Bangkok Knights
Stories by
Collin Piprell
© 1991 by Collin Piprell. All rights reserved First Edition 1989. Second Edition 1991
Editions Duang Kamol Siam Square G.P.O. Box 427 Bangkok, Thailand
Typeset by COMSET Limited Partnership
Printed in Thailand by
D. K. Printing House, Ltd. 205/54-57 Ngamwongwan Rd. Bangkok 10210
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN 974-210-537-5
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
SALVAGE OPERATION
LEARY’S LAW
SID’S WAKE
BILLBOARD
LIFE-SUPPORT SYSTEMS
I.
II.
III
IV.
GETTING AWAY FROM IT ALL
LOTUS EATERS
SNAPSHOTS
CRUNCH
LOOKING FOR MISS GOODBAR
LEARY’S EXORCISM
CHILD OF THE ENLIGHTENMENT
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
MOTHER MAKES A MATCH
TOO MANY WOMEN
FEEDING THE DUCKS
INSTINCT, OR GENES, OR SOMETHING
A DAY AT THE BEACH
Any resemblance between characters, guesthouses, or bars in these stories and real people or businesses is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
Versions of the following stories have appeared in print before:
“Lotus Eaters” (Dateline Bangkok, Foreign Correspondents’ Club of Thailand, January-March, 1989); “Getting Away From It AIT (Bangkok Post, January 17,1988); “Mother Makes a Match” (Bangkok Post, June 28,1987); “Sid’s Wake” (Bangkok Post, September 20,1987). The latter three stories were printed under the name ‘Ham Fiske’.
SALVAGE OPERATION
“I’m not a crook!” screamed Nixon. “Auk! Not a crook!”
At least I think it was Nixon. The other birds had picked up the expression now, and you didn’t know who to believe. Five mynah birds in bamboo cages hung around the wrought-iron enclosure in back of the Cheri-Tone. Nixon was the biggest and baddest of the five; he also managed to look twice as depraved as his closest rival. I believe he had the avian equivalent of mange, and the feathers on his head stuck out in all directions.
“You crud! Auk! You crud!”
“I’m going to wring your neck, Nixon,” I said in a quiet voice. I just about meant it, too. After all, it was a Saturday morning and he was kind of shrieking.
“Hello, hello. Sa-wasdee krap. Auk!” The whole assembly welcomed Eddie as he emerged from the back of the guesthouse.
“Get stuffed,” said Eddie.
“Get stuffed! Hello. Get stuffed!” rejoined Nixon, backed up by one or two of the others.
“You want a beer?” asked my host He looked a little under the weather, and I had the feeling I was supposed to say ‘yes’.
“No thanks, Eddie. I guess I had my fill last night.”
“Hoo, boy. Me, too. Yeah, you’re right; best have a coffee.”
I had come over for a late breakfast with Eddie Alder at the Cheri-Tone Guesthouse.
“How’s business?” I asked.
“Well It´s lucky I have a contempt for money let’s put it that way.”
“Not a full house?”
“We’ve got two Canadian ladies who’ve just gone off to the Seventh Day Adventists in search of high adventure and natural peanut butter. And as though that’s not enough, we’ve got another guest, even. I haven’t seen this specimen yet, but Lek tells me he’s straight in from Kuwait and he’s a perfect gentleman. Of course Lek thinks anybody with a clean shirt and no backpack is a perfect gentleman.”
Lek was Eddie’s wife; she and her sister Meow really ran the joint. Eddie only kind of hung around with the birds and worked on his novel.
“From Kuwait?” I said. “What’s he doing here? I didn’t mean to cast aspersions on the Cheri-Tone, but funseekers from the Middle East generally scorned such modest accommodation, and this particular guesthouse wasn’ t within a convenient stagger of any of the conventional nightspots.
“I don’t know, but here’s our man now; let’s ask him.”
The young man who’d just appeared wore a preoccupied air. He also had big red ears that stuck out and a little blond moustache, the kind you sort of notice after a while—you say *Oh,yeah. That’s a moustache. He’s growing a moustache, I think.’
It turned out his name was Trevor Perry and he was from Norwich. He said he’d arrived from Kuwait late the night before, his flight having been delayed eleven hours. Exhausted, he’d been. He told the taxi driver he wanted the Sheraton Hotel, and he was promptly transported straight to the Cheri-Tone.
“I was too tired to argue,” Trevor said, running a fingertip over the blond fuzz on his lip and sighing mightily.
“If that doesn’t beat all,” Eddie mused. “Do you think Lek’s started paying off the airport cabbies?” Normally, of course, it’d be some backpack traveler trying to get to the Cheri-Tone who’d be shanghaied to the Sheraton.
”Do you want a coffee, Mr. Trevor?” Lek called from the doorway.
“No, thanks.”
“How about a cold beer?” said Eddie, his whole manner suggesting anybody just off the plane from Kuwait who didn’ t want one had to do some serious reflecting on his basic aims and priorities.
“No, it’s okay. I’m waiting for my champagne to chill.”
“You’re doing what?”
“I’m waiting for my champagne to chill.”
“Ah. Okay... When did you put it in the cooler?”
“An hour ago.”
“Maybe it’s ready,” Eddie suggested.
It wasn’ t; it needed another half-hour, in Trevor’s judgment. In the meantime, he told us a little about himself.
It seemed he was a traffic engineer from Norwich working in Kuwait, and this was the first time he’d been in the Far East. Trevor was not a reticent type, for an Englishman, and before long we discovered that this was kind of a business vacation he was on. But it wasn’t traffic he was interested in, no matter how much of this commodity there was to be found in Bangkok. No, what he was after was a wife.
“Eighteen months I’ve been in Kuwait,” he told us, “without a break. And I have to go back.”
Was he on parole, then? Why did he have to go back?
“I’m buying a house in the U.K. In Norwich. And I want to get a flat in London — as an investment, you know.”
“So you’ ve come to Bangkok to get stuck into the gogo bars, shopping for a missus to look after this ancestral home you’re acquiring,” Eddie said, summing it up with a flourish.
“No, no. No, I’ ve heard enough about that kind of thing from some of my associates back in the Gulf. No, that’s not for me. But I do need a wife. You can’t live in Kuwait longer than two years if you don’ t have a wife.” For a callow youth with reddish jug ears and a sort-of moustache, Trevor could do a remarkable job of looking like a man wise beyond his years. Especially when he stroked at his upper lip with a forefinger and gazed sternly off into the middle distance. “You want to have a woman with an education — someone you can talk to, and someone who can raise your children. Someone you can introduce to the boss’ wife. You really want to know something about her background.”
“How long do you plan to be in Thailand?” asked Eddie.
�
�Three weeks,” said Trevor. “Three weeks here, and then three weeks in Manila.”
“So I guess it’s Manila for the honeymoon, right?” I asked.
Trevor chose to take me seriously: “Oh, no; I’m not going to get married right away. No, first I have twenty-five dates lined up in Bangkok, and thirty more in Manila. These are going to be like preliminary interviews.”
Eddie and I looked at each other in wonderment. This in-other-ways-unremarkable young fellow who’d never been to the Far East before was apparently contemplating fifty-five dates in six weeks. And he claimed he was going to stay away from girlie bars. Evidently, traffic engineers knew things about planning and scheduling the rest of us mortals did not.
Indeed, Trevor went back to his room to fetch his schedule and he showed us, with understandable pride, the projected outlines of his first vacation in eighteen months. It wouldn’t have been possible, of course, without his specialized background and the use of modern computer technology. He had employed a computer and a word-processing program, over the past year, to correspond with several hundred ladies.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds — I only used four different standard letter series. With the word processor, changing the salutations and any other reference to names is no trick at all. The computer, on the other hand, lets me keep track of sequencing — where I’ve got to with each candidate — and it files the ladies according to criteria such as physical attributes, educational background, and distance from their residences to the base of operations in the field. In this case, the Sheraton Hotel, Bangkok.
“When it came time to make my trip, it was a simple matter of informing the computer of my requirements, specifying the anticipated length of stay and so on, and this is what it gave me.”
On the print-out there was a list of fifty-five names, addresses, personal notes, dates, times, and even suggested locations for the assignations. It seemed the floppy disk had become the little black book of the Space Age, at least if you were about to do some gallivanting on the scale Trevor had in mind.
“Before it’s over, I’ll have made considerable investments in postage, transportation, meals, etc.,” said Trevor, “but I expect it will have been worth it”
Eddie and I expressed amazement and admiration at his resourcefulness and his grasp of modern technology. For his part, Trevor’s ears burned vivid red with modest pride and his sort-of moustache virtually quivered with some similar emotion.
Not that he didn’t enjoy the ambience at the Cheri-Tone, but his plan specified the Sheraton as the optimum base of operations, as he’d said, and he would be leaving to take up residence there that very afternoon. In the meantime, perhaps we would like to join him in a glass of champagne to celebrate the inauguration of this mass courtship?
With no noticeable hesitation, Eddie said he’d get a couple more glasses; Trevor already had his Thai International Airways glass, which he’d scored at the same time he’d negotiated the bottle, and which he’d chilled together with the wine.
Showing more animation than he had all morning, Eddie did a funky little shuffle and sang a snatch of song: “Gon-na have a par-ty...”
“Mao laaoh; drunk already,” said Lek’s sister Meow with disgust, going over to Nixon’s cage and starting a language lesson: “Mao laaoh; mao laaoh...”
Eddie told us he was of the opinion Lek’ s sister learned more from the birds than they learned from her, but he said this in a kind of undertone, not being too foolhardy.
Later, Eddie and I were to agree that this must’ve been Trevor’s first champagne bottle. Unless it was just all the heat and excitement.
Trevor was opening the bottle as Eddie was wiping a couple of eight-ounce tumblers. That is to say, he was shaking the bottle furiously and looking straight down at it as he worked the wire free.
“Hey...,” I started to warn him, but it was too late—it went off like a mortar. The cork caught Trevor under the left eye, knocking him butt over bewilderment right off his chair. He hit theback of his head on the next table as he went over and mercifully, perhaps, was rendered unconscious. Lightning quick, Eddie managed to catch the gushing bottle and get it to a glass before the loss could assume tragic proportions.
Seeing that everything was under control, I figured I had better minister to our casualty, poking him fairly gently in the ribs with my toe, and saying “Trevor? Trev?”
“Hey, this is good stuff.” Eddie, meanwhile, had filled both tumblers and the champagne flute, and he was sipping appreciatively. “How’s old Trev?” he asked.
“Out cold. He’s breathing okay, though, I think. Reckon we should get a doctor?”
“Naw. He’ll probably come around in a minute or two. Looks like he’ll have a real shiner, mind you.”
In truth, his eye was already swelling, and it promised bigger and more colorful things to come. Lek had slipped a towel under his head and Meow was mopping at his face with another. Lek was also muttering under her breath. The mynah birds had started a committee meeting, Nixon trying to bring things to order by reiterating “Mao” in an unpleasant but authoritative tone. The others mostly made traffic noises and assorted squawks and whistles.
“Holy smokes, if that cork had gotten him directly in the eye...” Eddie started to snicker. We both collapsed laughing into our chairs, taking care at the same time not to spill our drinks. “Did you see the way his head snapped back?” “Do you think maybe it was a suicide attempt?” “This stuff goes down a treat; top you up?” “Okay. Shouldn’t we leave some for Trevor, though?” “He’s got that glass I poured him, there. We’re entitled to salvage rights, aren’t we? I mean, if it hadn’t been for us, there wouldn’t be any at all.”
“That’s it. Salvage rights. Yeah, fill ‘er up.” This was turning out to be one of Eddie’s better Saturday brunches, all things considered.
In the course of time, Trevor came to, and while waiting for me to get him a taxi which he said should take him to the other Sheraton, he gave his glass of champagne to Lek’s sister, who’d never tried champagne before and who quickly got quite silly.
Eddie tried to convince Nixon he should say “Meow’s mad”, but this finally caused Lek to become angry and she threatened to set him to painting the loft.
Such was his condition when he departed, that Trevor left his computer print-out behind. Eddie had it delivered to him at the Sheraton, and they all got a letter of thanks a week later.
About five weeks after the morning he shot himself, to everyone * s surprise Trevor reappeared at the Cheri-Tone. Good old Trev was carrying a big bottle of champagne, already chilled.
“All right, said Eddie. “This could get to be a habit.”
“I thought you were supposed to be in Manila,” I said.
“No need to look further,” Trevor replied, wearing the inane grin of a besotted swain. “I may be in love.” The impression of besottedness was exacerbated by his newly naked upper lip. He looked even younger. “I canceled all my dates.”
“Whoo, boy. That cork did more damage than we suspected.” Eddie looked pretty concerned “And she’s vetoed the moustache already, has she? Where did you meet this girl, anyway?”
“She’s a waitress. Quite a nice place, really — it’s called Sonny’s Cherie. She works in the daytime, but she’s got today off.”
Trevor asked me if I’d like to open the champagne, and Eddie set up some nicely polished glasses.
Sonny’ s Cherie, eh? Eddie and I tried not to look at each other.
“So where’s the lady; back at your hotel?”
“She isn’t staying with me.” Trevor was indignant.
“Why not?”
“What do you mean ‘Why not’?”
“’Why not’ is what I mean.”
“Listen, this girl still lives with her parents. I don’t think she’s ever even had a boyfriend. She really likes me, though. She says we should get married.”
“And you’re in love. How long have you known her?”
&nb
sp; “I met her the day after I left here. At lunchtime.”
“Oh, well, then; it’s been quite a courtship,” Eddie conceded. “Friendship blossoming into love, don’t you know. Exchange of background details, and all that. That’s okay, then. You’ve got my blessing.”
I figured Eddie could’ve eased off a bit; after all, he was drinking the man’s champagne. Again.
“So where is she, then?”
“She’s here, in the front, talking to Lek and Meow. I’m going to get them.”
As soon as Trevor had disappeared inside, Eddie and I exchanged bemused stares.
“It’s a miracle,” I said. “A virgin working at Sonny’s Cherie. A virgin!”
“Could be one of these ‘born-again’ virgins you hear about. That must be it. I wonder how long she’s been a virgin?”
At that moment the happy couple emerged from the back to be greeted by wolf-whistles from the birds, not to mention a startled chorus of “Legs!” from Eddie and myself. Not what you’d call discretion, but it was a Saturday morning, and we were more than a little surprised. For it was none other than the legendary Legs, aka ‘Long Tall Lek’, who used to be the star dancer at Shaky Jake’s,’ way back, before her feet started acting up and she had to retire.
“Eddie. Harry,” she said, not too thrilled to see us. And I don’t know how she could have gotten my name wrong after all those colas I’d bought her when she was thirsty.
To say Trevor was registering consternation would about sum it up, though maybe on the side of understatement. His ears were practically incandescent, and, even without his moustache, he looked sterner than I’d yet seen him.
We drank his champagne, though this time Trevor managed to scarf more of it than anyone else, and we talked about old times with Legs.
Eighteen months is a long time for any single, healthy man to spend in Kuwait. Eighteen days is a long time, come to that. When such a man does finally come out, not just into the world, but into the world of Thai womanhood, then perhaps he can be forgiven if he loses his sense of proportion. Even if his name is Trevor Perry and he has to keep his girlfriends’ phone numbers on a floppy disk.
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