in Bangkok. The traffic dies down and the wind clears the smog out of the air. The temperatures average around seventy-seven degrees in the hot season, and blooming plants scent the air with their fragrant pollen. But when the sun comes up, the temperature rises dramatically, and nine million people start their cars, motorcycles, trucks, and scooters.

  Marybeth had grown up in Los Angeles. She’d experienced gridlock. She’d been a victim of traffic snarls caused by various Sigalerts, Amber alerts, brushfires, earthquakes, and mudslides. She’d seen the 405 freeway backed up with six lanes of traffic for as far as the eye could see. She’d spent an hour trying to go two miles on a road so clogged with cars that it moved slower than magma.