“How about in Bangkok?”
“In Bangkok, you can usually find them working in hotels, drinking rice whiskey in a small room alone, hatching plans or pushing a mop around. Singing to themselves and talking to magic trees. Let me think, I saw this old lady the other day, must have been in the west of the city. She heard about my job and started babbling about something she called real black magic, the hotel was called the River View, I think, China Town area: Chareon Krung Road. That should be worth something, brother.”
“Okay, Woody, I know it. You take it easy and if anyone else starts asking you questions,” Joe handed him a card.
“I’ll call you. But on one condition, Joe.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t tell anyone about this meeting; it could be bad for business if you know what I mean? Times are hard. Global meltdown. The white coconuts aren’t falling from the sky like they used to, brother.”
“It’s a deal,” Joe said and made it to the door.
NINETEEN
THE BUS Stop bar and restaurant.
Soi Nana.
An outdoor paved area with potted plants and rustic furniture.
Joe ordered a bottle of water. He was on the second glass by the time a walking stick appeared. The walking stick had a figure attached to it:
Francis.
Joe clicked off a picture of him with the point and shoot. Francis didn’t notice the flash. He didn’t notice much. He moved closer. He had a strong build, muscular; hinting at military training, yet his walk was awkward. Unaccustomed to carrying his bulk around in the tropics. The walking stick was perhaps a prop or a weapon used to keep soi dogs at bay. He was on the worst side of fifty and wore light slacks and a short-sleeved khaki shirt buttoned only halfway, revealing a tangle of hair. His arms also harboured hair sprouting in all directions. The bodily growth ended only on the underside of his hands and presumably, the soles of his feet.
He offered Joe his hand. “Francis,” he said. Francis was no oil on canvas. His nose was too big, his ears belonged to a smaller man, and his hair was filing for divorce with his scalp. Full lips beneath a pompously groomed moustache. What remained of his hair was greased back and his tiny ears stuck out like wing-nuts. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. There were lines around his eyes, perhaps caused from squinting into books, newspapers, magazines, and periodicals.
“Joe Dylan. Pleased to meet you. Care for a drink, a glass of beer?”
“Never touch it. I’ll have some water perhaps,” Francis sat opposite Joe and linked his fingers together to form an arch over the table. He stared at Joe as if he were a great distance away. As if he were the answer to some riddle he gave up trying to solve a long time ago.
“Sure,” Joe attracted the attention of the waitress, ordered a bottle of water along with some more ice.
“You want something to eat with that?” she asked. Joe ordered a bacon cheeseburger with fries and a tomato salad for the Englishman.
“Now, tell me about your situation,” Joe said.
“What do you know about sex in Bangkok?” The client said while raising one eyebrow.
“The only thing I know is the more you pay for it, the worse it is.”
“What if it’s free?”
“That’s the most expensive kind there is,” Joe said. “Look, I’m a private investigator, not a sex counselor.”
“I’m coming to that. Just wanted to make sure I’m dealing with the right kind of man.”
“And are you?”
“I believe so. I need someone who can wade in filth and not be squeamish about it. I need someone who is not scared of the red light zone. One has to go with ones instincts from time to time. My instinct about you, Mr. Dylan, is that you are the kind of man who is not afraid to get his hands dirty. Am I correct?”
“Tell me about your problem. Problems involve either money or women. Which is it?”
“Both. This problem involves a woman and it involves money. Both evils. I had a briefcase taken from me. It contains something valuable.” He took a sip of water. “The woman, the thief is Thai, and the money, it’s. . . Significant.”
“You don’t need to tell me the numbers,” Joe reassured him. “If I take the case, I will need a photograph, a few details, and a place to start looking. A little inspiration wouldn’t hurt neither.”
“She was a hooker. Pure and simple. A common whore. The case was taken from my Bangkok apartment. I had only known the girl a week. The case was my retirement fund. She mentioned Isaan as where she came from.”
“Any particular town?”
“She only said Isaan.”
“Isaan is not a town, it’s an area made up of many provinces. Millions live there. You picked her up in a Bangkok bar?”
He mentioned a place Joe vaguely recognized on The Street of Dead Artists, a medium-sized beer bar not far from The Office. The case seemed easy enough. Joe explained, “Bargirls talk to each other. It would be a case of finding out from the bar where she lives and then trying to pursue the lost money with her and the family. Frankly, I think the money may already have been spent.”
“It would be difficult,” he said.
“What would be difficult?”
“To spend that sort of money. Plus, the briefcase is locked.”
Joe let the thought pass and glanced across the road. A woman bent double, picked through the litter bins, hoping to salvage a can or two to recycle and earn a little money. Her face was like a car crash. You couldn’t help but look at it.
She had a slogan on her T-shirt.
Same shit. Different day.
“You understand that I cannot make an arrest,” Joe told him, “and that you are better off going to the police. I require a retainer of ten thousand baht. Expenses will mount up if she has fled upcountry. As I say, you’d do better to go to the police and file a complaint.”
“I am not a complete idiot,” he replied, taking a tentative sip of the water. “I know that the long arm of the law should celebrate the fact that I have been swindled by one of their little knaves. Why do you think I am sitting here? I need that briefcase returned to me promptly.”
Joe decided to bite. “You pay the ten thousand baht. I will look into the case. Any expenses over the retainer will be paid as presented. I cannot really hope to return any of the cash, but if I find the woman and the case, then you’ll be happy?”
The food arrived. The waitress put the plates down on the table between them. “I’ll be happier. So where do we start?” Francis forked a slice of tomato.
“Tell me all you can about the pro.”
“What’s to tell?” He said, popping a slice of tomato into his mouth and chewing it. “I met her at the Warhol bar. She spoke reasonable English. I paid the bar fine and took her to my apartment. She had a small waist and long legs. A go-go dancer, a hustler. A rough diamond. The type that has trouble written all over it, but it’s difficult to say no. She was great fun. Until, well, the money problem. I woke up one morning and the case was gone, along with the girl. I was stupid. I was a clown…”
“Silicon?” Joe asked.
“What?”
“Her breasts. Were they cosmetically enlarged?”
“She said they were real.”
“Well, she would. Normally a man can tell the difference. How old is she?”
“Well, she said she was twenty-four.”
Joe stopped him short. “Was there any evidence of her having children? Stretch marks?”
“I don’t quite see how that is important?” Francis leaned back into his seat and took a bite from a hunk of tomato.
Joe leaned over to him. “It’s very important. If she has kids and she has money in her sky, it’s more than likely that she will want to be with them. Now, did she have stretch marks on her abdomen?”
“It�
��s hard to tell, but I would say no.”
Joe noted the startled look on Francis’s mug. “Okay, what I am trying to gather is that if she doesn’t have children, then she could be almost anywhere in the country. If she has kids, the chances are that she will be with them, and if they are of school age, then she shouldn’t be too difficult to find. Also, I could use the kids to get to the case.”
Francis handed over a brown legal-sized envelope. It weighed about ten thousand baht. Enough for half a plane ticket back home, two month’s rent, or a two-hour session at the Demon Dreams. Joe spoke: “Good. Then let’s get to work. You have a picture?”
“It’s a miracle I have. I went back to the bar where I found her. A strumpets tavern and no mistake. Inside they have this photo-collage display. A menu, if you will. Hers was one of the photos on there. I’m not afraid to admit I swiped it without a moment’s hesitation.” He handed over an envelope with a photo inside. Joe took a quick look.
Her hair was longer and she looked healthier.
She had a beehive.
She had a secret.
She was dead.
Her name was Monica.
TWENTY
THE BURGER tasted good.
They always did. But his mind wasn’t on the burger, it was on the dead go-go dancer that a new client was hiring him to find. If Francis knew that Monica was already dusted, then he was hiding it with impressive expertise. Further, if he knew she was dead, then somebody else would have to tell Joe what Francis was trying to achieve by coming to him to find her. It didn’t make much sense, but not much did in Bangkok. One thing was for certain: Monica was up there somewhere amused by the whole mess.
“Were you in love with her?” Joe asked.
“Why, that’s preposterous. She was a strumpet.”
“People fall in love with go-go dancers and bargirls every minute of every day in this city, Francis. People fall in love with trombone players and mime artists. People fall in love with interior designers and airhostesses. People fall in love with movie stars, bums, check-dodgers, criminals and pigeon fanciers. None of it makes sense. Trust me, it’s my business and if they didn’t fall in love, I wouldn’t be breathing. But this could be any one of thousands. She’s probably cut her hair, pierced her nose, and had her lips enhanced. Did she have any distinguishing marks, a tattoo, or a scar?”
“Yes, now that you mention it, she had a small tattoo. Strange writing on her shoulder, looked like a tiger scratch and a birthmark on her right arm, just below the elbow,” he pointed to his own arm to indicate where.
Joe knew exactly where the birthmark was and as for that tiger scratch, well...
“And what name did she give you?”
“I can’t quite remember. Mandy, May. It began with an M.”
“Skip it. Did she give you any other name or did you hear her friends refer to her by any other name?”
He shook his head.
“What’s the name of the skin bar you picked her up from?”
“It’s called the Warhol bar.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“Yes.”
“Colonel Rang?”
“Yes. You know of him?”
Joe nodded. Last time Joe saw Rang was on the Bangkok Express. There was a tunnel. One of them fell from the moving train.
It wasn’t Joe.
Joe poured out the last drop from the bottle of water and swished the liquid around in the glass before downing it as if it were cold beer. The meal was finished. “Okay, Francis. That concludes business for now. I’ll be in touch.”
“Good. I have a taxi waiting. I just have one instruction. It’s very important.”
“Shoot.”
“I trust you, Joe. I think you’re the only person that can find this briefcase. I have one instruction and you must follow it explicably.”
“Okay. Well, you must tell me what it is first.”
“Once you find that case, under no circumstances open it.”
“Well, it goes without saying...”
“...You say that now, but this is serious, the contents of that case are not even to be looked at. The case is locked. It has to remain that way.”
“Right.”
“Don’t open it. No matter what you discover.”
“I got it, Frank, the briefcase remains closed.”
“One more thing.”
“What.”
“Don’t call me Frank.”
“Oh.”
Frank, Francis, got up and walked out of there. Joe waited for him to leave and then opened the envelope. Inside, ten one thousand baht notes. He took one of the notes and paid the bill. Joe watched a freelancer hustling a tourist on the road outside. She was wearing tight jean-shorts and a t-shirt bearing an English slogan.
Kiss this.
He stood up, walked onto the road, and hailed a blue and red taxi. The sky had darkened. A sudden gust of wind. Joe got inside the blue and red and instructed the driver to take him to the Street of Dead Artists.
The rain fell down onto the city.
The Warhol bar was much the same as the other Dead Artist bars. A little more modern perhaps. The walls were rendered block and the floor was tiled. A Buddha shrine stood in one corner and a picture hung on the opposite wall. A few wicker chairs sat inside and out, and the tables outside filled with girls eager to hook a customer, relieve him of a little cash, and leave him with a whirlwind of wonderful memories. Joe walked past the frog-scratchers and past the “hey sexy man, welcome inside, please.” He headed straight up to the bar where a middle-aged, battle-scarred, whore sat reading a book on palmistry. She lowered the volume and spoke with a throat grown husky from too many conferences with the Marlboro man. “Hand,” she demanded and Joe held out his left mitt.
“No. Other hand.”
He gave her the right and she studied it. She made clicking sounds with her tongue while looking at the book on palmistry lying on the table. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the lines and creases in Joe’s palm. “I see you buy many drinks,” she said. “You pay bar fine me. Make old lady very happy tonight.” She laughed that smoker’s laugh and closed the book.
“I’ll take a soda water, no ice,” Joe watched her go about it.
“You come holiday?” she asked.
“Not quite,” Joe handed her the picture of Monica, “I was a friend.”
“Poor girl. I blame myself. Sometimes cannot tell if farang good or bad man. He came here one time. Bar fine Monica. We no see Monica more. I think maybe she go back dancing or go Ko Samui. She like move bar. I see newspaper. Her boyfriend I see him many time go bar over there.” She motioned towards a bar across the road. Joe squinted to read the red lettering above the door:
Demon Dreams.
“She work there?”
“Sometimes.”
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Sure,” she poured herself a heroically large Johnnie Black into a small goldfish bowl. She drank it down neat. Joe knew the type. She did what she had to do. Saw what she had to see. Said what she said. Some of it was true and some of it wasn’t. Life threw her shit to work with and she had been throwing at the walls ever since. Sometimes it stuck. Sometimes it didn’t. Apart from the English she picked up in the bars and the sad story of her life, she used a few techniques to separate the honey from the comb. Usual personal history. Shagged senseless by her village sweetheart. Got knocked up. Had a daughter. Sweetheart did a runner to the city. Her father hit the white whiskey. Her mother much the same. Whiskey, cards, and a patch of land. A buffalo and a sprig of citrus trees. Chickens, geese, toddlers. Sent her to the city to find work and a husband. She’s been here ever since. Found neither. Her skin was too dark and her nose too flat for all but the drunkest punters. She grew a fondness for the bottle. Liked a game of cards and a flutter on t
he underground lottery. Sang karaoke. Ate Som Tam. More cynical than a Jewish book critic. She had a story for every nationality. Italians were stingy. English drank too much. Germans sometimes good. Sometimes bad. Man Norway have good heart. Take care lady. Take care real good. Same same Sweden. Japanese sadists and paid well. Indians smelled bad. Cheap Charlie too. No like man Indian. Buddha not same. No like work here but what can I do? I want have money same you. Yes, she had seen it all and heard everything. But so had Joe. Then there was the picture in the newspaper. That picture got her to thinking. When a rich woman thinks too much, she goes shopping or hits the bottle. A poor Thai woman only had the bottle. That’s all she needed. “He look like rich man. Same gentleman. Sometimes old lady like me no understand who good who bad. I make bad. My job me take care girls. Ben Mamasan. Who next?”
“Listen. This place next door, the Demon Dreams, I guess its members only, right?”
“Chai. They not let everybody go inside and have lady shit on body them or lock in a box or whatever they do.” She drank the whiskey and smiled like a Persian cat stalking a sparrow. The medicine had done the trick. Joe pointed to the optics and told her to refill her glass. He was paying for the punch.
“You know the owner?”
“I know it.”
“It?”
“Him… her…it…whatever… I know him before he change body…,” she said taking the next drink.
Joe opened the envelope and took out a thousand… Placed the one thousand on the bar. “Do something for me. Give the owner a call and tell them you have a customer who wants to have a look inside. He wants to be a member.”
“You look like nice man. Strange, poor, but nice... Why you want to go in there?”
“I want to find out what happened with Monica,” Joe put another five hundred on the counter and took a drink from his soda water. Watched her go to a room out back. Heard bits of the telecon… The club wasn’t looking for any new members… Not surprising, but the mamasan was persuasive…Joe listened to her speak… She had known him for a long time and he could be trusted… Telling untruths… Putting herself on the line…More than a little sympathy for the devil.
Red Night Zone - Bangkok City Page 8