On The Run

by J. M. Parker

  “I doubt that.”

  “No, you are right,” said the Frenchman. “It is a different place. A very different place indeed.”

  6

  He found the Frenchman stretching on the balcony, his palms and soles flattened on the floor, his back arched toward a cloudless sky. Sweat glistened off his body as an airy opera played on a stylish record player. “Bannon,” said the Frenchman, holding his stretch, “how are you feeling this morning?”

  “Been better.”

  The Frenchman nodded his head at a table. “Have a drink.”

  Bannon moved over to the table where a lavish collection of juices sat beside mini bottles of booze. He loaded a generous scoop of ice into a tall glass, poured grapefruit juice over it, and finished the drink with a little splash of vodka.

  The Frenchman chuckled. “How do you say? The hair of the dog that bit you?”

  “Something like that,” said Bannon, slumping into a deck chair and looking out at a half-constructed tower block. A combination of steel and bamboo scaffolding ran up its sides and workers dangled from it on precarious-looking rigs. “You ain’t feeling it?”

  “A little,” said the Frenchman, walking his feet forward and extending upward into yet another stretch, “but, there is no time for that. A brief lunch, then off to meet an old friend.”

  “Maybe I’ll just rest up today.”

  “Nonsense,” said the Frenchman, stretching an arm behind his head. “You are the subject of the meeting.”

  *

  Bannon forked food around his plate as the Frenchman buttered a scone and ordered another drink. “The girls in that place,” said the Frenchman. “They fucked me senseless; I had to stretch this morning. Still I ache, but, oh, what an ache.” To their left a woman scoffed and then ushered her friends to different table. The Frenchman raised his voice. “Everyone’s doing it, yet no one wants to talk about it.” he took a bite from his scone as a waiter brought his cocktail. “It is strange, no?”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Sex,” said the Frenchman, the women looking distastefully in his direction. “Even here, in the carnal center of the world, we find ourselves embarrassed by it. The irresistible taboo, pushed off to the darker corners of the city, left for the ’wretches’ to search it out. We pretend it does not nag at our own conscious, and oh! the shame we feel at all those nasty little thoughts, all those dirty secrets we keep. And why? Why do we do it? Deny our lustful hearts, try and rationalize our fantasies, hide from them, repress them. Because we are told it is dirty? Because we are deemed unclean?”

  Bannon shrugged. “You tell people something long enough, takes some work to convince them otherwise.”

  “Oh of course, sweet form and decorum. It’s all right before our eyes and yet we stare so blindly at it, pretending we don’t crave it so.” Across the room the women rose and left as the Frenchman resumed his speech.

  Bannon threw his arms up in protest as he tried to quiet the Frenchman. “Christ man, now you’ve gone and done it, you even got me embarrassed.”

  The Frenchman laughed, leaning back in his chair as a pair of men walked into the restaurant, each dressed in neat, beige suits. “Celebrating something?” said the taller one, looking over the cocktails on the table.

  “Oui,” said the Frenchman. “We have come from the north.”

  “The north?” said the second man, and Bannon detected an American accent. “What were you doing there?”

  “An excavation. An archaeological dig.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Ancient Khmer ruins. Tell them, mon ami.”

  “That’s right. Thirsty work, too,” said Bannon, pointing to the empty glasses on the table.

  “Looks like it,” said the tall one, his waxed hair shining in the light of the restaurant. “What’s the drink?”

  The Frenchman raised his glass. “Vodka over lime—vodka for the head, a splash of lime for the fiber?”

  The men laughed. “Smart,” said the shorter one. “I guess I’ll take one too, wouldn’t mind hearing more about that dig.” the two men sat at the adjacent table and the taller one made the introductions. “Alan Spectre,” he said, placing a hand on his chest. “And this is my colleague, Nathaniel Hawkes.” Hawkes ordered a round of cocktails and the two men sat listening as the Frenchman launched into a long speech about the indigenous peoples of the land, the ascension of the Thai population, and the great significance of the discovery of Ban Chiang.

  When he finished Bannon turned to the men. “And what brings you folks to Bangkok?”

  “We work in real estate, got an office here, plenty of opportunity, all kinds of people coming this way.”

  “True,” said the Frenchman, eyeing his watch.

  Spectre seemed to notice. “Anyway, best not be keeping you any longer.” the two men rose, shaking hands with Bannon and the Frenchman before they exited the restaurant.

  “You ain’t one for little white lies, are you?” said Bannon.

  The Frenchman didn’t answer. He sat looking at the exit, a curious expression on his face.

  “Everything alright?”

  The Frenchman turned back to him and the look vanished. “Of course. Everything is splendid.”

  *

  They exited the hotel into the blinding afternoon sun, squinting through the light and seeing Spectre and Hawkes smoking cigarettes in the shade of a large palm. They waved at them and the Frenchman returned the gesture. A hotel car drove around to the front of the building and the driver asked where to. “The nearest taxi rank,” said the Frenchman.

  At the taxi rank Bannon followed as the Frenchman moved deeper into the rows of vehicles. A blind man trod through the crowd, cane in one hand and a basket in the other. A portable radio was strung around his neck and the familiar sounds of Danny Boy drifted across the rank as he wandered by them. Bannon slowed, reaching for his wallet, but the Frenchman pulled him on. “Don’t attract any attention.”

  “You sure everything is alright?”

  “Of course, a precaution, nothing more,” said the Frenchman, settling on a taxi and ducking quickly inside. He gave another address and the taxi coughed to life, rolling from the lot in a line of other cabs.

  They drove through the city for almost an hour, the traffic wrestling with itself, scooters massed in rusty packs, their engines humming as they swarmed about the road. “So, what does your friend do?” said Bannon.

  “Soon enough,” said the Frenchman, barely acknowledging the question as he looked from car to car.

  The taxi turned from the main road, tracking the canal as buildings stretched higher into the sky, sun shimmering from their polished rows of glass. The Frenchman threw up a hand and the cab slowed. “We can walk the rest of the way.” they exited and the Frenchman led them briskly along the waterfront. At the end of a street the Frenchman halted, throwing searching looks up and down the road. “This way,” he said.

  They moved into the street and the Frenchman pointed to a two-story building, bamboo trim running up its sides, an expansive balcony shading the entrance. Bannon scanned the balcony. A couple of portly Thais reclined in cushioned chairs, flanked by a pair of gorgeous girls who waved giant paper fans about the customers. “Another ’massage parlor’?” said Bannon.

  The Frenchman grinned, about to answer, when a group of boys appeared from behind the building, their bony bodies showing through the holes in their ratty clothes. The boys sprinted for them, their hands outstretched. “It seems no arrival goes unnoticed,” said the Frenchman, reaching into a pocket and removing a handful of tiny, tinfoil squares. He tossed them into the air, the wrappers flashing like jewels in the sun as they fell to the sidewalk. The kids pounced on them immediately, gathering them up with greedy little hands.

  “That candy?” said Bannon.

  The Frenchman shrugged, “What else?”

  They reached the building and pushed through an enormous set of doors to find a glorious lounge stretching out before the
m. Customers lay on large sofas, their faces tired and vacant as more girls moved around them, their slender bodies covered with elegant silk robes. They dipped their heads gracefully toward the Frenchman and he winked and smiled in their direction. He ushered Bannon through the lounge and on to the back wall, where a tortoiseshell dragon stared menacingly out across the room. The Frenchmen stopped in front of the painting and Bannon watched as he knocked on its surface. The wall swung back, revealing a descending flight of stairs. They headed down, Bannon turning back as he heard the wall click shut behind them. “What kind of place is this?”

  At the foot of the stairs they found another door, an ornate wooden construct with a jailers-style window cut into the top of it. The flap swung open and a face appeared momentarily before the flap shut and the door opened. A frail-looking Chinaman stepped into view, a braided moustache sweeping across the top of his lip and descending down to the middle of his chest. His face broke into a yellow-toothed grin and he stooped into a deep bow, his moustache sweeping along the ground in front. The Frenchman smiled at the man before he dipped his head with an obvious reverence.

  The Chinaman guided them into the room behind him, ushering them through a dormitory of beds and into a final chamber: Bronze Chinese lettering ran up blood-red walls to a painted ceiling where another dragon, this one six clawed and golden, swam amongst a sea of stars. He directed them to a pair of beds, each situated behind a long wooden table with oil lights sitting on them. The Chinaman sat on the opposite bed, a bottle placed on his table, a scorpion suspended within the amber fluid inside. He said something in Chinese to the Frenchman, who responded in kind before he turned to Bannon. “This, my friend, is Wang Ping.”

  The Chinaman bowed at the utterance of his name and Bannon responded with an awkward bow of his own. Again Wang Ping said something to the Frenchman.

  “Yes, this is him,” said the Frenchman, nodding at Bannon.

  “Me?” said Bannon.

  The Frenchman turned to him. “The favor I am owed. It is time.”

  “What’s the favor?”

  “Delivery,” said Wang Ping.

  “Yes,” said the Frenchman. “A delivery.”

  “What kind?” said Bannon.

  “A big one.”

  “Too big for you?”

  “We need someone unknown, someone who can slip by our enemies without suspicion. A tourist, like yourself.”

  “Enemies,” said Bannon, “I don’t—”

  The Frenchman cut him off. “You asked for a way out. This is it.”

  Bannon sighed, moving to say something, but again the Frenchman interceded. “Trust me, it does us no good to have you killed or captured, the delivery is very valuable to us.” he paused for a moment, staring intently at Bannon before he spoke again. “Our host agrees, you fit the profile, you will be perfectly safe.”

  “And then you’ll get me out the country?”

  “Of course, you will be out for good, the slate will be wiped clean.”

  “Alright,” said Bannon.

  The Frenchman clapped his hands against his thighs. Across the room Wang Ping uncorked the bottle and filled three glasses. The men drank, the fluid burning all the way down, and Bannon coughed fiercely.

  “You like that?” said the Frenchman.

  “Really kicks like a mule.”

  Across the room Wang Ping laughed, speaking again to the Frenchman who grinned at the words.

  “Mr. Ping would like to know if you have ever smoked opium.”

  “Opium?”

  “Oui.”

  “I never have.”

  The Frenchman spoke back to their host and he sprang to his feet, talking excitedly.

  “It would be a great honor to him if you would try some.”

  “Worth it?” said Bannon.

  “Worth it?” said the Frenchman. “It is the finest product. Think a bubble, a womb, yes! a womb. That glorious embryonic comfort,” and he slapped his hand on the table in sudden excitement. “Two pipes.” The Chinaman beamed, moving from the room and returning with two long wooden pipes, the wood etched with more Chinese lettering. At the end of each pipe a metal casing was fixed to the body. He laid them on the table and lit the oil lamps, waiting and watching as the flames intensified. He removed two small, dark balls of opium and he loaded them into the casings before he picked up a pipe and heated the casing over the lamp. The Frenchman did the same and Bannon watched as the metal glowed and reddened.

  Mr. Ping nodded.

  “Like this,” said the Frenchman, laying on his side, pressing his lips to the end of his pipe and taking a long deep breath. His face strained with the effort before he exhaled and smoke flooded the room. “Go ahead,” he said.

  Bannon lay on his side, guiding the mouth of the pipe to his own; he took a hard breath, smoke sucking in one long pull through the pipe and quickly flooding his lungs. He felt a sudden warmth, a lightness, as if buoyed on a hot wind. “Wow,” he said. “That’s some good medicine.”

  The Frenchman laughed. “Oui.”

  Bannon felt a rush of euphoria and he giggled.

  “You know,” said the Frenchman, “the Mayans would journey miles into cave systems, carrying with them a native species of toad.”

  “Toads,” said Bannon, the euphoria intensifying.

  “Yes, toads. They would lick the back of them, inducing a hallucinogenic experience. Then they would study the walls of rock, looking for the faces of gods.”

  “Toads,” said Bannon, the sound of his voice surprising him, and he shook as he tried to stifle his laughter.

  “I am deadly serious,” said the Frenchman.

  Bannon shook with laughter and the Frenchman grinned at the sight of him, raising the pipe back to Bannon’s lips. “Here,” he said, “have some more.”

  Bannon brought his lips back to the pipe and sucked again, the laughter stopping in a huge rush of smoke that sent him coughing into the mattress. He pulled himself up, dizzying quickly; the room spun wildly in one huge rotation and settled down again. Mr. Ping sat across from him, sipping at the whiskey, his face a picture of calm. Smoke rose and spread from the pair of pipes, throwing a great phantasm across the wall. Bannon looked at it. He saw a face, not dissimilar to his own, but with eyeless sockets where light moved like a swarm of bugs. He felt the happiness disappear and he craned his eyes up to the ceiling. The dragon winked, the stars fell in a shimmering blanket. He heard the voice of the Frenchman again. “You could plunge the whole world into the Stone Age, and, off we would go, looking for toads, trying to escape the ordinary.”

  A picture tugged at the ragged edge of his mind. His eyes weakened and he fell sideways onto the mattress, the picture getting stronger: a dark tube, stretching to a distant hole of light. Strange markings lined the interior, he tried to move but he couldn’t, he felt stuck on all sides. Somewhere behind him he heard something click smoothly into place, a pause, and then a deafening bang. He lurched toward the light. He was a bullet launched from the barrel of a gun. The picture took shape as he hurtled at a twisting, snapping shark, striking the flesh in a mushroom cloud of gore. He plunged straight through a crimson tunnel and emerged into the blue abyss of the ocean. His course halted suddenly and he turned back, gazing up to the shadow of a boat, more bullets cutting paths through the water, the shark sinking, a bloody wound showing on its side. It twisted and rolled as it fell deeper into the sea, fish snapping at the entrails it left behind. The sea darkened again as an enormous eel coiled up through the feed and sunk its razor-sharp teeth into the wound. A voice sounded somewhere in the depths, and Bannon strained to listen as the eel tore away a chunk of flesh and blood gushed out into the water.

  The voice rang out again. “You are sure about this?”

  Bannon felt himself blink, the room snapping back into view, the Chinaman standing above him.

  He heard another voice, the Frenchman’s. “Yes.”

  “It is no easy thing,” said the Chinaman.

  Banno
n tried to breathe, the air felt hot and heavy, hard to get ahold of. He heard the Frenchman’s voice again. “I know. And I am sure.”

  The Chinaman shimmered before his eyes, breaking up in a vision of dust and sand; the room disappeared as a long-forgotten place appeared in another dream.

  A door, wind blowing snow beneath the base of it. Bannon sat in front of the fireplace. He heard footsteps approaching, worker’s boots, their rubber soles tapping softly on the steps. The door opened and more snow billowed in, his father followed behind, his face obscured beneath the grimy brow of a cap. He sat to remove his boots, his hands shaking in the cold and struggling with the laces. “Shit,” said the man. “It snows in September and it don’t leave till April.”

  Bannon watched as his father moved toward the fire, the embers flaring as he ran a poker into the coals. He settled into a chair, his outline running dark against the glow of the fire. He coughed into a handkerchief and Bannon hoped there wasn’t blood in it. His father’s chin drooped against his chest, his shadow flickering in the shifting light of the room. He muttered something, the words snagging on the mucus in his throat. He spat into the fire and it hissed. He sank a little deeper into his chair and Bannon edged closer, leaning against the arm of the chair, listening to the rasping snoring of the man. A hand brushed against his cheek, covered with the smell of oil and grease. He looked up, his father’s face still dark beneath the brim of the cap, his lips shining in the lingering light of the fire, slick with another coat of blood.

  7

  Bannon woke in a panic. He rushed out of the bedroom and on to the bathroom. His legs felt numb as he ran and his stomach gurgled fiercely. He wrestled his pants down and sat quickly on the toilet, his shit exploding in a stinging rush against its sides. Sweat ran down his cheeks as the stench spread around the room. He reached for the toilet paper and tried to stand; his legs still felt a little numb and he wobbled as he rose. The last hours of the den were still a fog; he vaguely remembered dozing in the living room of the suite, the Frenchman coming in and out.