Marybeth saw Clive’s eyes lingering on a young bar girl in a white bikini top. The girl shifted on her bar stool, crossing one leg over another, and stared back at Clive with a frank, mercantile gaze. Marybeth tugged on Clive’s arm. “You can come back later.”
Clive grinned at her. “Believe me, I will.”
Seeing the bar girls, Marybeth realized that she missed Wendy. She’d taken Wendy’s cell phone number but hadn’t called her. She wanted to, but she had been afraid. What was there to be afraid of? Marybeth didn’t know why she was hesitant. What was so scary? Wendy was a whore. Big deal. Did that make her a bad person? Not at all. In fact, Marybeth had never met a nicer, sweeter, more generous person in her life. And she was easily the best lover Marybeth had ever had. When she compared her slow, sensual tumble between the sheets with Wendy to her experiences with all those longhaired rocker dudes whose leather pants she’d yanked down and whose cocks she’d sucked; when she thought about all the times she’d taken it doggie style on a tour bus; when she recalled all those sweat-drenched quickies backstage before an encore … well, there wasn’t really a comparison. Marybeth realized she’d had sex with at least two hundred men and that never once had it been about her pleasure. She was always working to get the men off—it was a one-way street, a sexual cul-de-sac. But with Wendy it was different; it was a two-way street. Or, more accurately, it was like one of those roundabouts they have in Europe, where traffic enters from dozens of directions and mixes and blends as it circles.
Marybeth hadn’t experienced many epiphanies in her life, but now, out of the blue, she realized what she was afraid of. She was afraid she was falling in love with Wendy. If she was in love with Wendy, didn’t that mean she was gay? How could she explain this to her friends? Was she really a lesbian? Or was it just Wendy? Or was it the fact that Wendy was a prostitute? Was that the appeal? A kind of rock and roll bad boy danger thing? What was she afraid of? Didn’t they make movies about guys who fall in love with whores? Wasn’t that like a standard Hollywood thing?
They stopped in front of a sundries store, the kind that had clothes and hats, sunscreen and sandals, backpacks and a few suitcases.
“Here we are. You go ahead and pick it out. I’ll be right back.”
Marybeth watched as Clive turned and headed back toward the girl in the white bikini top. She shook her head. “Thanks for watching my back, asshole.”
Neither of them noticed Ben, dressed as a tourist, window-shopping in the street behind them.
…
The bar girl in the white bikini knew what she was doing. She’d seen Clive ogling her as he walked by and had made eye contact with him. Although she was only sixteen, she’d been a bar girl for three years and was well practiced—like an expert fisherman—in the art of baiting a hook. She knew he’d taken the bait, but she didn’t make a move, just sat there patiently. The worst thing was to appear overeager. She didn’t want to spook her prey; she’d wait for Clive to take enough line, to look back at her as he walked down the street, then she’d set the hook and he’d reel himself in. The bar girl in the white bikini understood that men, like fish, were not particularly complicated animals.
For Clive it was a different experience altogether. It was like she saw into his soul and found his weakness, his craving. Somehow she’d managed to touch something inside him, to flick a switch that kicked his desire into action. Clive couldn’t resist her—he had to have her or be had by her; it was an unstoppable urge.
Clive entered the bar and smiled at the girl in the white bikini. He asked if she’d like to join him for a drink. Although the outcome of their encounter—quick and sweaty sex on a rickety cot in a tiny back room—was guaranteed, there was still an etiquette to follow, the protocols of sex for sale.
Clive and the bar girl settled into a booth in the back. He ordered a double Belvedere vodka and Pepsi for himself, a glass of champagne—that he was sure was ginger ale—for her. Then he slipped his hand under her white bikini top and began to caress her breast.
…
People always say that you can’t put a price on a human life; that a human being is something sacred, mysterious, and more precious than anything else in the world. But Ben could put a price on it: one million dollars a head. That seemed fair and reasonable to him. Not too cheap—nothing insulting—but not out of reach for a man who’d suddenly found himself a near beneficiary of two million bucks. Ben realized that he needed to get Turk alone, mano a mano, if he had a chance of snatching the second million. But that would have to wait. First things first, and first he needed to kill Turk’s adviser.
Ben sipped a beer at the bar and watched out of the corner of his eye as Clive fondled the bar girl. Several other bar girls approached Ben. Although they were slender and attractive, Ben wasn’t interested. He chatted with them, noncommittal, a shopper, until they got bored and went off after easier customers.
Ben watched as Clive gave the telltale signal that he was going upstairs: he drained his glass and stood. Even from across the room, Ben could see that he was aroused. The bar girl in the white bikini took Clive by the hand and led him through a door in the back. Ben watched them go; he’d wait until they were in the middle of it, then he’d make his move.
Not that he knew what move to make. He wasn’t a trained killer. He remembered some basic hand-to-hand combat techniques from boot camp, but it wasn’t like he’d ever had to use them. He’d never even been in a fistfight. Ben wished his tactical kit had arrived; then he could just shoot the fucker. That would be easy, decisive. But it wasn’t here yet, so Ben would have to improvise; he’d have to be careful, because Clive was ex-military, and wouldn’t go down easy if he could help it. Ben knew he’d have to take Clive at his most vulnerable, when he least expected it. That would be his edge, his only chance.
Ben finished his beer and asked the bartender where the bathroom was. The bartender pointed toward the back door, the same one Clive and the bar girl had used. Ben sauntered back, walking slowly. Unless Clive was a premature ejaculator, he had time. When he crossed through the back door he saw a short hallway, with a bathroom on the right and a flight of steps leading upstairs on the left. Ben walked up the stairs as quietly and casually as he could.
At the top of the stairs, he stopped and listened. There were six rooms, three on each side, running down a narrow hallway. Ben could hear a German man grunting and muttering at the first door, his guttural “ya, ya” growing ever-louder and more emphatic. Ben peeked through the crack in the doorframe and saw a massive pink-skinned man being straddled by a tiny brown Thai woman. The girl looked like a tattoo on the big man’s body.
Ben heard someone speaking English across the hall and crept over to see a young American man, probably seventeen, banging away on an equally young girl. He moved toward the end of the hall. He suddenly heard Clive’s Australian accent coming from behind a door. He heard him say, “Ride the baloney pony, baby.” That’s when he stopped feeling bad about killing Clive.
…
Clive was beginning to feel slightly gypped. Sure, the bar girl in the white bikini was alluring and beautiful; her expansive smile and the naughty twinkle in her dark eyes were almost as arousing as her tight body and beautiful young ass. But once money had changed hands and the white bikini had come off, her dazzling smile, the flirtatious twinkle, the salacious licking of her lips all vanished. She’d sucked his cock with all the interest and enthusiasm of someone peeling a pile of potatoes. Now she was on top of him, bouncing up and down with a minimum of effort and a distant, distracted look in her eye like she wished there was something good on TV. Every now and then she would say something encouraging like “You’re so big! I hope it doesn’t hurt my tight Asian pussy.” Or, “You make me feel so good!” But she didn’t say it with any passion; there was no gusto or verve in her performance at all. She sounded like the recorded voice outside of airports warning about parking in restricted zones.
…
Ben waited outside th
e door. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was waiting for, but he hoped he’d know it when he saw it. He watched as Clive flipped her over and mounted her, holding himself over her with his arms extended, thrusting toward climax.
Ben moved quickly. Clive was moaning. The bar girl’s eyes were closed; she’d seen the faces of too many orgasming farangs to bother watching another. As Clive’s body shuddered, Ben entered the room and crept up behind him. He wrapped his right arm around Clive’s head and then twisted as hard as he could. Clive grunted and flailed, instinctively reaching for Ben’s arm. Ben wrenched harder and was surprised to hear a distinct, sickening snap. His neck broken, Clive went limp and dropped forward onto the bar girl, pinning her to the bed. For her part, she just thought the farang was a freak with a violent spasm, and didn’t bother opening her eyes.
Ben walked out of the room, down the steps, and through the back door of the bar.
…
Sheila stood in the shower and shivered. A storm was building out at sea, thunderheads looming, turning the sky into a boiling black. The breeze blowing in off the ocean was cool and she felt goose bumps erupt across her arms and legs, felt her nipples contract into hard little nubs. Somporn came up to her and handed her a towel.
“It’s too cold.”
Somporn stood close to her, his eyes studying her body. “You should dry yourself.”
Sheila could smell the fresh cigarette on his breath. Somporn turned his gaze from her pallid breasts to her face. Their eyes met and held until Sheila felt herself blush. She looked down at the floor.
She took the towel from him and began to dry off. “Thank you.”
Somporn walked back and sat on the bed. They had slept there last night, but nothing had happened. The Captain had wrapped himself around her—she had felt his erection pulsing gently against her thigh—and held her as he fell asleep. Sheila had lain awake feeling very confused. When was the last time a man with an erection had lain next to her and done nothing? Had it ever happened? Even once? Sheila wondered—and not for the first time, plagued as she was by a fashion model’s insecurities—if something was wrong with her.
She didn’t bother wrapping the towel around her. She dried her hair and looked at Somporn.
“Do you want to have sex with me?”
The cigarette dropped out of Somporn’s mouth.
“What?”
“Do you want to have sex with me? You can. If you want to.”
Somporn retrieved his cigarette and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Sheila walked over and sat next to him on the bed. “You want to. Don’t you?”
“I will not lie. You are a beautiful woman. But you are also my hostage.”
Sheila looked him in the eye, her tongue automatically flicking out and moistening her lips.
“That’s right. I’m your prisoner—you can do whatever you want with me.”
Somporn hesitated for a second, then stood up from the bed, his pants tenting up in the crotch, and moved away from her.
“Please understand that this is a business. I am not a dishonest criminal.”
Sheila shifted on the bed so that her legs were slightly spread, just enough to give Somporn a view of her pussy.
“I won’t tell.”
Somporn focused his mind; he saw desire—grasping, at its most primal level—arising inside him. He recognized the emotion for what it was, respected its power while maintaining his discipline, his mental strength. Sometimes it paid to be a Buddhist.
“Your husband is paying a lot for your safe return. I’m sure he’d like you unused.”
Sheila blinked. She realized she hadn’t thought of Turk in what seemed like weeks.
“He fucks other people all the time. He won’t care. And I won’t tell him.”
Somporn dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with a bare foot.
“It won’t be long now.”
He turned and walked out of the hut.
…
Ben was in the shower. Scalding water turned his skin red as he scrubbed his body with antiseptic soap, trying to disinfect himself, desperate to wash off the taint of seedy brothels, broken necks, and infected whores. He was interrupted by an insistent knocking at the door. For a brief, horrible second, he thought it might be the police, and he was visibly relieved when he opened the door to reveal a courier with his special package. Ben signed for it and closed the door without a word. He probably should’ve tipped the courier, but he didn’t; he wasn’t in the mood for generosity or magnanimity or even common courtesy.
He put the box down on the bed and ripped it open. Inside was a small tactical kit; a lightweight nylon shoulder harness with a Smith & Wesson M&P .9mm handgun and four extra clips, a tactical ballistic vest, camouflage pants and jacket, waterproof boots, a pair of small binoculars, night vision goggles, a belt stuffed with a GPS positioning device, handcuffs and pepper spray, and an M67 fragmentation-type hand grenade.
Ben found a note from Roy. It read:
Boss,
Ops wouldn’t let me take a rifle or shotgun. Use hand grenade in emergency only. I promised to return it.
P.S. Don’t forget about my raise!
Ben sat on the bed and loaded the handgun. He suddenly wished he’d put in some extra hours at the range. He hadn’t planned on having to get close to Turk to kill him.
…
It was almost one o’clock in the morning Los Angeles time when the call came through. The weird thing, the part that Heidegger still couldn’t wrap his mind around, was that it was early afternoon of the same day in Thailand. Just how did the international date line work? It was easier to understand wormholes and time matrix nebulae on a Star Trek episode.
He was glad to get the call. He’d been waiting for it, sitting up in bed nursing a tumbler of aged reposado tequila—the honey-colored liquor tasting of prickly pear, caramel, and smoke—and listening to Lou Reed’s early ’70s classic Transformer. It was a vinyl album, a large thin black plastic disc that was pulled from a cardboard jacket and played on something called a turntable. Heidegger had over three thousand vinyl albums, his collection alphabetized and displayed in several classic Eames shelving units—and not reproductions; originals—along one wall of his bedroom. He preferred the sound of vinyl. Some people said it had a warmth that CDs and MP3s didn’t, and Heidegger agreed. To his ears the music just sounded better. He liked the hiss and pops as the needle rolled along the grooves. For some strange reason he found it comforting. It gave the sterile, digital world a human patina.
Like the way the original antique furniture was better than the new knockoffs. It was something that had been lived in. The nicks, scratches, and scuff marks, the sun-faded fabrics made him feel like he wasn’t alone in the world. They were signs of life, evidence of existence. Someone sat on this fifty years ago, I’m sitting on it now, and in another fifty years someone else will be sitting on it. It was evidence of the continuity of life, and he liked that. He was old-school that way.
Heidegger spoke to the bank manager in Phuket, who politely informed him that the money had been collected and asked if there was anything else he could do to help. Heidegger thanked the manager and hung up, then dialed Takako Mitsuzake in Tokyo.
Takako had been the Japanese publicist for Metal Assassin for years, and Jon knew her well. He’d already spoken to her about how to handle the news of Sheila’s kidnapping. Takako had suggested they wait until the last minute, avoiding the media frenzy the news would generate, and then she would dispatch a journalist and photographer to Phuket, giving them the scoop of a lifetime. Heidegger gave her a quick update, telling her that the money was on the move; Turk would probably be making the drop very soon.
The last minute had arrived.
…
The storm had passed, blowing across the island in less than an hour. Marybeth avoided the rain while counting money in the bank. She took an air-conditioned cab back to the hotel, watching wisps of steam
rise off the boiling pavement, the air somehow even hotter after the cool rain.
When she entered the hotel, Marybeth felt like she was in a scene from a Doris Day/Rock Hudson movie. She was Doris Day, of course, pulling her suitcase across the floor of the hotel lobby, a swing in her step, a song in her heart, and a smile on her face.
The reason she felt like Doris Day had more to do with the suitcase she’d bought than the million dollars inside it. With Clive disappearing for a quick fuck with the bar girl, Marybeth had been left to choose between several suitcases. There were the black ones—too conspicuously serious, she thought, almost broadcasting the money inside. There were a couple covered in bright Hawaiian hibiscus patterns that announced themselves with a gaudy fluorescence. They were a bit much; not quite rock star enough for the mission at hand.
Eventually she discovered the perfect suitcase buried under a pile of sham Hello Kitty gear and a stack of counterfeit Louis Vuitton Murakami purses.
Covered in a psychedelic pattern of happy-face cartoon daisies, it was perfectly incognito—who would carry a million dollars in something so ridiculous?—and yet still kind of groovy. Best of all, it made her feel like she was a perky ’60s movie star when she pulled it through the hotel lobby.
She found Turk sitting out by the beach, a cold beer in front of him, his legs kicked up on a chaise longue, snoring under a palm frond palapa. The afternoon showers hadn’t seemed to disturb him.
“Turk. Turkey. C’mon.”
Marybeth gently shook him awake. Turk pulled off his sunglasses and looked at her.
“Hey. You get everything?”
Marybeth patted the suitcase. “No problem.”
Turk saw the suitcase and sat up. “What the fuck is that?”
“You don’t like it?”
Turk had to think about it. “It’s not that I don’t like it. I do. But, is it appropriate?”
Salty: A Novel Page 17