“Yes, but in the right hands, just think what we could do with it?”
“Okay, I’m not in the magic circle, explain it to me. In layman’s terms. I’m no magician.”
“This potion is the potion of love and desire. With it, we can make world shakers and movers fall in with each other. Why waste such a powerful secret on hookers and dancers whose desires are so shallow, so obvious and so unimaginative. In the right intelligent hands, this spell could cause governments to be seduced into peace. World Leaders manipulated into calling truces with each other. Religious schools mesmerized into seeing things more objectively, tolerating one another. Riches beyond our wildest dreams could be accumulated, spent, and then accumulated again. If money is something that interests you. Or maybe you’re happy living in a ten-dollar hotel room and chasing around hookers for the rest of your life.” Palm smiled and then laughed nervously, “In the right hands, that little spell could be the ultimate asset. A tool to make a better world for everybody.”
“Or the ultimate weapon.”
“Come now, Joe, the female of the species has been using love as a weapon since time began. Read all your western literature, watch a few Hollywood films and you get the idea. In your line of business, you should know this more than anyone should. Great men have fallen because of that heady feeling, that belief that one person has the answer to all life’s tribulations. That walking on water we call love.”
“You ever heard the term, Pandora’s box?” Joe asked.
“Who hasn’t. You see we stumble through life fully aware that love is just an illusion. We know it’s simply the morning mist that burns away with the first daylight of reality. We see lovers walking hand in hand and pity them for their stupidity. But then it happens: We meet someone and we lose all rhyme and reason. Everything we have learned during those formative love disasters becomes obsolete. People say we fall in love, but I have come to understand the opposite is true. We rise up into love like a phoenix from the ashes, with new hope and with all our past doubts abandoned. Love, brings with it new life, creativity. It’s during this flight of fantasy that men truly enjoy life. The trouble with, or perhaps the beauty of this feeling is that it makes us feel invincible. We drop our guard. Sign away our life with the knowledge that money matters little compared to love. Risky decisions are a symptom of pleasure. Rich men in love have caused empires to fall whilst poor unloved men have produced works of great art. People generally make the worse decisions while intoxicated with love or anything else for that matter. Decisions that can be stacked against our favor with the help of this potion. Our children may perish under the spell of a new lover’s whim. Or our children may grow strong enough to defeat us. It’s a fascinating concept, don’t you think?”
“It’s a nice pitch. I’ll give you that. What is it you do for Francis?”
“We have business interests together,” Palm removed an invisible speck of dust from his lapel and flicked it away from himself with a gesture of distaste. “Look up at the lights,” Palm said indicating to a tacky chandelier on the ceiling. Joe looked up. The lights glowed a dull yellow and then suddenly went out. Joe looked across the table. Palm wasn’t sitting there. He looked around the restaurant. He was standing by the door next to the light switch with a smile on his mug.
“Neat trick.”
“My father was a magician,” he walked back over and sat down. “He taught me all I know.”
“The deal I have with your business partner is to open the case and receive the money.”
“There is no money of any real importance. It’s a metaphor. Of course, they wish to have access to the contents. But I am prepared to offer you another deal. The spell in the hands of those two would be an utter disaster. You must retrieve the briefcase with its contents intact,” Palm said, “and give it to me.”
“And in your hands it would be safe?”
“It would be safer. And less of a waste.”
“A waste?”
“The spell can only be used as a cure once, Mr. Dylan. What would you rather have, world peace or a speaking ex-boxer?”
“I’ll take the boxer. Seems like he’s got talent.”
“You would be making a big mistake. Of course, you will be rewarded financially. We don’t have to look too far to see the opportunities. Burma is sitting on oceans of oil that they have not the technology to appreciate. Who knows what a little offshore exploration will find? The Americans have been trying to get at it for years. It’s no secret why their NGO applications are continually turned down. It’s a transparent trick the Burmese see through. Go in as a charity organization and make some contacts. People think the CIA is smart, but their operations in South East Asia tell a different story. Imagine if we had somebody, female, go in as a broker. Danish, perhaps? Negotiate with the Burmese government on behalf of American oil operators. Start with the odd concession here and there. Everybody wins. Most of all, us. And that us includes you, Mr. Dylan.”
“In my experience that kind of money brings with it a truckload of misery. I’m sure the woman you are talking about wouldn’t be interested. I’d rather take my fee and do my job if it’s all the same to you.” Joe finished the water and placedthe glass down on the table. “What can you tell me about Monica? The girl who died because of this potion.”
“So money is no use to you, but the girl is of use, even dead? Your foresight is blind. Let’s make a deal, Mr. Dylan. You get me that case and I’ll tell you the whole story about the girl. I’ll let out the secret if you let me have that case. This is a fair deal?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Let me go and chew it over. If you try and follow me, the deals off. If I so much as smell your cologne, I’m sticking with the job in hand. Understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“Just one thing. How does Francis fit into all of this?”
Palm lit a cigarette and blew out a cloud of bitter smoke. “Financial markets. Francis used to be a city broker. He has most of the markets sewn up in London. When it comes to oil, it doesn’t just stop at drilling, transporting and selling. Not by a long way. We will broker everything from equipment contracts to financial products. Insurance contracts. Stocks. Futures. Currency deals. We can predict which companies will receive tenders and then buy up their stocks before selling at a massive profit. We can even set up companies where they are needed. When you have an understanding with the head of a new order, the world is your oyster, Mr. Dylan. But why stop there? We will move on to bigger fish. China, Russia, the USA. All one big happy family.”
“Indeed and what happens when this big happy family starts killing each other. That’s what’s been proven to happen with every person who has used that spell. It doesn’t take Einstein to work out the logistics.”
“Omelets and eggs, Mr. Dylan. Omelets and eggs.”
“Well, I prefer my eggs easy over. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“Without love there is no conflict.”
“There is no conflict without love, I grant you. But you wish to exploit that naked hope that dwells within all of us.” Joe stood up from the table. He stopped, “You wish to use what is the most pure, hopeful emotion and turn it into pain. Pain for financial reward.” Joe turned around and nodded at the half-caste who sat there smiling like a Tomcat toying with a dead sparrow. “I’ll be seeing you around, mister, maybe.”
“Oh, you will be seeing me. You can be sure of that.”
Joe got up and left him and the bill to become acquainted with each other. Joe picked up his jacket and put it on. He was back out on the street before he realized that the bastard had swiped his gun.
Fucking magician.
The answer came to him as he headed back past the win of motorcycle taxis and stepped onto a bus heading east. He knew who had killed Monica. He knew who had the most to lose that night. He knew it didn’t make sense, but nothing did in The Red Night Z
one. He headed toward the Demon Dreams. Outside the bus window, the city flashed past in waves of sounds and color. It was obvious. The answer lay in the epic story. The answer was in the Ramayana.
THIRTY-NINE
JOE MADE it to the Demon Dreams with the code and a bad feeling. No iron. The magician had it.
Through the lobby he took a seat on the couch opposite the bar.
Ben stood behind the bar wearing a simple grey suit of Asian cut.
Thin lapels.
Waves of hostility radiated from his body and filled every nook and cranny of the lounge. Carmen wore a tight black leotard and a pair of large leather riding boots that rode all the way up to her thighs. Her silicon breasts jutted out at impossible angles.
“Today’s the day. The codes, please, Mr. Dylan.”
“I have decided to not reveal the codes. Not yet.”
“But the time is today, the prophecy, the epic; do you not understand what I have taught you?”
“Some of it, yes. I understand that you had a little role-play going on. My guess is that Monica was Sita, the heroine that dies at the end of the epic. Pops over there was Ravana the destroyer. And that would make you Keikeyi, the wicked witch who deceives the masses. You would dress up and fool vulnerable bargirls into thinking you were making them irresistible by using some bullshit spell. Hell, you even got some half German Thai with aspirations to take over the world. You and he are the same person. You scrub up well.”
“Mr. Dylan. If you are going to black be black. If you are going to be white be white. It’s the shades of grey that I can’t stand. You know much of our culture. I’ve a good mind to let Ben tear you limb from limb after this is over. But the clock is ticking. It is almost time for the exchange. But before, if you will join me for a drink,” Carmen sat next to Joe on the couch, her hand rested on his knee. “A little tipple?”
“Soda water, no ice.”
“Now come, Mr. Dylan, isn’t it about time you had a real drink? It would be rude to refuse. This is a bar after all. It pains us to serve water.” Her hand began to stroke Joes crotch as her brother smiled. Joe saw the Thin Man beneath the make-up.
Those cold calculating eyes.
“I don’t drink anymore. Like Ben here, I was seeing demons. When I stopped drinking and I took the vow, the Demons stopped. If I start again, well, you work it out.”
“All I understand, Mr. Dylan, is that in order for this exchange to work, you will be joining us for a drink. The prophecy! Ben!” She snapped her fingers and Ben fussed behind the bar. Her hand continued to toy with Joe’s equipment. “Now, Mr. Dylan, Vodka, I believe was your poison of choice. If you do not believe in the power of Soma, then you have nothing to fear. Like you say, our beliefs are bullshit.”
“Lady, I didn’t say that. I don’t drink anymore.”
“But I think you do,” Carmen reached inside her riding boot and pulled out a small .22 automatic. She pointed it at his temple, the middle one. The other hand tightened its grip. Ben walked over with the Vodka. He had mixed it with tonic and some ice and there was even a slice of green lime. It looked good. A lot of things looked good when you had a gun pointed at your head. Joe picked up the glass and Carmen’s grip on Joe loosened, while the other hand kept the piece pointed at him. The safety clicked off. Joe moved the glass towards his lips and then put the glass back on the table.
“You had to be a big shot! Come on, Joe! Drink it. What’s the worst that can happen? It’s only a shot.” She smiled looking at the gun, then the glass, and then back at him.
“Nice to see you’re well heeled,” Joe said looking at the shooter, “I made a promise.”
“And I’m telling you to break that promise, Mr. Dylan. Break it. Promises are to be broken. Secrets are to be told. Let us see the truth.”
“What about the demons?”
“When I pull this trigger, I very much doubt you’ll be seeing angels, Mr. Dylan. You’ve been here in Bangkok too long. You know what will happen. I know what will happen. Let’s make it happen. Drink it!”
Joe looked at it. Cool transparent liquid in a glass.
Harmless.
“Well, it sure looks like you got me behind the eight-ball lady, but let me tell you. If I tip the head off this eel juice, you and me can relax with the heat. I can’t think straight with the smell of fog in the room. Tell me one thing. Where’s Carina?”
“Drink it and we shall see.”
FORTY
THE FIRST sip was cool and refreshing like a chance meeting with an old friend.
Then Joe’s eyes opened and the heat was still there.
Carmen jerked the barrel up ever so slightly to indicate that he drink the rest of the glass. It was a cinch. Joe tipped back the tumbler, drank the entire contents in one, and placed the empty glass on the table. Ben walked over, picked the glass up, and took it back to the bar to be refilled.
“There, that wasn’t so bad was it? Now, one more for luck, just to make sure the medicine does its job, yes? You see I have tried to be nice. I have tried to explain the importance of all this, but the only way is for you to see for yourself. For you to do that, you must drink the poison drink, the Soma. Drink that which you vowed not to drink and see the world as Ben sees it. Perhaps see it as it really is. A battle ground between demons: drink!”
Ben handed Joe the next one and he knocked it back like it was water. The alcohol was beginning to work like a switch, like somebody somewhere turned the lights on in that god-awful asylum.
“Now, Joe, the codes.”
“The briefcase.”
“No, the codes first, and then we open the briefcase and we both get what we need.”
Joe finished the glass and this time, Joe waved his glass at Ben for a refill. He went about it quickly and handed Joe the next glass. Every object, every piece of furniture in the room seemed to shake with its own energy. It had been a long time. Ben left the bottle on the table next to him. Joe glanced across at the old green skeleton inside the cabinet and smiled. The skull seemed to grin back at him with a demonic deathly grin. At that moment, Joe realized who the skeleton used to belong to. He hit the drink.
“Here’s to Pops.”
“Is the poison working, Mister Dylan?” She managed to put contempt in the word Mister and looked at him with mock anxiety.
“Like you’ll never know, bitch.”
Joe poured more vodka into the glass and waited for the world to swing sideways. “You know what we do to people in the city? When they have been misbehaving?”
“You feed them vodka?”
“Something else. Have you ever been to Lumpini Park? It is full of the most disgusting creatures. Big green lizards. They bring bad luck. Ben likes to throw them onto the back of his pick-up and we let them loose in gardens. Can you imagine how much face you would lose to find one on your property?”
Joe didn’t have time to answer.
It came out of nowhere.
A black shape hurtling towards his face. Ben’s booted foot smashed his jaw. Then a sudden sense of violation followed.
Darkness.
FORTY-ONE
THE DUNGEON. There were no windows and the walls were made of thick stone painted black with a red band around the perimeter.
A dungeon.
His arms and legs were strapped to a rack. Ben stood beside him with a rubber tube in his hand. One end of the rubber tube was fixed inside a five-litre Russian vodka bottle, and the other fixed inside Joes right nostril. He held the tube in place with the powerful fingers of one hand pinching his nose and the other hand pinching the tube to create a suction. The bottle stood on the floor in front of them. Carmen beside him. “Mr. Dylan, you were interested in the downstairs facilities, we felt it only polite to show you what we have down here for our special clients. Besides, after all, that vodka we thought you might like a top up.”
/> “Forget it.”
“Mr. Dylan, the code please.”
“Suck it.”
“Ben!” Joe felt the shot burn through his nose like a hot iron poker. And then another. And another. The alcohol burned as it absorbed through the eyes and passed through the pharynx and then dripped slowly down his oesophagus towards the liver to join the war that was started earlier in the bar.
Yom Pai.
“How does it feel to be stuck in a man’s body?” Joe said. Carmen looked directly at Joe for the time it takes to kill a mosquito. She smiled slowly and purposefully and she clicked her fingers. “You tell me,” she said. “Ben!” Another shot burned through his system. Joe focussed on the room.
Another wave of heat.
The vodka burned through his body.
There was a large box in the dungeon. The type of box used to imprison submissive masochists.
The secret box.
Pop’s box.
Joe imagined himself inside that box. He imagined being inside that box for a long time and then he imagined Joe Dylan, P.I., being found inside that box by aqua-archaeologists after the flood came that would drown that wretched city. He would be one of the many curiosities found in this strange city. He’d have a foot note in history. Historians would discuss his remains during their coffee break. They’d disagree on the turn of events that put Joe in that box in that dungeon at that time in history.
But history could wait.
“Okay, I’ll tell you.”
“Good. Ben untie him.”
They untied him, brought him down from the rack, and strapped him into an electric chair. It had thick leather straps, undone on the arms and legs. It was wired up to the electrics. There was a large metal pull lever on the wall.
“The codes,” Carmen’s gun looked him in the eye. He tried to figure a way out of giving it to her, but there wasn’t one. Not one that he could see. Joe had to get out of the dungeon. Ben stood five paces away from where Joe sat in the chair. To his left was the door. The briefcase was on top of the box about ten paces in front of Joe. Carmen was squatting in front of him with the gun trained on his mug.
Red Night Zone - Bangkok City Page 18