Confessions of a Bangkok Private Eye: True Stories From the Case Files of Warren Olson

by Stephen Leather

  I could feel my cheeks burning. ‘That’s it,’ I repeated.

  ‘There’s no guy?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘Just the girl.’

  ‘She was the only one I saw her with. In an intimate setting.’ I thought that was a nice touch. Intimate setting. It made it seem a bit less sordid.

  Knight nodded slowly. ‘It could have been worse, I suppose,’ he said.

  ‘If it had been a guy?’

  ‘I’m not exactly the faithful kind,’ said Knight. ‘I love Ying, but I’ve been out in Asia too long to ever want to confine myself to one woman. Even in Hong Kong…’ He left the sentence unfinished, but I knew what he meant. What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. And while he didn’t want the lovely Ying doing the dirty with another guy, having her in bed with another girl every now and again wasn’t the end of the earth. Plus, if ever he decided the time had come to part company, the tape would make the split a hell of a lot easier.

  ‘The drugs are a bit of a worry,’ I said. If she ever got picked up by the cops while he was with her and they found yah ba, he’d be looking at prison time too.

  ‘I know about the yah ba,’ he said. ‘Never in the house and never in the car. She promised.’

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ I said. I wasn’t sure that I’d take the word of a girl who clearly had only a passing relationship with the truth, but Greig Knight was the client and the client is always right. Except, of course, when he’s wrong.

  Knight took out his bulging wallet and took out a handful of 1,000-baht bills. He gave them to me with a rueful smile and then used the remote to rewind the tape.

  Gung showed me out, his face still impassive. But as he closed the door, he winked at me.

  A few months later I was in my dentist’s waiting room and I picked up one of the glossy magazines. There was a photoshoot of the opening of Greig Knight’s latest restaurant. At the top of the page was a picture of the man himself, grinning like a man possessed, one arm around the shoulders of the lovely Ying, the other around the waist of Ying’s girlfriend. I stopped watching the video after that. The fun had gone out of it.

  THE CASE OF THE WAYWARD WIFE

  One of my first jobs as a private eye was to check up on a girl called Fai, a rescued bargirl who was now living a life of luxury on the back of a guy called Arthur. Arthur had met Fai in a Nana Plaza bar and had decided that she was the love of his life. He worked in an oil refinery in Rayong, a couple of hours’ drive from Bangkok, and he wasn’t short of a bob or two. He paid her family a decent sin sot, or dowry, moved her into his spacious apartment on the outskirts of Rayong, paid her a monthly allowance that was more than I earned in a good month, and kept her on a long rein. Every now and again he had to pop over to his firm’s head office in Singapore and while he was away Fai would go to Bangkok to see her family. All was well until one of his friends said that he’d seen Fai on Sukhumvit Road, eating at a street stall close to the Thermae.

  Arthur was enough of an old Bangkok hand to hear alarm bells at the mention of the Thermae. It’s a Bangkok institution, a late night hang out frequented by freelancers, or Pay For Play girls as I call them, and expats who baulk at paying barfines. There’s always a mixed bag at the Thermae: former bargirls who are past their prime; young girls just down from the countryside who don’t speak enough English to work in the farang bars; office girls who are struggling to pay their rent. The going rate for a short time with a Thermae Pay For Play girl would be about half what it would cost at Soi Cowboy or Nana Plaza. The expats are a mixed bunch too but generally they are at the scummier end of the market, prowling around like tigers hunting for fresh meat. If Fai was hanging around the Thermae, it wasn’t for the bar snacks.

  He got in touch with me and asked if I’d keep an eye on her next time he went to Singapore. She normally drove her motorbike to the bus station and took the bus into Bangkok. He paid me a three-day retainer and agreed to put me up in a decent hotel in Rayong for one night and pay for a rental car. I’d stick out too much if I went on the bus with her, so the car was a necessity. I asked him for details of the family members that she went to see in Bangkok, but he didn’t know their names or their addresses. He seemed a trusting chap, and in my experience, trusting chaps in Thailand are lambs to the slaughter. I was looking forward to following Miss Fai, especially once he’d given me a photograph of her. She was drop dead gorgeous, long hair, long legs, long eyelashes, perfect natural breasts and flawless skin. I practically got a hard on looking at her photograph.

  The night before he was due to fly to Singapore, I booked into the hotel in Rayong and started spending a good chunk of Arthur’s retainer in the hotel’s nightclub. It got me two bottles of Jack Daniels and a whole lot of new friends, one who was snoring softly next to me when Arthur phoned to tell me that he was leaving the apartment. I knew there was no need to rush as most Thai girls, those that don’t have jobs to go to, don’t usually surface before noon.

  Seeing as how Arthur had woken me up, I figured it was only right that my companion should be awake as well, so I rolled on top of her and had my wicked way with her. By the time I’d showered and shaved, she’d fallen asleep again so I went downstairs for the hotel’s eighty-five-baht breakfast. I wasn’t particularly interested in the hard strips of bacon and cold scrambled eggs but the half dozen cups of strong coffee were a good way of kick-starting the day. My new-found friend was still asleep when I got back to the bedroom, no doubt dreaming of her life in New Zealand with her new rich farang. I left her a 500-baht tip on top of her neatly folded jeans and went downstairs to check out. I told them that my ‘wife’ was sleeping but would be up soon.

  I picked up a Bangkok Post from the lobby, a ten-baht bag of pineapple from a street vendor and a bottle of water from the 7-Eleven and drove the rental car in search of a shady spot outside Arthur’s apartment block.

  It was one o’clock and I’d polished off the bag of pineapple before Fai appeared, and she looked even better in real life than she did in her picture. She was wearing tight jeans, impossibly high heels and a low-cut top. She got her motorbike from the car park and I followed her to the bus station. I watched from the car as she bought a ticket for the next aircon bus to Bangkok, and waited for fifteen minutes until she boarded. So far, so good.

  I got the number of the bus, then drove like crazy back to Bangkok. The bus would take twice as long, with frequent restroom stops along the way, so I had plenty of time to take the rental car back and phone one of my motorcycle-taxi friends to pick me up and run me over to the Ekkamai bus station. We had just finished our chicken satay snack when the bus rolled up.

  Fai got off the bus and climbed into a taxi. Following a car when you’re on a motorcycle is a breeze in Bangkok and we had no problems tailing them along Sukhumvit Road, down Thonglor and up Petchburi Road to Soi 43/1. She went into Miami Apartments, a notorious block of cheap housing that’s home to a good number of Bangkok bargirls. I’d been there a number of times, usually when I was too short of cash to spring for a short-time hotel.

  Fai went into the foyer of the rear block, walking by a table where half a dozen girls were tucking into bags of dukadan (grasshoppers) and washing them down with Sangthip whiskey and soda. Two of the girls shouted out to Fai so I figured she was well known there. I waited until Fai had gone before I went over to the table. I recognised two of the girls as Thermae regulars so I gave them a ‘ Sawasdee krup ’ and sat down. As I was offered some grasshoppers, I bought them another bottle of Sangthip, a steal at seventy baht. We had a few glasses before I asked about Fai. The girls knew her, knew that she was married to a farang, and that she often came to stay with her sister who lived in the block. I asked about her sister and the girls told me that she worked in the German bar in Sukhumvit Soi 7. I knew it well. It was a well-known haunt of freelance hookers, most of whom were well past their sell-by date. But with Fai being in town, the girls said, they’d probably be up at the Hard Rock Ca
fA© in Siam Square, a much more upmarket pick-up joint.

  Excellent. I headed home for a few hours’ sleep, and by ten o’clock was revitalised and ready to take on whatever the night might hold. I put on my best pair of Chinos and a freshly ironed polo short, splashed on some aftershave and caught a cab. The Hard Rock CafA© is the haunt of Westerners with money to burn, and hookers looking for a fast buck. The girls don’t look like hookers, and they’d probably be really offended if you called them prostitutes, but they are definitely there hoping to hook a wealthy farang. Most of them probably have jobs, working in department stores, beauty parlours, travel agents, or banks, but what they earn in a month wouldn’t pay for a night out at the Hard Rock. They turn up, usually in pairs, buy themselves a cheap drink and start the hunt. Play For Pay girls is what I call them. And they can be even more dangerous than the go-go bar hookers. The guys who live in Thailand know the score and treat the place for what it is-a meat market. But tourists who turn up often get the wrong impression. They think that they have suddenly become much more attractive and that the pretty young thing in tight jeans and a sexy top is hanging on their every word because they’re God’s gift to women. They take her back to their hotel, have a night of great sex, and then get all confused when the new love of their life starts asking for an expensive present, a cash donation, or help with their mother’s medical expenses.

  I’d been in Thailand long enough to know the score so I ignored all the hot and heavy looks that I was getting from some very attractive women as I walked over to the large square bar in front of the area where the house band was playing some very respectable cover versions.

  I slid onto a stool, ordered a Jack Daniels and watched the very sexy lead singer as she belted out some oldies but goldies. Every now and again I’d be accidentally bumped by some lovely hoping to attract my attention but I was working so I ignored them and concentrated on the lead singer and the entrance. It was the normal Hard Rock CafA© crowd, not particularly attractive middle-aged men drooling over stunning women, with a smattering of American tourist couples who’d come along thinking it was a burger joint as opposed to a pick-up joint. There was a dining area upstairs where farangs with more money than sense were buying expensive steaks for girls who would have been happier with a bowl of noodles.

  Fai came in just after midnight. By then the place was packed but I had a prime spot by the bar so I moved over to make a space for her. She was with a girl her own age and a girl who was a few years older who I assumed was the sister. Fai pulled out a 1,000-baht note and bought three bottles of Heineken. They were all buzzing and I figured they’d partaken of some yah ba, the amphetamine-based drug of choice for the city’s movers and shakers. I’m old enough to remember when it was called yah ma, or horse drug, because it made you feel as strong as a horse. The cops thought that was too sexy an image for an addictive drug so they managed to get the media to start calling it yah ba, or crazy drug. It didn’t make the drug any less popular, though.

  Up close I could see just what a stunner Fai was, and if she was looking for a playmate for the night I knew she wouldn’t have a problem finding one. She had on tight black trousers, another pair of impossibly-high stiletto heels and a top that showed off a washboard-flat midriff and a diamond pin through her navel. I stopped watching the lead singer and concentrated on the lovely Fai. If I had been Arthur, I’d have taken her to Singapore with me. Or chained her to the bed and locked the door.

  I decided to raise my profile and bought a decent bottle of Australian wine and a couple of glasses. Fai and her friends were dancing in front of the band but when she came back to the bar for a gulp of Heineken I gave her my very best Tom Cruise smile and offered her a glass of my wine. Thai girls will rarely refuse a drink and we were soon clinking glasses and looking into each other’s eyes. She did have very sexy eyes. And breasts. Don’t get me started on her breasts. She told me she was in town for the weekend with her sister and that her name was Fai. Excellent. She was actually telling me the truth. We spoke in Thai and she tested me, speaking quickly and using slang, and I could see that she was impressed. Most farangs, even those who’ve lived in Thailand for years, rarely get beyond the ‘You So Pretty, Me So Horny’ stage. I spoke Thai like a Thai, and on the phone most Thais wouldn’t even realise that I was a foreigner.

  The wine slid down easily, just like my eyes kept doing, but she didn’t seem to mind that I kept ogling her body. The occasional hand on my arm and thigh let me know that she was interested, and the baseball-sized hard on in my Chinos was a dead giveaway that I was up for it.

  I bought another bottle of wine, making sure that I kept the receipt because Arthur would be covering all expenses. Fai and her friends kept leaving the bar for some energetic dancing, and Fai was attracting a fair amount of male attention. I was worried that some other farang might spirit her away but other than a few snatched conversations she didn’t seem to be interested and kept coming back to me and my red wine.

  Eventually Hard Rock started to wind down and I found myself outside with Fai and the other two girls. They decided they wanted to continue partying so we all piled into a taxi and went to the King’s Disco in Patpong, a popular venue for barfined bargirls to take their customers. By now I was paying for all the drinks, or at least Arthur was. I parked myself at the bar with a Jack Daniels while the three girls danced the night away. Fai was as attentive as she’d been in Hard Rock. She’d dance for a while then come back and give me a squeeze or a peck on the cheek and then she’d be off again. At one point she disappeared for ten minutes and I thought I’d lost her but then she reappeared at my side and slipped something into my hand. It was an ecstasy tablet, worth about 800 baht, and she grinned at me, waiting for me to swallow it. I’m not a big fan of drugs and prefer to get my buzz from booze, so I palmed the tablet and pretended to swallow it. She winked, patted me on the groin, and headed for the dance floor.

  Dawn was breaking when we finally left the disco. Fai’s sister and the friend flagged down a taxi but Fai didn’t complain when I steered her towards another vehicle. I gave the driver my address, and again Fai didn’t complain. In fact she slid her nails along my thigh and kissed my neck, which I took as a good sign. The taxi driver wanted to charge me 200 baht and I called him a robbing lizard in his native Isarn language and told him to use the meter.

  We got back to my apartment and I went straight to the shower to wash the smoke and grime of a Bangkok night out of my hair. When I walked into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around my waist, a glorious sight greeted me. The lovely Fai was lying on my bed, her head on my pillow and her shapely legs up on the headboard, wearing nothing but her Chanel Number 7. Arthur would have been impressed. I certainly was. I realised that sleeping with Fai would be unprofessional, but her legs seemed to go on for ever and she made it clear that she wouldn’t take no for an answer. What’s a private eye to do? There was only one thing I could do. Clients are ten a penny but girls with bodies like Fai are few and far between. I mentally apologised to Arthur and jumped onto the bed.

  The girl was an absolute star. She wore me out and I only managed a couple of hours’ sleep that night. She was insatiable. Against the door, in the bathroom, on the floor, by the window, every position I knew and a few that I didn’t. It was the following afternoon before she finally let me rest. I made her a coffee and we had a little chat. I said that I wanted her phone number so that I could see her again. She was surprisingly honest and told me that she was married and that she had a great husband who loved her and gave her everything that she wanted. She had a great condo in Rayong, but all her friends lived in Bangkok so every now and again she headed to the city to party. ‘If I didn’t, I’d go crazy,’ she said. And the long and the short of it was that she wouldn’t give me her phone number. She left an hour later, after another sweat-inducing session where she showed me another position that I didn’t believe was possible.

  I sat down at my computer and started writing my report to Arthur
. I had to battle with my conscience. I liked Fai, a lot. And I could understand why she’d feel trapped in Rayong. What happened with me could well have been a one-off. I’m a good-looking guy so maybe she just fancied me. I just put too much temptation in her way, I guess. But Arthur was my client and paying me a not inconsiderable amount of money. He deserved the truth. But Fai had given me a hell of a time between the sheets. And there was always the chance that I’d bump into her again. I reached a compromise with my conscience. I told Arthur that Fai did go out on the town but that she confined her extra-curricular activities to drinking and dancing with her girlfriends. I didn’t mention the night of unbelievable sex I had with his wife, of course. Some secrets are best kept secret.

  THE CASE OF THE LYING BARGIRL

  The bread and butter work of a private eye in Bangkok is running checks on bargirls. I don’t know why but tourists seem to check in their brains on arrival. They go trawling through the red-light districts of Bangkok and Pattaya until they meet a girl they think is ‘special’. The love of their life was working as a prostitute, but now she’s a good girl. She loves me, only me. Time and time again I hear the same refrain: ‘my girl is different.’ So different that they want to pay me to check up on the love of their life.

  Anyone thinking of starting a long-term relationship with a bargirl has to get one thing straight from the start. Girls work in the sex industry for one reason and one reason only: money. Cold, hard cash. They’re not dancing around a chrome pole because they want to be rescued by a White Knight, they’re not spreading their legs in short-time hotels because they want to live happily ever after with a guy twice their age. So if a guy wants to settle down with a bargirl, he’s going to have to accept the fact that for the rest of his life he’s going to be funding her, one way or another. If the guy’s prepared to do that, all well and good. But the guys who come a cropper are the ones that leave their new-found girlfriends in situ. After years of running checks on girls working in the bars I’m sure of one thing: they will not be faithful. It is almost a physical impossibility. A frog and scorpion thing. But like I said, it’s my bread and butter so if a guy wants me to check on his bargirl, I’m happy to take his money.