Then it is in Tuki’s hand, and she is standing over the men. She is pointing the gun at Prem. He weeps softly.
“Come on, Michael!”
He staggers to his feet, looks around for a pool of blood to see who has been shot. But there is no blood. Unbelievable.
While Tuki holds the gun on Prem with one hand, she looks him in the eyes and holds up the index finger of her other hand as if telling him to wait. She says something quietly to him in Thai. Prem closes his eyes, tears still flowing.
“He didn’t kill Alby … but he told me who did.”
FIFTY
She is walking aimlessly on the sand flats by the cottages in the East End. It is just a couple of days after she gave that thug Joey his blow job in the back of a Lear jet. She is sick with shame. She’s wearing nothing but a pair of daisy print panties, when here comes Nikki just about out of breath in her sweaty gray sports bra, pink shorts, and Nikes.
“Where did you come from, la?” she asks. Her voice full of Vietnam, Delta and Brandy.
“When you didn’t show up for breakfast at the Lodge the last couple of days, I know something is wrong. So today I just came looking. It took me a while to find you, but I know how much you love water so … here we are.”
“Yeah,” Tuki smiles, “here we are, padruga.” She is almost brain dead at this point, but her heart is suddenly feeling big as a song.
The tide is out. They walk on the sand flats at the edge of the water all afternoon without seeing anything but crabs scuttling around, gulls digging for clams, sandpipers running back and forth ahead of little waves. Nikki peels to her panties, too. It is as hot as the beaches of Pattaya and Hua Hin. They do not have any sunscreen. So their bodies are just soaking in the ultraviolets. Tuki is starting to turn as black as her daddy, but she is not even caring.
She tells Nikki, unless some miracle takes place, she is out of here. Like on that midnight train to Georgia. Where ever Georgia is. After that she will regroup. Maybe head for Rio. She hears there is a lot of work for showgirls in Brazil.
“Don’t leave me, padruga!”
“How can I not?” Her chest is already aching with the thought of leaving Nikki and the Follies and her nest at Number Three.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way … but swallow some pride, like the rest of us. Alby protects you from Immigration. And a lot more. Just swallow your pride.”
She wonders what does a girl have if she does not have pride in herself? But right now she is thinking she swallowed every last drop of pride on the Lear jet to Montreal.
She knows what Nikki is talking about here … the escort service that supposedly would make no demands on her when she bagged into Shangri-La. The escort service that just initiated her into the Mile-High Club. If anybody but Nikki hit her with this proposition, she might spit in her face. Tuki has been down this road before, and there is not much along the way that she does not spell “H-O.”
But she thinks, maybe if Nikki can do it, so can she. And what is the alternative? A close encounter with Immigration and a swift trip back to Bangkok in handcuffs to face the mess she left behind?
She lets Nikki work out the details for the date. After the show a limo pulls up outside the Follies and honks two quick beats. The girls start down the steps in evening wear. They are not in show costumes, but they are still putting on the doll. Nikki is looking seriously seductive with deep plum lips and nails to match a long jersey dress of the same color. Black onyx pendants at her ears. She must be wearing four-inch heels because she is almost as tall as Tuki. And she has ditched her falsies from the show for a Miracle bra that actually gives her some cleavage. Her short hair is slicked back with gel, a racy look.
Simple elegance is the name of the game, and tonight Tuki has it in spades. She’s wearing a green and red kimono left over from her M Butterfly days in Bangkok. Her hair is pinned up in a French twist with a golden comb to hold it all together.
Stepping out into the streetlights, Tuki scans the scene. The chauffeur opening the passenger door in the limo is, as usual, the brother Justin.
When the girls are in the back, Nikki presses the call button to speak to Justin.
“How much are they paying for this masquerade?”
“Four bones a girl.”
Nikki whistles: “I guess they think somebody’s going to get laid. Crank the jazz, Justin.”
“Loud!” say Tuki, because she does not want to think about what is coming.
The men are waiting at a fancy East End restaurant that looks out on the bay from a little bluff above the beach. So maybe Tuki is a little impressed by the setting, half forgetting that this is a job until she see the dates.
They are not track-star types like Justin. But Jean—”Johnny”—Gauthier is about six feet five, thin, rangy, very sophisticated looking in a tux, with a deep tan, buzz cut, heavy two-day shadow, and one pearl ear stud. The guy gives off vibes like some kind of cross between Tommy Lee Jones and James Bond. He is in his late forties, and he kisses each of their hands when he meets them.
The second beau is Alby. All buffed up for a night of cheating on Silver.
“Oh no!” says Tuki.
“I swear I didn’t know,” whispers Nikki. “But help me out, padruga. He’s got me in a bind.”
Dinner goes by in a rush of Nikki’s funny stories and laughter about escaping from Russia in a shipping crate. The next thing Tuki knows, a motorized launch is carrying them out into the harbor to a gigantic black sailboat named Diana. It is bigger than the Lodge at Shangri-La, with all kinds of cabins, acres of oiled wood, polished brass, and a sound system to kill for.
There is a Jacuzzi built right into the deck, and all four end up here at one thirty in the morning, wearing matching red bikini bottoms, compliments of the ship.
Alby has made it clear from his greeting kiss on her neck that he wants to make up. Let bygones be bygones. He still has a crush on her.
Everybody but Tuki is pointing out constellations in the dark. She is thinking this escort gig is way more loaded with danger than getting deported. When you lose to Immigration, you just get shipped overseas in handcuffs. When you lose at the escort business, no one ever finds your body. What the hell is Alby holding over Nikki? Why does she not just split? Take her chances with the INS?
And why is Tuki still here? She is ho-ing herself again and spitting in the face of everything Brandy and Delta ever taught her about personal pride. Is this about more than helping out a friend? Is this about getting even? Maybe. People in Bangkok know: she is not real good with betrayal.
She waits for the first time he leans close through all of the foam and tries to give her a kiss behind the ear before she strikes.
As soon as his nose breaks into her personal space, she swings her face around to catch both his eyes in hers and says, “Tell me about Silver!”
His hairy chest heaves. She hears him choke.
Nikki winces.
The French guy actually laughs.
“Did I say something wrong, la?” Her perfect little Miss Saigon voice. Alby purses his lips and sighs, “Silver is a problem I came here to forget, Tuki.”
“Sorry.”
Nikki gives a desperate look like, “Chill, padruga.”
Tuki says she is boiling, pops out of the spa, grabs a robe, scoots to the front of the boat. There is a light wind blowing here. She is letting it dry her hair while she fluffs it with her hands … and waits to see if Alby will follow her.
He does, with champagne for both of them.
“I heard Immigration has been asking Richie some questions at the Follies.”
“What?”
She does not like his tone of voice. It is sharp, sarcastic. “Do not even start this, la. I need you to really listen to me, not be up in my face.”
He sits down on the deck, cups his hands together, blows a deep breath into them. Then he pulls a big cigar out of his robe pocket, sniffs it, starts working it in and out of his mouth.
&nbs
p; “Maybe I feel a little hurt right now, Starbright. You just tried to make a fool of me.”
“You took advantage of me.”
“Like you had nothing to do with it? You made love to the idea … and then you made love to me!”
She feels something burst behind her shoulders like a dam.
“You had all the power. Always. The job, the house, the parties. Maybe you even put something in my drink that first night when you took me to your bedroom. And after you had your way with me, you passed me off to your pal Joey. You big greasy puu jaa. You, you”—she is searching for the English words—”stuffed crab!”
Then she is crying. And all of the time she is crying, she knows that these tears are not really for what has gone down between Alby and her. Or even for the game of cat and mouse she has been playing with the INS for the last five years. She is crying for other things, things back in Bangkok that her heart just cannot get into right now.
She leaves him sitting there sucking on his cheroot. Goes back to the hot tub and tells Nikki she wants to leave. Forget the four bones. To hell with his Brando voice, head massages from his magic fingers. His lies about Vietnam.
“Are you crazy?” Nikki is straddling the French guy’s lap. Her face looks torn between pleasure and terror. Sex in the bubbles. “Don’t do this, Tuki!”
“I want to go.”
“You have no idea what he can do. He can just squash us. Just tear you up in little pieces and—” “Ya ti ton pai kon khai.”
“What?”
“I’ll deal with the fever when it comes.”
“But what about me?”
FIFTY-ONE
“I cannot believe it was Nikki, la. Sweet Nikki. She is the last person to ever hurt …”
“But he said he saw her?” The rental Jeep is winding its way back toward Nantucket Town and the Jared Coffin House. The fog still has not lifted. The air is cold and wet. Inhaling feels like drowning.
“That is what he told me. I have it all on the tape. He saw Nikki. He said he was standing outside the dressing room at the Follies after the show that night. Waiting for me. He could not accept that it was all over for us. He could not accept that I had turned my back on him and left him standing on a pier. But then he saw Alby go in the dressing room. Heard us fighting, my crying, my apologies, my kisses. It was too much, and he dragged himself outside in the alley to shoot up more pung chao.
“He was leaning against the dumpster, all but lost in a dream, when he heard me shouting at Alby. He saw me run out of the Painted Lady in my robe and disappear in the fog on the beach. That is just how it was. So he was there.
“A few minutes after he saw me disappear into the fog, Alby came down the alley from the Follies, swearing and kicking up clouds of dust with his feet. He went into his office. Turned on the lights. He started shouting. Like he was having a conversation with himself … in different voices. Real angry. This goes on for about five minutes. Then Nikki shows up and goes into the office. More shouting. Smashing of furniture. Then the light goes out. Alby cries out like he is hurt. The next thing you know, the entire office just bursts into flames, la. The light is blinding, and Prem scuttles away to crash under a pier.”
Michael takes her hand. It feels dry and cold. “You are still in love with him, aren’t you? That’s what you told him this morning. That’s how you got him to talk. Just tell me the truth so I can have a little clarity.”
“I do not know, Michael. I do not know if I still love him. I do not think it is love anymore. He haunts me. I cannot ever quite put him out of my mind. But this is useless to talk about. You saw him. You have touched him. You know. He is just skin and bones. He will be dead soon. It is what he wants. And it makes me so sad. All he wanted was for someone to love him, for his parents to …”
She pauses, then adds something odd for her, something dark. “The Buddha is right. Life is suffering.”
“Are you okay?”
She leans across the console between the bucket seats and puts her head on his shoulder. “Please hold me.”
He wraps his right arm around her and draws her body to his chest. “What were you two fighting about back there at his house?” She raises her head and kisses his neck. “You.” He shivers.
Her eyes look up, trying to read his face. “Now what do we do?”
“Call the police,” he says. He is not sure he is really answering her question.
Tuki draws back into her own seat and stares ahead into the fog. “Do you think Nikki set me up?”
“We have to find her.”
FIFTY-TWO
“So now you want to talk. Now you want my help. It’s Saturday, my day off, Rambo. If you weren’t here, I’d be out fishing!”
He cannot believe it. What bum luck! Of all the cops who might get the nod on this, they have to draw the same state dick who was working the shooting at Number Three. The wiry, middle-aged Italian, Votolatto. And here at the West Yarmouth barracks, he is on his home turf.
“This is important. We know who the shooter was, we have proof that Tuki did not kill Costelano or set the fire. We have hard evidence.”
Tuki pulls the tape recorder out of her handbag and puts it on the metal desk in the interview room.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a tape of the shooter’s confession about his attack at Shangri-La the other night. More important, it tells what he witnessed right before Big Al took a knife in the gut and the fire started.”
“No fucking way! How’d you get this?”
Tuki and Michael exchange looks. He gives her a nod.
“I went to visit him. His parents have a house on Nantucket Island. He talked to me. It is all here. He saw the killer go into Alby’s office. He heard the fight. He saw the fire start, la.”
“You can stop with this ‘la’ shit any time now, doll. It’s driving me crazy. Who is this guy? The killer?”
“No. The shooter from the other night in Truro. His name is Prem Kittikatchorn.”
The detective squints at Michael like, “Who’s asking you, buddy?”
Tuki squirms in her seat. Stares at her hands in her lap.
“Long lost boyfriend from Bangkok.”
“Oh, Christ! How long have you been here, Tuki?”
“Here?”
“The U. S. of A. Freaking America.”
“About five years.”
“I don’t get it. Some guy from Thailand comes to see you after five years and just starts shooting. What the hell’s he after?”
Michael pulls himself up to the table, assertive. “It is a domestic issue. Kind of complicated. He has been stalking her. I have the number of a detective in Bangkok you can call if—”
“Shut the fuck up, Rambo. I know about the Thai dick; I’ve been in touch with our illustrious D. A. I’m talking to the doll. Did you invite this shooter, Tuki? Did you call him to get you out of a scrape with Costelano? Did he whack the big guy for you, is that what happened? Now you going to give him up?”
She’s wearing a sleeveless sundress, feels the air conditioner and the cop getting to her. Gives a little shiver. Smiles nervously. Shakes her head no.
“Then here’s what I’m thinking. This turd Costelano got you roped into his escort service. You couldn’t get out. He threatened you. You fought with the guy. Took him out with his own knife. Torched his place. Then when you get your ass in a sling with the law, you phone this old boy back in Bangkok, some kind of Thai wise guy. You call in the cavalry, so to speak. Because you got a lawyer who don’t know shit from Shinola and—”
“Hey, hey! Watch yourself. You can’t talk to us like—”
“Bite me, Rambo! This is my case. You come in here stirring up a hornets’ nest on my day off with a lot of nonsense about a taped confession, an eyewitness account. You take what you get. Now, you’re going to let your client talk to me, or am I going to slap you with obstruction of justice. Which is it, counselor?”
“Why don’t you just listen to the tape.�
�
“You. Didn’t I just ask you to shut the fuck up?” He is pointing his finger at Michael, doing a kind of Robert DeNiro routine.
Michael raises his hands in front of him. Sits back in his chair. No problem.
“Now, Tuki, tell me, did the shooter get gun-happy the other night ‘cause he saw you chilling with Rambo here? Is that how it was? You’re still in love with the shooter, aren’t you? That’s why you wouldn’t give him up the other night? So what’s changed? College boy here poking you now? Is that it?”
Tuki is almost in tears, Michael is on the edge of his seat again. His eyes are burning holes in the cop.
“Jesus Christ, detective. She comes in here of her own free will to give you key evidence that will break this case wide open for you. You ignore the evidence and proceed to bully her. What kind of professional do you call yourself?”
“One who’s not porking his client, counselor. One who is just trying to get a feel for the dynamics surrounding this miraculous appearance of exculpatory evidence. Get it?”
The detective picks up the little tape recorder on the table. Studies it for a few seconds, trying to figure out how you make the thing play.
“It’s the green button,” says Michael.
“Shut up, Rambo.”
Votolatto pushes the button. For several seconds there is nothing but the sound of static. Then foot steps. A door unlocking. Door swinging open. A man’s voice says something in Thai. The voice is haggard, faint. Tuki’s voice responds. More Thai. Emotive. The sound of sighs, a hug, possible little kisses. Thai again. Him and her. The dialogue sounds like a soap opera playing from a distant room. You cannot understand a thing.
Oh hell, thinks Michael. He can feel his cheeks starting to burn. How could he have forgotten they would be speaking Thai?
For five minutes the tape runs on and on like this. Thai. The detective staring at the squeaking machine on the metal table.
Provincetown Follies, Bangkok Blues (Cape Island Mystery) Page 19