Marybeth nodded. “Totally.”
Turk looked around. “Where’s Clive?”
“He’ll be back soon. He had to stop and drop a load in a bar girl.”
Turk shook his head. “That’s all anyone does around here. The whole country’s just about fucking and getting massages. And the massages are a lot like fucking.”
Turk sat back on the chaise. “Paradise. Really.”
She laughed. “So the bag’s okay?”
“Peachy.”
She reached over and took a swig of his beer. “You’re in a good mood.”
“I’m just trying to be cheerful instead of freaking out.”
“You won’t freak out.”
Turk shrugged. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
Marybeth sat down and put her arm around him. She gave him a reassuring kiss on the cheek. They sat there like that for a moment.
“What’re you going to do after?”
“After what?”
“After you get Sheila back.”
Turk turned and looked at Marybeth. “She’s my wife.”
Marybeth pulled her arm away from Turk, but she kept looking at him. “I know that.”
“Honestly, Marybeth, I don’t know what I’m going to do about anything. I really don’t. I’m just a bass player.”
There was no bitterness in Turk’s voice. He was happy to be a bass player. Marybeth smiled at him and said, “You’re a great bass player.”
The boy came running up to Turk and Marybeth, sand flying. He pulled an envelope out of his shorts and handed it to Turk. “This for you, mister.”
Turk took the envelope, his hand shaking. “Who gave it to you?”
The boy shrugged. “You want beer, mister?”
Turk stared at the envelope. He didn’t want to open it. He looked at the boy. “Bring two.”
Turk reached into his pocket and handed the boy a hundred baht. The boy turned and took off running. Marybeth looked at Turk.
“Is it from them?”
“Has to be.”
Turk still didn’t open it. He sat there, trembling.
“They might be watching. You should probably open it.”
Turk heaved a sigh. “I need a beer.”
He stared out at the horizon, watching soft waves whisper in off the Andaman Sea.
“Hard to believe that they had a tsunami here.”
Marybeth was impatient. “You want me to open it?”
…
Captain Somporn realized he wasn’t dealing with the brightest bulb on the planet, so he had made his instructions to Turk as simple as possible. An inflatable boat with a motor and a GPS positioning device was going to be waiting for Turk on the beach near the hotel at four o’clock. He was supposed to use the GPS and drive the boat about twelve miles north to a secluded cove surrounded by mangroves. There he would find a date palm with a red bandanna tied on the trunk. He would leave the suitcase with the money next to the tree and return to the hotel. Once the money was counted, Sheila would be released in town.
The only tricky part, Somporn knew, was navigating through the overgrown mangroves without getting lost. The GPS should lead him to the spot without any problems. But if he took too long it would get dark. This complicated the drop—and Turk’s safe return to the resort—but it gave Somporn and his men some protection. If Turk had gone to the Thai police, any sea or air support they might muster would be useless at night.
Somporn hoped Turk would follow the plan and not try anything clever. He’d hate to have to kill Sheila.
…
Ben sat in a chair on the beach, watching Turk and Marybeth read the message from the terrorists. He had a beach bag next to him, his waterproof boots, fatigues, gear, gun, and grenade all tucked inside and covered by a towel and a tube of sunscreen. A topless woman—judging from her straight blond hair and perfect teeth she was probably Norwegian—came strolling by. Ben’s eyes followed her briefly, before he reminded himself of his mission. He turned back toward Turk and Marybeth. He could hang out with topless Norwegians when he was a millionaire.
…
Turk looked at Marybeth. “I’m hungry. Feel like lunch?”
Marybeth shook her head. “I’m going to take a shower.
I’m stinky.”
Turk stood up. “That’s just part of your charm. I’ll meet you back here at three-thirty. If you see Clive, tell him what the deal is.”
Marybeth gave him a reassuring smile. “Okey dokey.”
Turk turned and walked up the stairs, toward the restaurant on the terrace overlooking the pool. Uncharacteristically, he didn’t bother looking at the dozen or so topless women arrayed around the pool like a Nordic smorgasbord.
He waied to the Thai hostess and she dutifully led him to a table. It was a nice table, with a view of the pool and the ocean beyond it, the hard cobalt of the sky and the shifting azure of the ocean contrasting and blending, all framed by coconut palms and dotted by fluffy white clouds and topless Scandinavians. Turk had barely had time to look at the menu when Ben Harding walked up to him.
“Mr. Henry. May I join you?”
Turk nodded. “Any news? Or do you want to show me another dead body?”
Ben tried not to snap. “I’m sorry if I upset you, Mr. Henry. But nobody ever said fighting terrorism was pleasant.”
“You keep saying they’re terrorists.”
“I think the statements the other hostages made were conclusive.”
“What do you mean? They said they were lost in the woods.”
“That, as you might have guessed, was what we wanted the world to hear. Trust me, their debriefing was conclusive about the fact that, whether you like it or not, we’re dealing with an international terrorist organization.”
Turk didn’t respond.
“But we haven’t stopped working. We’re exhausting all the possibilities. My team in Bangkok has been on it twenty-four-seven.”
He looked Turk right in the eye, using a technique they’d taught him in interrogation class. Ben was hoping Turk would confide in him, tell him what the plan was, give him some kind of inkling about when things were going to go down. It was difficult to do a round-the-clock surveillance without a team of operatives covering from a variety of angles. Any little hint—a time, a place, a tiny tidbit of information—would make it that much easier for Ben to follow Turk and kill him.
“How about you? Any word? Have the terrorists tried to contact you?”
Turk felt the message from the kidnappers burning a hole in his pants pocket. He wondered why Ben was so curious about the terrorists all of a sudden. He hadn’t bothered to ask before. Did it mean that he knew what was going on? The last thing Turk wanted was more interference from the U.S. government.
“Nope. Not a peep.”
Ben could tell by the way Turk’s pupils dilated when he answered the question that he was lying. Not that he needed any more confirmation than what he’d already witnessed. A waitress came over and Turk ordered a papaya stuffed with blue crab salad and green mango.
“Hungry?”
Ben shook his head. “I’ve got a lot of work to do. Trying to get your wife back.”
“You told me she was probably floating in the bay.”
Ben looked a little sheepish, like a kid caught lying. “I—honestly, Mr. Henry, I don’t know. We don’t know. Anything is possible at this point.”
“You made me go to a morgue.”
“I needed you to ID a body. I’m sorry—I know it wasn’t pleasant, but it was necessary. Just like it would be necessary for you to tell me if the terrorists contact you, as I’m positive they will, if they haven’t already.”
Turk felt a surge of conflicting emotions jolt through his body. He wanted to laugh at Ben and at the same time he wanted to pile-drive his fist into Ben’s soft pink face. He looked down and saw that his right hand was clenched in a tight fist, the knuckles white. He shook it off. It wouldn’t do any good to punch the guy. Probably end up
in Siberia or Romania, or worse, with a lawsuit to settle and an unflattering mention in People magazine. Turk took a breath. He thought about his therapist. Keep cool. Breathe. Try and detach from the urge. Don’t let your emotions push you to do something you’d regret later, like strangling the ICE asshole sitting across the table from you. Turk finally spoke, measuring his words carefully.
“I appreciate your concern. If any terrorist tries to contact me, you’ll be the first to know.”
“This isn’t easy for anyone, Mr. Henry.”
Turk nodded. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t easy to keep from telling this guy to go fuck himself, despite the consequences of whatever the Patriot Act might bring.
“What about my money?”
Ben felt a shudder run through his body. He’d grown so used to thinking of the money as his that he felt a sudden shock of jealousy. Ben had been hoping that Turk would forget about the money. Wouldn’t that be easiest? Couldn’t Turk just give him the money?
“Your money?”
“Yeah, remember? The million bucks you impounded?”
“Oh.” Ben nodded. “Don’t worry. It’s safe.”
“You’ve got it?”
“ICE has it.”
“Well, how could I pay the terrorists if you’ve got the money?”
Ben sighed. “Mr. Henry. We’re not stupid. We know that you’ve got resources. Don’t mess with the United States government.”
Turk couldn’t help himself—he laughed in his face. “Go fuck yourself.”
Ben bristled. “What?”
“Fuck off.”
That wasn’t how you talk to the authorities. Maybe you could tell a Land Rover customer service rep to fuck off, maybe you could even tell a helicopter repairman that. But that’s not what you say to America’s first line of defense. No one tells them to fuck off. It isn’t patriotic.
“I understand that you’re under considerable stress, but I don’t think that’s the way to talk to someone who is trying to resolve your case.”
Turk considered that. “You’re right. It’s probably not the way to talk to someone like you. But I can’t help it. So, fuck off.”
Ben looked at Turk. The conversation was, apparently, over. Ben stood up. “You’ll regret that.”
Turk didn’t blink. “I doubt it.”
…
Marybeth didn’t shower right away. She sat on the bed in her little bungalow, picked up her cell phone, and called Wendy in Bangkok. Marybeth wasn’t sure what she’d say to Wendy. What was there to say? Did Wendy feel the same way about her? Or was Wendy just a really superb hooker who fulfilled her client’s fantasies? But Marybeth had felt a connection. It wasn’t just sexual, it was bigger than that—big, fresh, unfamiliar, and unsettling. Marybeth didn’t know what it was exactly that she was feeling, but whatever it was, it was there. Living and breathing and growing inside her.
Wendy answered, and when her voice came on the line, Marybeth hesitated. For a split second she considered hanging up the phone and never calling again.
Just hit “delete.”
Falling in love is a scary thing, especially when it packs a surprise, suggests something you’d never imagined about yourself, like maybe you could be in love with a prostitute from Bangkok. But the sound of Wendy’s voice made Marybeth’s heart leap.
“Hey. It’s me.”
“Marybeth. I was hoping you’d call.”
That did it. Marybeth was overwhelmed by the wave of genuine affection and excitement she felt coming through the phone.
“I said I would.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Can you come down here? Please? It’s not that far and I’ll pay for your ticket.”
“Are you all right?”
“I just wish you were here.”
Marybeth couldn’t believe what she was saying, but she couldn’t stop herself, it just came out of her in a big sloppy blurt.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
There was a pause on the line. Marybeth cringed. She couldn’t believe she’d just said that; maybe she’d blown it. But it was exactly what Wendy was hoping to hear.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
…
Wendy hung up her phone and smiled. She had just received the phone call that every prostitute dreams about. A rich American was in love with her. Of course, normally it was some middle-aged man, lonely and desperate for some companionship, who would take the lucky girl back to Michigan or some other exotic place and marry her. Wendy didn’t mind that a woman was in love with her. She took it as a compliment. Besides, sex was sex, it didn’t really matter who it was with as long as it put food on the table. Wendy was practical that way. Although she had to admit that she enjoyed having sex with Marybeth. Usually she had no feeling about it one way or the other.
She went to the window in her tiny apartment and looked out at the jumbled-up architecture of the city. Power lines were strung along the alleyway next to her building like spaghetti, and several small stores spilled out below them. There was constant noise from the traffic and the small motorcycle repair shop, smells of charcoal and grilling meat from the satay stand, and the almost nonstop blare of Thai pop music from the little kiosk on the corner. For someone who worked nights and tried to sleep during the day, it was far from ideal. She realized, with a wry smile, that she wouldn’t miss this view.
Wendy opened the door of her armoire and looked at her clothes. She didn’t have a lot. She’d come to the city with just a change of clothes and, except for the see-through dresses she wore when she worked at the club, she had added only a few blouses and slacks. Hanging in the back of the armoire Wendy saw the yellow and orange silk dress she’d worn for her first performance at the Ram Thai Academy.
She’d come from the provinces; her parents raised ducks by a small lake surrounded by rice fields. They lived near the ruins of Sukhothai, a massive city that had risen amidst the rolling hills in the thirteenth century. The ruins were a popular tourist destination, and Wendy had been plucked from school at a young age to learn the intricacies of khon, the traditional Thai dance. Wendy was graceful and athletic and she enjoyed learning the postures, steps, and hand gestures. By the time she was eleven she was one of the lead dancers performing at the Loy Krathong, the festival to mark the end of the rainy season and the beginning of the rice harvest.
A teacher at the academy in Bangkok had seen her perform at the Loy Krathong and offered her a scholarship.
But life in Bangkok was hard and there were not a lot of jobs available, even for a graduate of the academy and a gifted khon dancer, and it was only a few years before she began working as a go-go dancer in nightclubs and bars along Soi Cowboy. One thing led to another, as it almost always does, and Wendy soon found herself employed as a very successful, highly paid prostitute.
She was ready for a change.
…
Fuck ICE. Fuck Homeland Security. That’s right.
Turk found himself shaking with anger as he tried to finish his lunch. All this time he’d played it cool, tried to be a reasonable, helpful guy, and then the ICE man cometh, getting up in his face, trying to sweat him. Fuck him.
Turk flagged down the waitress and ordered a beer. He needed something to calm his pounding heart. Something to distract his brain from all the fucking bullshit he’d been putting up with since Sheila disappeared.
The beer arrived and Turk downed it in a couple greedy guzzles. He nodded for another. Did the ICE agent know that the kidnappers had contacted him? Or was he just fishing?
Turk replayed the scene in his head. He couldn’t help but smile when he got to the part where he told the guy to fuck off. That felt good. He wished he’d told Steve to fuck off when Steve was pissing and moaning about how the band wasn’t fulfilling his “artistic vision.” He wished he’d told Bruno to fuck off when he said that Turk had to play the bass a certain way. Maybe the band would still be together if he hadn’t let them walk all over him. Maybe they�
�d still be together if he’d just told them to fuck off every now and then. At least they would’ve treated him with a little more respect.
In fact, the more he thought about it the more Turk realized that he should’ve been telling people to fuck off for years. Maybe even his whole life. Like the high school football coach who told him he couldn’t be on the team unless he cut his hair. That guy deserved it. But instead of telling the coach to fuck off, Turk cut his hair and watched pathetically as Carrie Parsley—the girl with the best tits in the eleventh grade—dumped him for a guy with long hair and a motorcycle. Turk had never really had a steady girlfriend since then. If he’d told the coach to fuck off, maybe he’d still be with Carrie Parsley. Or maybe he would’ve told her to fuck off, too. Once you get the ball rolling, well, who knows who you’ll tell to fuck off. Turk realized that the power of saying “fuck off” had a dark side, a side that found you beaten to death or locked up in jail. As with all powerful things, the “fuck off” had to be used responsibly.
But if he had employed these magic words a few times in his life he wouldn’t have been stepped on, used as a doormat; the guy in the back playing the bass who let everyone else make the big decisions and get all the fame and glory. Not that Turk didn’t have some fame and glory, but nothing like Steve and Bruno’s.
Turk let out a long, low, crab-scented belch, and the riff came to him. An insistent low rumble tumbling through his head, the bass line for another new song. There were lyrics, too: a story of standing up and empowering yourself. He’d call it: “Fuck the Man in Charge.”
Turk realized that the song would never be played on the radio, and that they’d have to sticker the CD with “Parental Advisory” labels, but it made him want to stand up and sing at the top of his lungs.
“Fuck the man in charge! Come on!”
Fifteen
TOKYO
Takako Mitsuzake spoke quickly into her cell phone.
“Gotta go. My flight’s boarding.”
She snapped the phone shut and handed her boarding pass to the flight attendant. She was lucky to be on the flight—first-class to Phuket, with a brief layover in Bangkok.
She sat by the window, her tiny body almost getting lost in the first-class chair, and went through the list of editors and reporters she’d put together and stored on her Treo. She was excited, energized. It was a juicy story; there’d already been a couple of deaths related to the kidnapping—bodies abandoned by a shopping center, floating in a swamp—and nothing sells like a mix of celebrity, murder, and terrorism. News of this magnitude had to be handled carefully—let’s face it, it wasn’t every day that the supermodel wife of a rock star was kidnapped, much less rescued by that same rock star. She wanted to maximize the exposure but at the same time control it. It wouldn’t be any good to anyone if the news landed on the back page of some random newspaper. She didn’t want Reuters or the Associated Press to put the story out over the wire. This had to be placed on the front cover of US Weekly, People, Rolling Stone, and any number of other glossy magazines. That would be the initial wave. Then feature stories in the serious media. Maybe an exclusive interview with Vanity Fair. Lastly, when interest had ebbed, she’d leak private photos to select Web sites around the world. She’d already contracted a photographer she knew from Singapore—he did fashion shoots for Hong Kong Vogue and slick publications in Tokyo—and he was meeting her in Phuket.
Salty: A Novel Page 18