“This is Nusa Dua, Greg, where everything is bigger and better!” Budi informed his friend. “Nusa Dua means two islands, and was connected to the main island by a causeway several decades ago so developers could build 5-star resorts for the rich. They spent a fortune reshaping this area to make it as Western as possible, with Balinese charm and climate.”
“You mean golf isn’t native to Bali?” Greg smirked.
Budi laughed. “I’ll never see the attraction of golf. The way Westerners and Japanese play, it’s as much a sport as knitting. They drive electric carts, hire caddies to do all the work, and exert themselves for about two minutes during an entire afternoon, then complain how poorly they played. For that privilege, they pay several hundred dollars. Indonesians may not understand Western fascination with golf, but we’ll gladly build golf courses and take your money!”
Greg nodded. “I’ve never felt the allure of golf either. I prefer swimming or tennis. Something that requires less equipment and more energy.”
Budi’s sinister smile appeared. “There are several golf courses on Nusa Dua that’d make great places to hide dead bodies. I caddied a few times and noticed golfers never go near the rough areas with bushes or trees. They prefer to take a penalty stroke and use a new ball. Fences keep animals out and the courses are empty at night. Perfect place to stash a corpse, huh?”
“Did you enjoy torturing animals, Budi? Were you abused as a child? Maybe you’re Bali’s bule killer?” Greg joked.
“Yeah, I bash rich bules who tip poorly at my salons,” Budi chuckled, realizing his humor might be in poor taste when Greg remained quiet. “Sorry, Greg. No more dead rich bule jokes, okay?”
Budi’s quips didn’t bother Greg. He was wondering how long to continue the search. He could spend all summer looking for his uncle since he didn’t have anything else he absolutely had to do. It hadn’t even been two full days and he was frustrated. How would he feel after a week or a month?
“Greg? Hey, Greg?” Budi repeated. “We’re here!”
“Sorry, Budi. Guess I drifted off for a minute.”
“You all right? We don’t have to do this tonight. I can run in and tell Cass you’re not feeling well,” Budi offered, concerned he might be trying to pack too much into a single day.
“I’m fine, Budi. Honest.”
Budi nodded slowly. “If you want to leave once we’re inside, just say so. I’ve got the taxi driver’s number and he’s promised to be here five minutes after we text him.”
“Excellent idea,” Greg grinned. “Always plan your escape before any social function.”
Pointing to the luxury vehicles lining the horseshoe driveway, Budi remarked, “Looks like all the high rollers are here tonight.”
“Twice more, and that expression is etched in your memory forever,” Greg reminded Budi.
As they approached, giant double teak doors swung open, and a huge smile plastered on a small brown face popped out from behind them. “Budi dear!” the smile gushed.
“Greg, this is Punk, one of our hosts,” Budi grinned politely as he hugged Punk. “He and Cass live here together.”
Greg extended his hand, but Punk pushed it aside, preferring a long sensual hug instead.
“Budi, where you find this handsome bule?” Punk purred enviously. “I thought all the good bule already taken!”
“We met at Made’s Cafe and it was love at first sight, so hands off sweetie,” Budi warned, knowing that telling Punk was as good as issuing a press release.
As Punk led them into the living room to join the other guests, Budi whispered, “Cass’s boyfriend, sketch artist, and occasional pickpocket. Keep one hand on your valuables when Punk’s near you.”
Greg quickly brushed his hand against a buttoned shirt pocket, grateful for Liana’s earlier tip.
Entering the living room, Punk clinked a champagne flute. “Everyone, this Budi, and handsome new boyfriend, Greg.”
A chorus of greetings welcomed Greg to Bali. Patting his few remaining hair strands into place, Cass lumbered across the room to greet his guests. Wearing a floor-length black tunic to minimize his bulk, he approached with open arms. “Budi, how lovely to see you tonight,” Cass embraced his stylist. “I’m honored you brought your new love interest to meet us.”
“Thanks for having us,” Greg smiled. “You have a marvelous home.” Pointing to French doors at the far end of the room, he added, “And a priceless ocean view.”
“You haven’t seen the half of it!” Cass roared. “The view from the master bedroom is simply to die for!” When Budi and Greg glanced uncomfortably at each other, Cass regretted his remark. “Fat chance of that happening, is there?” he bellowed.
Greg chuckled politely at Cass’ self-deprecating humor. “How long have you lived here?”
“This home? About four years. I joined the State Department during the Reagan years. I was banished to Jakarta during the reign of Bush Lite, but fell in love with the climate and people. I resigned when State wanted to send me to South America. What brings you to Bali, my dear Greg?”
“My uncle persuaded me to meet him here on holiday,” Greg answered, substituting holiday for vacation as the locals did.
“Maybe you know him,” Budi added. “Ted Simmons from Los Angeles. Wealthy, retired businessman. Mid-sixties. Very handsome. Silver hair, tall, tan, trim.”
Cass shook his head. “Sorry, kids. Doesn’t ring any bells for me. Where’s he staying?”
“He was at the Four Seasons here on Nusa Dua,” Greg explained. “He checked out before I arrived. I’m sure he left a message for me at the front desk, but they insist otherwise.”
“You mean you don’t know where your uncle is?” Cass gasped, raising his free hand to his mouth. “You poor thing! I swear, sometimes I wonder what this world’s coming to. Punk? Where’s Punk?”
Punk dutifully appeared at Cass’s side. “Punk, what was the name of that boy whose German friend disappeared last month?”
“He’s name Anton,” Punk replied seductively, eyeing Greg’s crotch. “Cute, blond Chinese boy. Very oral.”
“Punk, don’t be naughty!” Cass hissed. “No one asked about his bedroom talents.” Turning to Greg, Cass giggled, “You’ll have to forgive Punk. He has a one trick mind. Anyway, Anton met his German on-line. Like so many bules, the German had multiple cyber boyfriends. When the German got here, Anton met him for lunch. They dropped by here for cocktails later that evening. The German kept getting texts from other Bali boys, but Anton was determined to hang onto him. That evening, Anton left the German at his hotel, but when Anton called the next day, the hotel said the German had checked out. Anton kept calling, texting, and e-mailing him, but never got a reply. The German just disappeared. Isn’t that dreadful?”
“What a shame!” Budi lamented. “Poor Anton Langanki.”
“Anton Pramana,” Punk corrected Budi. “Galleria hair salon. By Matahari. You know?”
“Yes, I know that Anton, too,” Budi lied. “What do you suppose happened to his German?”
Cass leaned toward Budi and Greg, then whispered, “I’m not one to spread tales, but there’s been talk of a serial killer.” Cass straightened, and shook his head knowingly. “Anything’s possible these days. Fanatics bombing churches and bars and hotels. Terrorists crawling all over Southeast Asia, armed to the tits. ISIS is recruiting like mad to get our young people involved in its fight. The buggers have mastered the use of social media for recruiting, and Indonesia is fertile ground for them. God knows what atrocities those assassins are plotting!”
“Cass, I suppose you still have media and police connections from your days as a diplomat,” Greg guessed. “Do they give the serial killer theory any credence?”
Cass closed his eyes and shook his head sadly. “They tell me no one’s interested until dead bodies start blocking traffic at the airport. Gay bules come and go, mostly in secret, so no one will lose any sleep when one of us slips off the island without returning texts or calls.”
“Yes, I imagine you’re right,” Greg muttered. “Still, shouldn’t someone warn tourists so they’ll be more careful?”
Cass regarded Greg sympathetically for a moment. “You know about the October bombing in 2002? A bar was bombed and two-hundred people were killed, mostly Australians. Three hundred more were injured.”
Greg nodded.
“A week after the bombing, hotel occupancy was less than five percent. Tens of thousands of people lost jobs. Businesses went under. Real estate prices plummeted. Foreigners were afraid to visit or live here. The central government sent ten thousand troops to patrol Bali streets, and gradually a sense of security returned. Since the attack in 2002, more than six thousand private security guards have been hired by hotels, bars, restaurants, malls, and other tourist destinations to check everyone entering for explosives. It took Bali several years to fully recover from two separate terrorist attacks. This island is slightly larger than Delaware, but has four times as many people. There’s about four million permanent residents, and each year, about four million tourists visit Bali. Almost a one-to-one ratio. The average tourist spends three thousand dollars during a ten-day stay. The average Balinese earns about three thousand dollars a year. If we lose a single tourist, someone on Bali doesn’t eat. No one wants another incident that’ll scare tourists away. Believe me, no hotel, travel agent, government official, or reporter will sound the alarm without hard evidence. Nobody wants to yell fire in a crowded theater, only to discover it was just one of the ushers smoking in the back row. I hope you understand.”
Before Greg could reply, Cass suddenly switched gears, and cried, “I’m a terrible host! You poor boys have nothing to eat or drink.” Sliding between Greg and Budi, Cass locked arms as he led them to the buffet table. “You must try the white wine. I made it myself. Did everything but crush the grapes! There’s a mouth-watering selection of fresh fish, cakes, rice, and pasta.” Releasing his guests, Cass ordered them to dig in while he mingled.
“Very clever the way you obtained Anton’s last name and workplace,” Greg complimented Budi quietly as they filled their plates.
“I’m quite amazing,” Budi grinned, pleased with himself. “Hey, here comes an interesting couple. Tatt and Burung. Try not to stare.”
Greg looked up and spotted a small Asian with a tattoo-covered white man approaching. He realized it was rude, but Greg couldn’t take his eyes off the middle-aged white man’s intricate bodywork.
Budi poked Greg as he greeted his friends. “Tatt! Burung! When am I gonna see you at the salon again?”
Burung chirped several times, each slightly different in tone and duration. Tatt interpreted in his heavy Australian accent. “B’rung says we’ll be by next week, mate. Been a might busy at the shop.”
“Great,” Budi grinned. “Any additions to your collection since I saw you last? By the way, the gentleman gaping at your arms and chest is my American boyfriend, Greg.”
Tatt pumped Greg’s right arm as he extended his best throaty-voiced welcome. “Right nice ta make your acquaintance, mate. It’s okay ta ask.”
Greg blinked. “Ask what?”
“First question every bloke asks. Do I have tattoos all over? Yes, I do! Even the places you can’t see,” Tatt roared.
Burung chirped at length. “I best not translate,” Tatt apologized. “B’rung’s remarks ain’t fit for polite company. Budi, I got me a new design on the small o’ me back. It’s a Maori warrior.” Tatt tilted his back and hiked up his shirt for Greg and Budi to examine the new artwork.
Budi traced the Maori warrior with his index finger. “Beautiful work. Burung, you’re truly a great artist!”
Greg studied the tattoos, trying to identify the common denominator. “Zebra, panda, kangaroo, Maori warrior, Eiffel Tower, Petronas Tower. They’re all things usually associated with a specific location. Do you have a tattoo for each place you’ve visited?”
Tatt’s face lit up and Burung chirped for a full minute. “Budi, this one has a smart brain,” Tatt declared as he slapped Greg on the back, then he and Burung headed back to the living room.
“Very impressive,” Budi complimented Greg. “Like most people, I never saw the pattern until they told me. So, Professor, can you guess what Burung inked on Tatt’s dick?”
“No idea, but I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.”
“Himself!” Budi whispered. “Get it? Places Tatt’s been? He’s been in Burung.”
“Ohhhhhhhh,” Greg groaned. “That’s taking a theme too far, don’t you think?”
“I try not to judge them too harshly,” Budi replied quietly. “They’ve had a rough time.”
“What’s Burung’s story?” Greg asked. “Can he talk?”
“If he can, none of us have ever heard him. Tatt found him naked on the beach one morning, badly beaten and nearly dead. Tatt’s a doctor, so he took Burung home and nursed him back to health. Burung started chirping and Tatt figured out what all the chirps mean. Now they’re inseparable. That’s why we call him Burung. It’s Bahasa for bird since he chirps like one. They probably operate the world’s only combination medical clinic and tattoo parlor, and they’re each other’s best client!”
“What a story,” Greg murmured. “Did Tatt ever find out who beat Burung?”
Budi shook his head. “Tatt tried to get Burung to tell him, but he refuses to chirp about anything before they met. We don’t know where he’s from, if he has family, or anything else. We’re pretty sure he wasn’t a high roller.”
Greg smiled. “You’re serious about your vocabulary building exercises, aren’t you?”
“How else am I gonna become a high roller?” Budi giggled.
“How long ago did Tatt find Burung on the beach?”
Budi tried to recall when he first met the couple. “Quite a while. Maybe a year. Why?”
“Just trying to fit all the puzzle pieces together. Serial killers usually stick to a very rigid pattern, going after a certain age, gender, occupation. Burung doesn’t fit the pattern though. He’s got nothing in common with my uncle, except being gay. Then again......” Greg’s voice trailed off.
“What?” Budi demanded to know.
“Suppose Burung was beaten by an older bule, who left him for dead. He doesn’t look to be much of a threat to anyone, but Tatt’s a powerfully built guy. Working together, they could lure older bules to a quiet spot and beat them to death.”
Budi frowned. “They’re both so gentle. I can’t imagine either of them hurting anyone. They work long hours, have lots of friends, and are very visible. It doesn’t fit.”
Greg nodded. “Sorry for being so suspicious. I’m sure you’re right. They probably have nothing to do with the disappearance of my uncle or the German.”
“It’s all right,” Budi assured his friend. “We’ve got to be very creative with the information we have.”
Recalling their earlier conversation, Greg asked if Tatt and Burung had one of the rare relationships with love, sex, and security.
“Nope,” Budi replied without a moment’s hesitation. “I’m sure they love each other, but they’re not monogamous. They have sex with other couples quite often. You’re determined to find at least one perfect couple to prove me wrong, aren’t you?”
“I’d like to find one ideal relationship,” Greg admitted, “just to restore my faith in romance. Proving you wrong is just a nice bonus!”
Another mixed couple wandered to the buffet table, so Budi made introductions. “Greg, these are my friends Tony from Milan and Ari from Jakarta. They live a couple houses down from Cass. And this is my new boyfriend, Greg, from San Diego.”
Greg shook hands, guessing Tony to be near his uncle’s age, and Ari to be about Budi’s age. With salt-and-pepper hair and all three t’s, Tony was aging well. Ari was short, thin, and medium chocolate, so Greg guessed he was Javanese Muslim.
“Do you live on Bali?” Tony asked.
“This is my first visit,” Greg smiled. “I’m meeti
ng my uncle for a summer holiday.”
“How long you stay?” Ari asked pointedly, trying to assess whether Greg was worth knowing.
“Depends on my uncle since he’s paying,” Greg replied evasively.
Dismissing Greg as a tourist, Ari turned to Budi. “You hear my cousin Iqbal boarding house burn down last week?”
Budi was genuinely concerned. “No! I heard about the boarding house fire, but didn’t know Iqbal lived there. Is he okay?”
Ari nodded grimly. “He lose everything. Clothes, DVD player, TV. He stay with us until find another place. I feel so sadly for him. Second boarding house fire for him same year!”
“I know,” Budi sympathized. “He’s about my size. Will you tell him to stop by my apartment? I have some clothes he can have.”
“You so kindness, dear,” Ari thanked Budi with enough artificial sweetness to give a lab rat cancer. “No offense, Budi, but I blame Chinese for fire. Chinese businessmen own many boarding house. Only concern with profit so never spend money for making repair. Government should close all boarding house until fix good!” Ari concluded angrily.
“Where would everyone live?” Tony asked, trying to soften his lover’s position. “Tens of thousands of people live in Bali’s boarding houses. They can’t afford anything better, and they can’t all live with us, Ari, dear.”
“Then Chinese owner should be force to fix so they not burn down!” Ari cried.
Cass entered the discussion. “Only some of the owners are Chinese. Many are Balinese Hindus who barely eke out a living. If the government forces repairs, landlords must raise rents. The people who live in boarding houses won’t be able to afford to live there anymore. It’s a nasty economic problem, but you can’t blame the Chinese for everything bad that happens in Indonesia. It’s not their fault Bali has so many workers who can only afford substandard housing.”
“You wrong, Cass!” Ari insisted. “Chinese and Europeans control our economy many years. Now we got American, too! They should fix problem. They got lotta money. What they care few Indonesian burn to death or lose all they things, with no insurance.”
Bali Bule Hunter Page 5