“Here’s why: The Panamanian government considers the beautiful housing and facilities long provided for the Zonies to be among Panama’s most valuable assets. The Authority for the Interoceanic Region is willing to make these facilities available to good people like you and me at bargain prices … but only through select companies and individuals that they have chosen to administrate these properties … “
Meaning Merlot. But why had the AIR chosen someone like him?
As I started to ask, the Turk pressed an index finger to his lips … then went ahead and spoke anyway. “What comes next, it will explain more. Why you will have wonderful security and support in Gamboa.”
The person doing the explaining was Club Gamboa’s founder and CEO, Jackie Merlot. Big smiling close-up of that hairless face and those BB-sized black eyes. How Merlot happened to be entrusted with control of a defunct golf club in a beautiful Panamanian village was not immediately spelled out. He was just there, a smiling giant, blond hair as if it were glued in place. The little video zapped through a montage of shots to keep it interesting— wildlife, hot springs, jungle rivers—while we were told that, in Panama, Mr. Merlot was a man who got things done….
And then Merlot was on camera. He looked massive in a tent-sized beige guayabera, a style of four-pocket linen shirt that all fat men wear in Latin America. He was walking through the flowered streets of what I assumed was Gamboa, talking to the camera. He had a smoky, curiously high-pitched voice, in which he began by speaking about his connections with “many important” Asian businessmen.
Strange. It seemed an odd choice of topics, but there it was. He had to be working some kind of angle.
I stood and listened to him explain that his “connections” were instrumental in approving an ingenious plan: The virgin rain forest on the Gamboa property would be harvested and a portion of the income would become a financial asset to all members. The timber revenue would finance remodeling and maintenance for the whole project, plus create more room for construction.
That, at least, made sense. Despoil a mountainside, despoil a human being. What was the difference?
Then he said, “Our project will be of particular interest to my many good friends from Chinese Hong Kong and Taiwan. I have personal knowledge of the modem Far East’s high standards of service, whether it’s business or pleasure. We know quality. That much you can be sure of.”
He didn’t seem nervous; was perfectly at ease, a man used to being in charge. No doubt about it, he was tailoring his sales pitch for Asians.
Why? And what kind of connections could he have in Asia?
I waited to find out as he told the camera that “Panama’s friendship with Asia has always been important. But now it’s more important than ever.” The reason? Huge smile. “Because there would be no Club Gamboa,-that’s why. Not if some of the most successful corporations in Hong Kong and Taiwan weren’t committed to playing major financial and organizational roles in the future of the New Panama Canal.”
One of the Chinese companies involved, he said, was Panama Ports, a subsidiary of a major Hong Kong conglomerate. Panama Ports had been awarded control of Panama’s two most valuable properties—the ports on either end of the canal, Colón and Balboa—with a twenty-five-year contract. The company would pay $22.2 million a year, plus would invest many times that in improvements!
Which was a big surprise to me—the Chinese were now in control of both ends of the Panama Canal?
And maybe that’s why Merlot was targeting Asian clients … but, in a strange way, he also seemed to be using Asia’s participation as a bona fide for his own small project.
Another very important addition to Panama, he said, was Evergreen, a Taiwanese shipping company that was beginning construction of a fifty-nine-acre terminal near the Colón Free Trade Zone. The project would cost about $100 million.
A third Chinese company, Tainan Ltd., solely owned and controlled by one of Taiwan’s wealthiest families, had also received major concession contracts from the Panamanian government. Among them were several tracts of housing, including Gamboa.
Merlot was grinning into the camera, as he said, “I spent my early years living with my mother in Taiwan, and I have known the fine people at Tainan all my life. They have my eternal respect … as do all the companies that are working hard to make the Panama Canal bigger and better than ever. In their free time?” His smile broadened. “I hope the honored workers of these fine companies will join us at Club Gamboa and let their fondest dreams come true. Just as I hope you will do the same. Our club motto is simple: Anything you want … because you’ve earned it.”
There it was: Merlot was telling potential buyers that he had the political blessing of a major Taiwanese company. That was all the guarantee anyone needed. He had connections with Tainan, a corporation that was investing millions in Panama. Which was probably why he’d been awarded the Gamboa concession. Choose a reason: maybe he was old school buddies with a member of that powerful family … or maybe he had some kind of blackmail leverage … or maybe, just maybe, Amanda had been right when she guessed Merlot had a touch of Asiatic blood.
It didn’t matter. He had this village and he apparently had the political juice to make it work.
I placed my hand in front of the screen. “Look, you’re kind of wasting my time, Turk. I’m not here to listen to history and crap about the Chinese. All I want to know is exactly what Gamboa’s offering me and how much is it going to cost? You got something interesting to show me, show me now or I’m going back to the bar.”
The Turk looked up at me and shrugged—Okay, tired of this screen? Let’s try something else. He was closing windows again, moving the show along as he said to me, “Some Yankees … forgive me, Americans, are easily offended. They have a very narrow view of what is improper or immoral when it comes to a man’s pleasure. Our chairman, Mr. Merlot, put it very well when he said that Americans are … what’s the word … ?” The Turk was thinking hard, eyes wrinkled shut.
“Prudes?”
“Exactly! Prudes. That’s precisely the word. Are you and your old friend like most Americans? Or do you agree that we all have different … needs?”
Tucker was now sitting on the couch, staring into the hookah’s smoky glass globe. He was still wearing his gray rodeo hat, white sports coat, ankles crossed showing his fancy boots. He stirred, looked around, finally found the Turk with his eyes. Said, “Old? Fuck you.”
“A generous offer, but no thanks,” smiled the Turk. “Well … who the hell you callin’ old, boy? How’d you like to go home and tell your mama that some boy just spanked your … your … spanked your …” Tuck’s voice flattened and disappeared. He’d lost the thread … but he’d found the hookah again, something easy to look at, not loud, not penetrating.
He sighed; folded his hands in his lap.
I watched his head fall before I said, “I’ll look at anything you’ve got to show me. I’m wide open.”
“Open to anything?”
“You think I came to Colombia for the fishing?”
The Turk’s laughter said okay, he was convinced. Sounded very enthusiastic as he said, “Then you will love Gamboa. Because in Gamboa, you can have anything you want.”
“I know, the motto. Because I deserve it.” Like it was bullshit.
“No, when I say anything, that’s exactly what I mean. The Chinese, the Japanese, they know how to relax. Gamboa is being created for them … and for Mr. Merlot’s own personal interests.”
On the screen now, new images were appearing. I stepped back a little, watched.
Felt that chill again. A swelling nausea…
The Web page had a very complete catalogue of pornography, most of it shot at Gamboa, I was told, but a few things from Mr. Merlot’s own personal collection.
The stuff from Merlot’s collection, I didn’t see till the very end….
The way it worked, the Turk told me, was that he recruited “help” to work in Gamboa. In return, Mr. Merlo
t paid him a small finder’s fee, promised him a prime vacation time-share on the canal, plus allowed him to be Gamboa’s sole agent in Colombia. He got 10 percent of anything he could prove that he moved.
“If I can sell a few of these time-shares,” he said, “I can pay Mr. Garret enough to get the case out of the courts. I can save my yacht in this way.”
I said, “So convince me. Make a good case for your project, and I’ll buy.”
The shrug, the hands, the facial expression, all said no problem. “First thing, Colombia has the most beautiful women in the Americas, perhaps the world,” the Turk said. “If you sign the contract, purchase a time-share with us, what you do then is tell Mr. Merlot what you, want while you’re in Gamboa on vacation. Anything you want, I can find it for you. A beautiful Negro housemaid? A young Latina cook? Or perhaps … perhaps a teenage boy.” He held his palms up—whoa, he wasn’t judging, just giving an example. “You want all three at once … or five at once, you can have that, too. If we get your order in advance, I find what you want in Bogota or here, in the slums of Cartagena.” The palms again. “Poor, yes, but very clean and beautiful. You pay a small fee for each and they will do anything you wish them to do. Truly, Gamboa is the place to make your fondest dreams come true.”
“So what happens if I happen to be visiting Panama, I’ve got some clients with me, but the time-share I bought is for a different time of the year?”
“As a member of Club Gamboa, you may rent by the night, by the week, whatever you want. True … on such short notice, we may not be able to provide precisely what you want. But the club’s entire staff will be made up of very beautiful women and very willing boys and they are always at the members’ disposal. But here—let me show you the kind of pleasure we have to offer.” As the screen changed, he said, “Are you sure you would not like to smoke a bit while you watch?” A. minute or so later, he said, “You don’t mind if I do?”
I wasn’t looking at the screen. Had long since turned my eyes away … not out of disgust, but out of … sadness? No, but an emotion that was close to it. More like a … hollowness.
I did not look at the computer screen for the same reason that I do not go to topless bars or strip shows or watch pornographic films. Sex? Yeah, I love sex. Love the tender anything-to-bring-her-pleasure kind and the sweaty belly-slapping variety and anything, absolutely anything else, that will make me or my like-minded partner happy. But when the debasement of an individual is viewed as entertainment, we are all diminished … plus I am always, always perplexed by a very basic question: How does it come to pass that the lives of otherwise-healthy men and women are so tragically compromised?
“Mr. Ford. Do you not find them very beautiful?”
I had signed a one-page form, printed in English and Spanish, acknowledging that Jamael Hasakah had introduced me to the glories of Club Gamboa, thereby confirming his legal right to a finder’s fee as well as elevating me to the status of a man who deserves a respectful prefix.
Tucker had dozed off on the couch. Had his cowboy hat tilted down over his eyes, boots up on the coffee table. He’d had six or seven small beers plus the dope. He was out.
I said, “Yes, the women are gorgeous.”
“But a trifle old, perhaps?” The Turk’s words were saying one thing, but his tone was saying something else. Maybe asking me a delicate question. What?
So I played along. “Sure, maybe a bit too old.” I glanced at the screen. The two girls soaping each other beneath a waterfall couldn’t have been more than, what? fifteen, sixteen? They were cold, had goosebumps, but were toughing it out for the camera. A third woman, performing oral sex on an Asian man, looked to be about the same age.
“The girls you see here, they all work as housemaids at Gamboa. You will meet them. Very nice. I selected them myself. From Bogota!”
The Turk’s professional pride showing.
“But if you’re feeling adventurous, let’s go to Mr. Merlot’s personal room. Is that all right with you?”
“Sure. I want to see it all.”
“Then you shall!”
Click.
I looked at the screen, then looked away quickly, as the Turk said, “Mr. Merlot’s tastes are not as unusual as many people think. Perhaps you agree? Mr. Merlot enjoys and appreciates children. It was a preference that he says he learned in China when he himself was a child.
“Here … in this photograph, you are introduced to a man you will come to know if you become a member. His name is Akibar, but everyone calls him Acky. Not only is Acky” —I noted the meaningful chuckle—“quite a man, as you can see, but he is the reason why Gamboa is guaranteed to be a peaceful place. Acky looks quite terrifying, but that is not a bad thing. There will be no obnoxious drunks or uninvited guests, you may be certain of that. Who needs policemen with Acky around!”
I looked just long enough to commit to memory the face of a man who appeared to be Afro-Asian; half Vietnamese, perhaps, or half Chinese. His face reminded me of the face of an ant but in human form. Big cheekbones like mandibles, skin tight over the bones, black piercing eyes. Big man, probably well over six feet tall, though his height was difficult to gauge.
He was standing before a teenage boy….
But a very powerful man; with the body of a steroid-user, a weightlifter. I remember Amanda telling me about the showdown with Merlot. How Merlot’s roommate was there, pissed off at her and Frank, ready to fight.
So say hello to Akibar, the giant ant. That’s the way I thought of him. Merlot’s enforcer and roommate … and who knew what else….
I had to ask: “Merlot and his friends—they don’t find it embarrassing being part of a show like this?”
“Not at all. Mr. Merlot feels it’s important to set an example. In any healthy culture, my own country, for instance, what you are seeing is perfectly acceptable behavior as long as it is done … quietly. I myself occasionally enjoy a child who is utterly pure and without experience. Men loving children. Where is the harm in that? If the adult is kind and thoughtful and not abusive? Something else is, Gamboa Country Club will be a clothing-optional village. The pool, the beach they’re building on the canal, the spa.”
The smell of the salon, plus the heat, was getting to me. How much longer could I stand to be in the same room with this man? I said, “What do you mean, ‘Gamboa will be clothing-optional’? The place isn’t open yet?”
“On a very active but limited—only slightly limited— basis. There are still a few Zonians who live in that part of the village—a section called The Ridge. Still a few occupied houses. They run the tugboats until the transfer’s complete, but they won’t interfere, don’t worry. And they’ll be gone soon. All of them, all gone. And we’ll have the pleasures of Gamboa all to ourselves.”
The Turk wasn’t done with it. “But the point is, why shouldn’t the club’s founder appear nude on his own Web page? Besides—” Laughter … sniff! “I think Mr. Merlot enjoys being what some might consider a porno star. He doesn’t exactly fit the mold, does he? Such a big man but not what many would consider to be attractive. Also, I don’t know if you’ve noticed—and I would never mention it to him—but he is always … well … he’s never aroused in all these many photographs. Quite the opposite! So … let’s just accept this as part of his sexual fantasy. Nothing wrong with that. Not a thing! It’s what Gamboa is all about. Truly, it’s a dream come true for a certain type of man. The type of man who often has to travel the world to find what he needs. I think Mr. Merlot and his closest friends fit that description. Perhaps you do, too, Mr. Ford!” Laughter … sniff! “Let’s look at his personal collection, and I will show you what I mean—”
My head swiveled automatically; the screen came into quick focus.
Just as quickly, I turned away … but too late.
It is unfortunate that I was unprepared … no … make that too damn dull to realize in advance what the subject matter would be. Had I stopped to think even for a moment, the general content would
have been obvious … which is why I would have been spared the specific vision of something I did not want to see.
But I have a maddening gift for being inept or just plain dumb at precisely the worst possible time.
True to form, I charged ahead without consideration. I looked at the screen. Of course I looked! And what I saw will forever haunt me….
For a photograph that was nearly twenty years old, the resolution was excellent. It contained an Easter egg-bright fluorescence that was painfully, painfully familiar. It possessed the bright colors common to Polaroids of that period … the kind of Polaroid that a devoted wife and young mother might have had laminated to send to the man who was the love of her life … if the love of her life happened to be stationed somewhere in the monsoon jungles of the Back of Beyond.
But a loving wife and mother would have never taken or sent this picture.
No …
Probably couldn’t have even imagined such a nightmarish vision.
Nor could I.
But I didn’t need to imagine it because there it was in front of me.
“Mr. Ford. Mr. Ford? Are you all right?”
The cigarette-butt stench of marijuana, plus the heat and the diesel fumes, now seemed nearly overpowering. I had to take shallow, careful breaths to keep from vomiting.
To the Turk, I said, “I’m fine. Feel great, but I could use a beer. So … I’m going to head back to the bar. You can shut down the computer—I don’t need to see any more.”
“You like? What you’ve seen pleases you?”
I could feel sweat pressing through the pores of my forehead. Could feel the blood vessels throbbing beneath my skin, as beads of sweat traced their way down my cheek.
“This picture … ? It’s great.” I had to ask: “Who do you think Merlot got to … to take a picture like this? Of him and the little girl?”
The Turk considered the screen with professional objectivity. “Such cameras, even the older ones, I think, have those little timer buttons for self portraits. Press the trigger, then hurry to get into the shot. He probably took it himself. That is normally the way with such pictures.” He was still considering the photo. “An unusual-looking child, is she not? The eyes are very interesting.”
The Mangrove Coast Page 26