“All that pollution is really bad for your skin.”
Marybeth spotted a cab on the other side of the street and pointed. “There’s one. Over there.”
Turk saw the cab, parked half on the sidewalk, across six lanes of death-on-wheels.
“Great. How do we get there?”
Marybeth grabbed his arm. “C’mon.”
She stepped out into the street. Turk pulled her back.
“Are you crazy? We’ll get killed.”
Marybeth pointed out all the locals crossing the road.
“We just gotta go like they do. Show me a little faith.”
“Show Me a Little Faith” had been a massive hit for Metal Assassin. Turk tried to remember the lyrics, but could only recall the chorus. That’s where Steve hit the big high note and a gigantic dove with an olive branch stuck in its beak would suddenly fly from the back of the stadium to the front of the stage. It might not have been as totally metal as their other stunts and pyrotechnics, but the dove had been designed by the same guy who did all the Rose Parade floats and it looked really cool. And chicks dug it. Turk briefly flashed on a memory of crawling in the dove with some crazy groupie and getting it on.
“C’mon.”
Marybeth took his hand and led him out into the river of steel. It was almost magical, like Moses parting the Red Sea. Somehow the traffic adjusted for them, swerving around them, braking and accelerating, leaving them enough room to cross. Turk couldn’t believe it. He grinned at Marybeth.
“That fucking rocked.”
…
Turk sat in the back of the cab marveling at the city. He looked out at the shops along the road. Gem dealers, silk traders, custom tailors, currency exchanges, office buildings—it had all the hustle and bustle of New York, the familiar scenes of any metropolis, and yet Bangkok was completely different from any city he’d ever been in. Turk couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Sure, some of the architecture was crazy; not like the Guggenheim in New York or Museo Bilbao in Spain or the Disneyland in California—Thai architecture had its own insane style. The temples, the palace, the traditional Thai architecture was like nothing he’d ever seen before. The colors were amazing: shockingly bright reds; vibrant blues, oranges, and greens; blindingly clean white. The shapes were out of control—ornate peaked roofs, intricate and bizarre patterns and details cut into the structures, strange flourishes perched on the corners of the roofs, reaching up to the sky like alien epaulets. Turk laughed to himself. You could use some of these buildings as a set for an extraterrestrial invasion video and people would believe they really came from outer space.
Marybeth broke the silence.
“You look like you need to unwind. Want to go out tonight?”
“For dinner?”
“Yeah. Dinner and then let’s go clubbing.”
“I don’t know.”
“Dude, we’re in Bangkok. It’s like got the most famous nightlife of any city in the world. We gotta go.”
Turk felt a shiver go through his body. For him, Bangkok was legendary; it was the world’s biggest living breathing catalytic environment. It was exactly the kind of place his therapist would not want him to be.
“I don’t think so, Marybeth.”
Marybeth knew why Turk was being hesitant.
“Turk, dude, you gotta face your fears. And besides, I’ll be with you the whole time, holding your hand.”
“I was going to get a massage.”
“Get a massage and then we’ll go out. You need to chill, dude. The rescue guy’s working on it; let him do his thing.”
Turk didn’t answer so Marybeth smiled her sweetest, sexiest smile at him.
“Please.”
“I guess you’re right. Sheila would want me to see the city.”
Ben watched Turk and Marybeth cross the street. In the back of his mind he was hoping for a little luck; an auto accident would be perfect. But that didn’t happen. As he watched Marybeth, checking out her cute ass, he made a note to himself. He’d order a background workup on her. That might be fun.
Ben didn’t follow them; he figured they’d return to the hotel. He drove off, heading back to his office in the U.S. Embassy on Wireless Road. Once there he’d send a message to Washington and have the State Department call Lampard International headquarters in London and put the kibosh on this whole thing. When it came to interdicting the aid and support of terrorist organizations, the United States government didn’t fuck around.
…
Turk lay on the bed in his hotel room. The masseuse, a squat young Thai woman from the provinces, had made him put on some strange cotton pajamas and was now giving him a traditional Thai massage. It wasn’t like any rubdown he’d ever had. She twisted his legs and torqued his body into a series of odd angles and strange poses that were supposed to stretch and relax him. The fact that it was working—he felt great—was a surprise. Turk realized that nothing here was really what it seemed. Or maybe it was exactly what it seemed, only he’d never thought about it that way.
The massage went on and on, lasting almost two hours. When she was done, the masseuse looked at him.
“You want happy finish?”
Turk, who was in a kind of endorphin release trance, blinked.
“I’m sorry.”
“You want happy finish? Special massage.”
Turk thought about it. Hadn’t he just had a special massage? What more could she be offering? He grasped her intent at the exact same moment that she grasped his cock.
“Uh.”
“It’s okay, mister. Happy finish good.”
Turk thought about Sheila, about his marriage vows, about his promise to try and be monogamous for the rest of his life. Is a happy finish the same as sex? Or is it part of the massage, just on a different part of the body? Is getting a massage the same as being unfaithful? Or is getting a massage okay? Turk supposed that if you called it a hand job then it could be considered infidelity. But this was a massage. Happy finish good.
Turk wanted to hold off. To wait and give it further consideration. He wanted to discuss it with his therapist. But by the time he’d come to this decision, he’d ejaculated all over the strange cotton pajamas.
…
The guilt he felt after the masseuse left was overwhelming. All the therapy, all the soul-searching, all the restraint that he was so proud of, everything that he had worked so hard for was tossed out the window in one quick happy finish.
Turk stood up and looked at himself in the mirror. What have you done? He couldn’t face himself; he turned away from his reflection and sat on the edge of the bed.
He held his face in his hands and began to cry.
Like a lot of heavy metal bass players, Turk wasn’t particularly emotional. He didn’t cry at movies or weddings. He didn’t cry at funerals. He didn’t cry when Metal Assassin got their first double platinum album. He didn’t cry when they won their Grammy award. He didn’t cry when they called it quits.
But now he was blubbering like a prom-jilted teenage girl. Hot tears were freely flowing down his cheeks, strings of mucus were hanging off his nose, his chest heaved with mournful sobs, and he couldn’t stop it. He cried because he was disappointed in himself. He wanted to be cured, free of his addiction. He wanted to be stronger. He wanted to be faithful to his poor kidnapped wife.
Turk needed to call his therapist but realized that the time was wrong. It’d be too early or too late or something in L.A. Everything was upside down here. He wanted a pill, some kind of Xanax or antidepressant, a pharmaceutical monkey wrench to shut off the flow of tears, something to numb him out; but he didn’t have anything like that. Unable to stop sobbing, he grabbed a Singha out of the minibar and headed into the bathroom to take a shower.
…
By the time Turk got out of the shower he’d stopped crying. He hit the minibar for another brew and, wearing only a towel, went to the window to watch the boats on the Chao Phraya. He didn’t know why, but there was something about the view that ca
lmed him. Maybe it was the sense that he was safe in his room while chaos swirled around him. Maybe it was just watching the water taxis flying across the river, cutting in front of barges and tour boats, just like taxis in the streets. Maybe it was the Thai architecture; Wat Arun—the guidebook in the hotel called it the “Temple of the Dawn”—was visible across the river, made entirely of ceramic plates and jutting up into the sky. It reminded Turk of the spaceships in the Star Wars movies. He liked that he could see an ancient temple from his modern hotel window.
…
In the shower Turk had thought about the happy finish. He started to come up with the usual excuses: he was under enormous stress from dealing with Sheila’s abduction; he didn’t mean to do it, it just sorta happened; he thought it was part of the massage and didn’t want to offend his foreign masseuse by declining. He could keep the justifications coming for hours if he had to. But then he had an epiphany: he decided that he wasn’t going to rationalize anymore. He wasn’t going to blame someone or something else. He was going to take responsibility for the fact that he had allowed it to happen. His therapist would say that it was part of the cycle of addiction. But Turk didn’t know what to think. He was confused. Wasn’t blaming the addiction for his behavior just another excuse?
I’m an addict. It’s not my fault. It’s a disease.
Wasn’t that just a cop-out?
…
Marybeth wanted a real Bangkok experience. She wanted to go to a seedy brothel and hire a sexy Thai prostitute—she wasn’t a prude when it came to sex and sometimes enjoyed hooking up with a hot lesbian; besides, maybe she could entice Turk into a three-way and kill two birds, so to speak—and she wanted to see what all the fuss was about, why busloads of horny tourists from England, Sweden, and the U.S. came every year just to frolic in the sex clubs of Patpong. Most of all she wanted to see the girl do that trick with the Ping-Pong balls.
Marybeth, dressed somewhat provocatively in a light slip dress covered by a torn denim jacket, met Turk in the hotel lobby. He smiled when he saw her.
“Hungry?”
Marybeth nodded. “I got this.”
She handed Turk a business card. It was Clive’s. Turk flipped it over and saw the words “The Winchester, 10pm” and an address on Soi Cowboy. Turk was impressed.
“That was fast. This guy doesn’t mess around.”
Marybeth hooked her arm around Turk’s.
“Let’s eat. We can celebrate.”
…
At Turk’s insistence, they took a tuk tuk to dinner. He was beginning to appreciate them. The overtaxed air conditioners of the cabs had a close, musty smell and Turk preferred to be out in the wind. Marybeth was annoyed at first; she had spent a good hour and a half removing and reapplying her makeup, and the last thing she wanted was for a layer of Bangkok grit and humidity to destroy those efforts, but Turk seemed to be in better spirits, less worried about Sheila and more his old rock star self, so Marybeth indulged him.
It was her job, of course, to indulge the boyish antics of her company’s clients, and she did it very well. In fact she enjoyed it. There was just something kinda cool about watching a bunch of forty-year-old musicians trash a hotel room—break the lamps, turn the furniture into splinters, scrawl obscenities on the wall, and chuck the TV set into the pool. It was all the stuff you wanted to do in high school. Only now their celebrity and bank accounts allowed them to do stupid shit with impunity.
Turk didn’t say much, just smiled into the breeze and seemed to enjoy the tuk tuk ride like it was a special treat at Disneyland. But for Marybeth it was a little more traumatic as they jounced and swayed past the street life: the open-air restaurants, the markets, the mangy-looking dogs sniffing through piles of garbage, cars, motorcycles, apartments, shops, and everywhere thousands of people out and about, doing their thing. Marybeth saw children playing, old people shopping for food, young couples holding hands: people living their lives out on the street. She found herself feeling shocked, overwhelmed by it all. Bangkok was a whole other kind of animal than what she was used to.
But for Turk it was a completely different experience. He grooved on the humanity of the place. The city pulsed with life. It had the street energy of New York City, only multiplied to the hundredth power. Yet it wasn’t frenetic. There was no mania, no anger or rage. Bangkok spun out in a kind of relaxed and vibrant swirl. It was beautiful.
Turk realized that normally he would’ve just sat in the hotel, ordered room service, and watched a video. That’s how he’d seen the world on tour with Metal Assassin. He regretted that now. The cocoon of the tour bus, the luxury and isolation of the hotels, the handlers, managers, and assistants had all kept him from experiencing the world, from engaging with life. He’d never realized until this moment in the tuk tuk that he’d missed so much.
Marybeth watched Turk. She was worried about him. He seemed distant, kind of out of it; yet he was smiling. She wondered if he’d smoked a joint earlier.
“Hey! Let’s try that.”
Marybeth turned to look where Turk was pointing. It was an outdoor restaurant—really just a table and a fire pit on the sidewalk—surrounded by dozens of people eating mysterious food off paper plates.
“You’re joking.”
“C’mon. It must be good. Look at all the people.”
Marybeth shook her head.
“No fucking way. I’ve got an expense account.”
…
Marybeth had seen to the dinner arrangements. The concierge had recommended a funky but chic little place. It was very modern—simple and clean, almost minimalist—and at the same time very Thai. The effect was inviting and relaxing. She could see Turk take a deep breath and exhale as they entered.
“Smells great in here.”
It did smell great in the restaurant. A giant display of fresh orchids and gingers exploded out of the hostess station, perfuming the restaurant. After the gut-churning drive through streets fragrant with exhaust, rotting garbage, and the piquant tang of an antiquated sewage system, the restaurant was like an aromatherapy spa.
The hostess seated them and gave them English menus.
“This is the wine list.” She handed Turk a thick binder.
Marybeth wasted no time. “I’d like a double Stoli and tonic, please.”
Turk looked at her. “You don’t want wine?”
“I do. I just want to start with a cocktail.”
Turk nodded and looked at the hostess. “Make it two.”
The hostess gave Turk a deep wai and went off to procure the cocktails. Marybeth turned and smiled at Turk.
“I’m gonna get fucking polluted tonight.”
Turk raised an eyebrow at that, but Marybeth wasn’t about to be denied her fun.
“C’mon Turkey, we’re in Bangkok. Let’s get out of our skulls.”
Turk smiled at her. “I don’t want to get too out of my skull. We’re meeting the guy, remember?”
Marybeth nodded. “Yeah. But after the briefing, I’m getting wasted. Why not? You know what I mean? Why the fuck not? That’s my motto.”
Turk looked at the menu.
“That’s a good motto.”
…
Ben watched from the back of a tuk tuk as Turk and Marybeth entered the restaurant. He paid the driver and got out, going across the street to a little store for a bottle of water. Ben assumed that Turk and Marybeth were just going out to dinner, but he wanted to make sure. He wouldn’t want to see them meeting someone, anyone, who might assist them.
Ben squirted some antibacterial hand cleaning gel onto his palm and rubbed his hands. Then he waited. He figured he’d give them half an hour and if they were still alone, he’d call it a night. He had to be in the office early and check with Washington to make sure they squashed Turk’s rescue mission before it started.
…
Two hours later, wobbling from the cocktails, the bottle of wine, the intensely spicy food, and the subsequent beers, Turk and Marybeth climbed out of a
tuk tuk in front of a nightclub called The Winchester. A garish neon sign the size of a school bus flashed above a run-down two-story building in the middle of an alley that seemed to be lined with bars, brothels, and go-go clubs, crammed up against each other like sardines. Above the door a bright Winchester rifle cocked and shot over and over again in neon flipbook animation. Turk looked at Marybeth.
“Are you sure this is right?”
Marybeth nodded. Turk hesitated.
“I don’t want to go in. Can you tell him I’m outside?”
Marybeth grabbed Turk’s arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
Turk shook his head. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
…
If you could get pregnant from breathing, the air in the club would knock you up in no time; it was dense with cigarette smoke, human sweat, the yeasty aroma of beer, and the unmistakable salty perfume of spent semen and wet pussy. Turk had followed Marybeth and the hostess, an older mamasan type, past the bar to a booth near the rear of the club. Topless go-go dancers moved to the music—’80s rock classics from The Clash, Blondie, and The Smiths intermixed with new techno tracks from Brazil and Holland—as multicolored lights beamed down on them and a crowd of appreciative Caucasian men stood around white-knuckling their beers and grinning like boob-addled retards.
Marybeth was the only non-Thai woman in the club, and a number of the men exchanged nervous glances when she entered. Turk ordered the drinks and looked around. He didn’t see Clive. But he saw lots of men who looked like Clive cuddled up in various booths with Thai women dressed in what can only be called “pay to fuck me” clothes. Turk noticed that a couple of these men were getting special crotch massages while they drank their beers and watched the go-go dancers. Turk was slightly disconcerted by the fact that all of the men were his age or older. Apparently he was the target demographic for a Bangkok brothel.
A pair of British men, sporting shaggy layered haircuts and bushy mustaches, flashed Turk the devil horn salute. One was wearing a Manchester United jersey, the name “Rooney” and a giant number 8 printed on the back. Turk smiled at them and flashed back, which they took for an invitation to come over.
Salty: A Novel Page 12