by John Burdett
"This pit-does it have a way out?"
"I don't have the money to pay you to let me go. I just don't have it." Looking me in the eye: "I didn't kill her."
I nod gnomically. "Suppose I tell you you've lucked out with the one cop in Bangkok who doesn't take money? Suppose I tell you I really am interested in finding out what happened to Damrong?"
I guess I should not have used her name in that tone. It causes him to flash me a look. An idea is slowly rising to the top of his mind. "How would I know that?"
"You were married to her, you two had been business associates- to some extent you still were. Maybe she confided in you more than anyone else. Maybe you didn't kill her but have a shrewd idea about why she had to die."
I think the choice of phrase why she had to die was quite serendipitous. It seems to have triggered some internal narrative that takes him off into another space. Finally he says, "Did she have to die? You haven't told me how it happened."
"I want you to tell me."
"I don't know. You haven't even told me when she died." Looking me in the eye again: "When did she die, exactly?"
"Good question," I admit. "But not strictly relevant. Thanks to technology, many things can be done by remote control today that needed a hands-on approach in more primitive times."
Now he is assessing me in a different way. Now he is more scared than ever. I was fishing, though, and have no idea why my words should have had such a profound effect. The expression on his face is of a drowning man. I shift my chair a little closer. "Tell me," I say softly, "tell me. Maybe I can help."
A shrug. "Help? I'm between a rock and a hard place. You let me out today, I'd be lucky to even make it to the airport."
I nod sagely, then abandon the chair to stand up and pace a little while I speak. "I see. So you weren't supposed to keep those clips on your laptop. Am I right?"
Shaking his head in wonder at my understatement: "Yeah, you could say that."
"So why keep them there?"
"Knee-jerk opportunism. It's been a problem all my life. Great tactics, no strategy worth a dime. It was dumb. I've been beating myself up ever since. Discipline is what I don't have. If I did, I'd be rich and free."
"You thought having the clips might give you leverage one day when you needed it?"
"Right."
"Do you know who the Thai Chinese player is?"
"Not exactly. Someone big. Ajao paw."
"Yes, a godfather. You could say that. You weren't supposed to keep him on your hard disk, so I suppose the drill was for you to set up the cameras, record onto a DVD, and give it to her so she could choose when and how to turn on the screws. Why did you disobey orders?"
Looking away: "Who trusts anyone in this town?" A pause, then: "I didn't think about it all that clearly. Like you say, I was looking for leverage."
"You took a great risk for an illusory security. Fear? Yes, I can see how that might work. Perhaps you were too used to her tantrums, her shifts of plan, her sadistic way of playing on your heartstrings. Yes, I can see how the revelation that you have kept a life-threatening record of her performance with a jao paw might swing things your way at a crucial moment in time. And there was the Englishman too. I guess she must have been blackmailing him?"
He shrugs. "Some yuppie jerk who kept his brains in his dick. No great challenge. Especially not for her."
I place a finger against my nose, not for the posture but because I'm torn between two paths. I know the Englishman has twice been to look for him at his apartment over the past few days until one of the guards divulged that Baker was in jail. Instinct chooses reticence. I cough and change the subject. "The jao paw, though — he was different?"
He almost sniggers. "I've never seen her even slightly nervous before. She was with him, though. You saw the clip. She pulled out all the stops for him. I've filmed her working a hundred times-I never saw her perform like that before." Giving me a suddenly less fearful look: "Send me down. I'm not buying into your game. You can't scare me the way he can, whoever he is." His jaw is set, his mind made up.
What I have to say next will cost me a lot, but I find I don't have a lot of choice.
"She wasn't a woman, she was a disease," I say, still pacing, "a disease that infected the blood of half the men she ever serviced." He raises his head to stare at me. "In her hands your body was a penny-whistle that she could play anything on. But it wasn't what she did to your body alone, it was what she did to your heart-right? She knew how to set it on fire. She was an addiction worse than crack, worse than yaa baa-worse than heroin. Isn't that the way you put it at our first meeting?" He seems to be daring me to carry on. I pace the cell, allowing my anguish to show. "How did she do it? Is the sex instinct in men really so all-powerful? Or are we talking about something else, I ask myself, something even more fundamental? Had she discovered something most women are only vaguely aware of? Had she found a way of suggesting, ever so subtly, that she could cure even the base anguish of being alive? That between her thighs you would find the peace you crave? That she actually understood you? The holy grail, in other words, that no man ever really finds?" I pause to stare at him. "Was it really the sex, Dan, that hooked you, or was it the surprising, uncanny way she had of soothing you, as if she understood your problem?"
He is staring at me in amazement. Perhaps I should stop here, but once you've started on the path to crucifixion, you may as well suck it all up. "Of course, the final experience was the very opposite of that. What you got was a lethal dose of heartburn after all, when you realized she'd been playing you along like the top-notch pro she was, right? How sorry are you that she's dead?"
His features have quite altered. Malice has returned to his eyes. "So it was you. I figured it might be, but it seemed too much of a coincidence. You're that cop who fell for her like a sack of potatoes?"
"I want to find the people who did this, Dan," I say, avoiding his gaze. "Even if you were an accomplice, you were pretty minor. There's money and organization here, Dan, way beyond anything you're capable of. I would bear that in mind when the time comes to prosecute. I could probably make sure you didn't do more than five years, and I'd try to make sure it was somewhere, shall we say, survivable? With luck you would even be able to avoid rape, HIV, and tuberculosis."
With sudden contempt: "You don't know what you're asking. The interview's over."
He turns away, so I have to go up to him to twist his head around. "He hasn't come to see you while you've been down here, has he?" To his look of blank incomprehension, I add, "Of course, you didn't expect him to. Strange, though, don't you think? You're on excellent terms with a Brit called Tom who dresses too much like a lawyer not to be one-unless of course he's an estate agent-who likes to visit you as much as I do. In fact, he visits you after I visit you. That must be either because he is having you watched, or because you call him like an obedient slave whenever the law comes knocking on your door. He stars in your private movie collection too. Indeed, he seems to have more than an amateur's interest in the ancient art of pornography and enjoys a privileged seat at rehearsals." I let Baker throw me another of his wild looks, but he does not follow up with a verbal response. "But when you're in trouble with the law, he doesn't lift a finger to help you." I offer a contemplative stare. "At least not a visible finger."
He has folded his arms in a tight, prolonged shrug. He is shivering again. "Go fuck yourself."
"Ah! When you have known the scorpion, you are not afraid of the toad, right?" To his aggressive frown: "That's what the Tibetans said when the British replaced the Chinese as their chief tormentor. Now they've got the scorpion back. It's called progress. I think you find yourself in similar straits: better a toad like me than a scorpion like Tom the Brit, Tom the Lawyer, Tom the Yuppie-Tom the Enforcer, perhaps?"
He thinks I want him to look at me, but I twist him in the opposite direction, toward the open cell door. "I'm condemning you to freedom, Dan. If you want to stay here, you'll have to come up with so
me serious answers."
He gives me a wild look and shakes his head. "Jailor," I call in Thai, "throw this bum out of here."
"They'll kill me," Baker says, suddenly frantic.
"I know. That's how we'll catch them, isn't it?"
"I'll run away again."
"Doubt it. Your mug is on every Immigration computer in every Immigration booth all over Southeast Asia — and let's face it, your last bid for freedom was a little uncomfortable to say the least. Try to escape again, by all means. Maybe next time I'll let the Enforcer get to you before I do."
16
I'm about to pay a visit to the Parthenon Club for Men.
I'm in a four-button, double-breasted blazer by Zegna, a spread-collar linen shirt by Givenchy, tropical wool flannel slacks, and best of all, patent leather slip-ons by Baker-Benjes, which uncoplike wardrobe is entirely thanks to my junior share of profits from my mother's bar. My cologne is a charming little number by Russell Simmons. I am a humble self-effacing Buddhist, so you can believe me when I say that I look-and smell-sexy as hell. The Thai genes give me a haunted look; the farang genes provide an illusion of efficiency: a high-tech dick or a third world ghost buster? These concepts are not mutually exclusive.
Although the soi is narrow and ends in a brick wall, the Parthenon itself is a gigantic, neo-Roman affair: four blinding white stories of columns, kitsch and camp, with, I am afraid, a great many red lights. A crescent gravel drive leads to the Doric uprights and the crimson, brass-studded double doors. Over the threshold we find an Oriental identity crisis.
For a moment I'm in the Paris of Truffaut, an old French roue who hired my mother for a few months when I was still a kid. He loved Maxim's in the rue Royale, and for a moment I'm distracted by the Parthenon's lady lamps. These lamps are five times the size of those in Maxim's, though, and factory products: the gigantic bronze women are identical in every case. Never mind — my brain is finally processing the decor in a more global way. Louis XV bowlegged chaises longues, gilded coffee tables, tassels in purple, velvet, and old gold; a domed ceiling where plump cupids hunt; Venus de Milo and other amputees on pedestals; and tiered balconies leading upward to the heaven of private rooms for rent by the hour. And there is a stage, empty at the moment save for an unnerving stream of electric blue lighting that might herald the arrival of a UFO: fusion, I suppose.
A mamasan arrives, heavily rouged and wearing a kind of eighteenth-century ballgown; the body inside is not much older than twenty-seven, however. I am sitting on one of the sofas facing the stage, and she kneels down next to me, careful to keep her head below mine. She explains that since it is officially a club, I need to become an official member, a chore that is completed in five minutes and consists mostly of taking a print of my credit card, during which time she has repeated over and over that the member list is secret and kept in an encrypted form on one single non-LAN computer.
I have come early; it is a few minutes past eight in the evening. I am the only man in sight, and now that I am a fully paid-up member of this exclusive club, rewards appear. They come stealthily from many directions; before I know it, I'm surrounded. Four are sitting with me on my sofa, about six others are sitting on chairs, watching and listening with respect, interest, and a certain glassy-eyed look that would morph into adoration if I gave the slightest sign of encouragement. All of them are wearing different kinds of ballgowns with the usual emphasis on powdered cleavage, rouge, and purple eyeshadow. I'm thinking of Damrong while I scan the faces. They are all young and beautiful, of course, but none exhibit that kind of radiance, not even the katoey: it took me a while to spot her/him, all trussed up like Marie Antoinette. Only a very particular kind of self-consciousness gives him away-I would never have been able to tell from his/her face. I am conscious, however, that this Oriental club will doubtless follow a feudal hierarchy, and sounds of female voices come drifting down from the higher balconies. As discreetly as I can, I beckon to the mamasan and point upstairs. A couple of soft words from her make my new friends disappear. As she accompanies me up the velvet staircase with gilded handrail, she mentions, sotto voce, that the girls on the second floor are particularly highly valued, by which she means they charge double up here. Once again we go through the beauty parade. Here the flesh is somewhat whiter, indicating a larger component of Chinese genes, and there is a good deal more shrewd life behind the fluttering eyelids, but I do not see the kind of awareness I am looking for. No katoeys either.
The mamasan is standing nearby and sees that I'm not entirely satisfied. I catch her eye, and she subtly beckons me to take the stairs to the top floor. On the way up I take more notice of her: efficient, hardworking, but far too young and attractive to be a glorified usher. She notices, of course, that I am looking at her, but gives no come-on. I understand. This millionaires' club follows the same basic ground rules as my mother's humble establishment. It is a matter of great political importance that the mamasan does not actively promote her own services unless all the available professionals have been rejected. On the top floor there are five prima donnas on chaise longues with suspiciously perfect bosoms, China-doll faces, and the indolence of movie stars. Here the only katoey is truly queen;'s/he lounges languidly at the center of the group and offers me a bitchy stare. The mamasan and I exchange the subtlest nod. The private rooms are a mere flight of stairs away.
She has undressed, showered, and appeared in a bathrobe. Her name is Nok. She clearly expected me to have undressed while she was showering. Since I am still fully clothed, she applies herself to unbuttoning my shirt. I have not yet formulated a plan of action and find myself torn. I know that Chanya would not mind if I slept with Nok in the line of duty; she would probably not think it worth mentioning. Nor would I feel any particular qualms in doing so; I am prevented, however, by a very Thai interpretation of Buddhist teaching. Both Chanya and I have become quite pious since we knew she was pregnant; we do not want to generate any negative karma at this time that might affect the child. My problem, therefore, is how to get Nok to talk without sleeping with her.
While she is working on my fly, she allows her robe to fall open, and I figure it would be impolite not to caress her breasts. The immediate flash of intimacy causes us both to relax. When she has pulled off all my clothes except for my shorts, I explain about Chanya and her condition. A Buddhist herself, Nok understands but does not falter in her attentions.
That is pretty much how we remain during the interview, with her gently massaging my cock through the shorts, using the palm of her hand, and me studying her breasts, paying particular attention to the network of veins leading to her large brown nipples, which I begin to rub slightly nervously between finger and thumb. In view of the fact that I have decided not to let my attentions follow the usual hackneyed path downward, I have to be more than usually inventive with regard to the mammaries. I try both alternating and simultaneous jiggles of each breast, underclutches and overgropes, squeezing-with-fingers-apart, squeezing-with-closed-hands, and other borrowings from the martial arts. I study her expression to ensure that humor does not trespass into offensive satire, but she's a good sport, and the only objection she makes from time to time is jikatee: tickles.
"Do you want me to suck you?"
I make a face expressing a polite and reluctant no thank you. She smiles, pleased with me. "You're a good man. There aren't many like you left."
"Well, the circumstances of my own birth were not ideal. I want the kid to have every chance."
She nods wisely and watches my fingers while they rub her nipples as if they were money. "I know what you mean." She beams. She had assumed I was a spoiled rich boy, like all the others. There is a subtle change in her use of Thai: more countrified, more idiomatic, lower class. Before long, we're exchanging stories about growing up in poverty in Thailand and the problem with financing smallholdings. Her parents own more than twenty acres of not-bad farming land in Isaan, near Kong Kaen, but it is virtually impossible to make a profit because of t
he agricultural subsidies in the G8 nations, a topic on which she seems to be an expert. I decide to deepen the interview by decisively taking both her breasts in my hands and holding them for a moment in the way of irresistible objets d'art. She looks down at my hands and smiles. "Siaow," she says: horny. "Are you sure you don't want to do it?"
"Sure," I say, but she has noticed a certain stirring. Vanity requires her to play the temptress, but I catch her chin gently and raise her face again to look into my eyes. "I know you don't really enjoy this kind of work," I say.
There is no better phrase to get a whore talking. Now I am receiving in great detail the saga of her fall, and how she might have enjoyed a wonderful loving marriage with a wonderful loving man and been able to live a good honest Buddhist life, were it not for her parents' indebtedness and the need for her to send at least ten thousand baht per month home just to keep them and her siblings alive and well. People don't realize that having enough to eat is not even half the story-what about medical bills, school fees, all the things that you need to be fully human in this world? I say I suppose all the girls working here come from similar backgrounds. She agrees, most are poor country girls who managed to get enough sophistication to be eligible to work here; otherwise they would be working in bars very much like my mother's. Except for the Chinese prima donnas on the top floor, who have spent small fortunes modifying their bodies and often come from more affluent backgrounds. I say that a friend of mine also belongs to the Parthenon, which is what prompted me to join. He was particularly impressed, I say, by a girl called Damrong.
There is a momentary hesitation in her caress, before the hand resumes the mesmeric massage. "You're his friend?" Her tone is more formal, tinged with fear.