Bangkok Tattoo (31 page)

I am watching Nat closely. The horror is genuine. So is the sorrow. She catches my eye. “Stephen Bright proposed to me a couple of nights ago. I thought maybe I’d finally got lucky. I mean, he was a serious boy, and I think he actually loved me. He’d suffered so much, you know, and he was always so grateful when we made love. He said I was a very generous lover. Actually, I didn’t do anything I didn’t do with other customers—he was just so grateful all the time.” She bursts into tears.

“His back?”

She shudders. “That was my fault. I have this thing about tats, you know, and I kept asking him, wouldn’t he like something on his back? He said he’d look into it. Then one night he surprised me with it. It went all the way from his shoulders to the top of his backside. It wasn’t at all what I expected but it was amazing, I mean really superior.”

“Did he tell you who did it?”

“He said it was a Japanese who was known to the intelligence community. That’s all he said.”

I have decided to bypass Hudson, not out of mistrust—his commitment to the meaningless is surely unimpeachable—but because I don’t think I can quite stand his Arabic at this moment. The female CIA seems an oasis of sanity in comparison.

“Hello?”

“It’s me, Detective Jitpleecheep.”

“Yes, Detective?”

“You’d better come.” I give her the address, then I tell Nat to take Lek back to the club. She puts her arm around him in a sisterly gesture, hugs him.

“I don’t know if I’m really going to go through with it,” Lek moans as they leave. “Maybe I’ll just use tape. Lots of dancers do.”

“You really want to be half and half all your life?” Nat asks gently at the door.

“No.”

The female CIA arrives, with Hudson. I watch her while she stares silently for several minutes at Bright’s corpse; were she not a seasoned professional, I would describe the succession of expressions on her face as emanating from deep prurience. She composes herself eventually; it’s like watching someone get dressed after an orgy: “You see, they severed his penis, just as we suspected they would. And look at his back.”

Hudson and I follow her directions. There is hardly any difference between him and Mitch Turner in this respect—the whole of the top layer of skin has been peeled away, from shoulders to lower back, leaving the subcutaneous blubber to seep.

“Well, at least we don’t need a homicide detective to tell us these deaths are linked.” She looks at Hudson. “But the ones who assassinated Mitch Turner died in that explosion in Indonesia, am I correct? So this is a brilliantly coordinated, centrally planned, high-level Al Qaeda atrocity: different hitmen deliberately copying the first murder, so as to demonstrate corporate identity. The intention is to intimidate all Americans everywhere.” Biting her lower lip: “This is big. Much bigger than I thought. It’s the psychology of terrorism honed to a remarkable level of sophistication. If this gets out, Americans will be more afraid than ever to travel overseas. If these kinds of killings show up in the States, as I’m sure they will sooner or later, the whole of the American mind will be held for ransom. It’s brilliant, it’s evil.” To me: “Any crinkly black hairs? I want the best forensic investigation you can manage on this apartment. If you need any special support—for example, a kit to lift prints off flesh, analysis of microscopic fiber samples—let me know. I’ll have them ship whatever you need with some skilled operators on the next plane.” Looking curiously at Hudson: “This really is starting to look like war.”

Hudson stiffens at this holy word.

An hour later Vikorn and I are standing together in Bright’s apartment. The situation, as much as the corpse, has begun to give me a headache.

“I just don’t see any way out of it,” I tell him.

Vikorn is strangely unperturbed. “It’s okay. I still have a few of those hairs left. No fingers, unfortunately.”

“Are you crazy? Those hairs belong to a terrorist who’s known to have been killed before the murder. You’ll blow the whole scam.”

He shakes his head at my obtuseness and at the same time takes an airmail envelope out of his pocket. He rips it open and begins shaking it around the room. Crinkly hairs fall out like black snow.

“You’ll never understand them. You present dedicated
farang
with contradictory evidence, and they’ll use their infinite ingenuity to mislead themselves even further.”

38

E
lizabeth Hatch has summoned me to a private evening interview, and here I am in the back of a cab on the way to the Sheraton on Sukhumvit. In a jam at the intersection between Silom and Rama IV, opposite Lumpini Park, the driver and I listen to Pisit, who has been on the rampage all day, having finally woken up to the injustice in the way the government has ordered the police to slaughter about two thousand presumed drug traffickers, on a quota basis. The problem, as Pisit sees it: How do we know any of these people had anything to do with drug trafficking in the first place? Isn’t that what trials are for? And isn’t it a strange coincidence that all of them are small-time dealers, if they are dealers at all? Shouldn’t a crackdown on drug trafficking at least try to include the kingpins? He’s found a retired Crime Suppression Division officer to interview.

Pisit: Why aren’t any
jao por
—kingpins—included in the slaughter?

Former cop: Excuse me for saying so, but that is not a very intelligent question. If it was possible to simply kill
jao por,
their enemies would have done so ages ago. By definition it is very difficult to kill
jao por.

Pisit: So the government has taken an executive decision to kill non–
jao por
and suppress crime the easy way?

Former cop: It’s logical isn’t it?

Pisit: Might we take the logic one stage further and have the cops kill people with no connection to crime at all?

Former cop: Are you trying to be clever?

Pisit: No.

Former cop, after ruminative silence: Actually, that’s probably exactly what’s happening. After all, if all you need is the appearance of a crackdown, it doesn’t really matter who you kill.

Pisit: You mean this is government-by-spin Thai-style?

Former cop: You could say that.

I am curious that the CIA has chosen the hour of nine p.m. to see me. Still more interesting is the way she is dressed: a splendid navy trouser suit by Versace with white lace blouse. I find it shocking that her wrists are a-wobble with elephant-hair bracelets, and she has discreetly dyed her hair a couple shades darker. The lipstick—wet-look crimson, thinly applied—perhaps gives the game away, along with a haunting perfume by Kenzo. Is there a single CIA officer who will not reincarnate as a chameleon?

“I felt the need for some on-the-ground experience,” she explains when she meets me in the lobby. “One must resist isolation on this kind of case.”

“Dancing?”

A quick look: “Is that your recommendation?”

“Traditional Thai?”

“Perhaps not.”

I follow her trail of hints from the girls in bikinis dancing around aluminum poles in Nana Plaza, to the topless ones at the Firehouse on Soi Cowboy, to the naked ones at the Purple Pussycat, also on Cowboy, until we finally reach the upstairs bars in Pat Pong. It is dark in this club except for the pool of light where the star of the show is performing her act.

I’ve seen the banana show too many times not to be bored. Elizabeth Hatch is riveted. Suddenly, in a whisper, as if she wants to bond with me, or perhaps reward me for indulging her tonight: “One bomb in this place will be all the message they need: support America, and we’ll break your economy. You don’t have the intelligence operators or the security forces to protect your country, and we can’t protect you either. So what kind of ally are we?” A thin, pitying smile followed by a prudish tone: “Are those really razor blades? I read about that in one of the guidebooks, but I didn’t believe it. How on earth does she do that without cutting herself to ribbons?”

“It’s a trade secret. D’you want me to call the mamasan over?”

“Let her finish. That is one very beautiful body.”

Discreetly I beckon to the mamasan and whisper to her in Thai while the CIA studies the show. Even in Pat Pong not every girl zigzags, and I want Elizabeth Hatch on my side. The mamasan suggests a figure, though, that few girls would say no to. I tell the CIA, who nods. When the girl finishes her act, I watch the mamasan speak to her and catch the bright flash of curiosity that she casts at Elizabeth, the seductive smile. Elizabeth smiles back recklessly. As soon as she has dressed, the girl comes over to us, sits next to Elizabeth, and rests her head on the CIA’s shoulder.

I say: “Shall I go now?”

In a lust-thick tone: “Just ask her, if you wouldn’t mind, if there’s anything she doesn’t do?”

A brief discussion between me and the girl in Thai. “No, there’s nothing she doesn’t do. Don’t hurt her.”

She snaps her head around to face me. “Did you say that because I’m American, or because I’m female, or because I’m gay?”

“I always say the same thing to men,” I reply with a smile.

The three of us leave together. I find Elizabeth a taxi and watch her disappear into the back with her trophy. They are moving away when all of a sudden she makes the driver stop, and she rolls down her window in back. Beckoning to me, then holding my arm when I’m close enough: “I appreciate this. I confess I’m not proud of what I’m doing.” A pause. “I need air.”

I smile: “I understand.”

As she rolls up the window: “This is not what I generally do.”

The girl beside her, now dressed in a low-cut black silk blouse and short white skirt that reveals her long brown legs, searches my eyes:
Problem?
I shake my head. No problem, just another gasping, life-starved
farang.
The taxi moves off.

It’s one-fifteen a.m., which is to say forty-five minutes before the curfew. The street is alive with bodies already half conjoined on their way to the hotels all around. There are a few Western women with local girls, but the vast majority of the trade is heterosexual. Pat Pong is only a couple minutes’ walk from the gay bars on the other side of Surawong, however. In the Grand Finale Club the format is much the same as in Pat Pong, except that the people on stage are all men. Most of them, in underpants, are late teens, early twenties, but quite a few are older, harder, tougher. And tattoos are everywhere.

I walk across the street to a gothic black door encrusted with nails that forms the almost-discreet entrance to the No Name Bar, a resort so sought after and so exclusive it never needs to advertise. You don’t get to simply walk in without introduction, either. A child of the street knows the formula, though, and the burly, tattooed doorman lets me through.

Sure enough, the seats that surround the stage support a fair proportion of female backsides, most of which are Japanese, although quite a few are Thai working women on girls’ nights out. The rest of the customers are gay, white, and male. The men on the stage are all naked and hand-picked either for their youth and beauty; for their testosteronic postures, the dimensions of their cocks; or for the quality of their decorations.

It happens that I’m just in time for the last act. The house lights dim, “Nights in White Satin” plays over the sound system, and a naked figure in black executioner’s mask strides onto the stage; everyone, especially the Japanese women, gasps at the quality of the tats, which shine brilliantly under the spotlight. A naked boy and girl arrive to kneel and work his member. Soon, as the haunting sound track reaches its crescendo, the Battle of Midway arises magically from out of flaccidity. I have no idea if he has seen me or not, but even if he has, we both know it will make no difference.

I leave the club within ten minutes of entering. Back on Pat Pong the street is now so crammed with refugees from the curfew, it is hard to walk. I pause in the entrance to one of the bars to pull out my cell phone and press an autodial number. “If I give you my heart, will you give me yours?” I ask.

“Not if you’re going to die.”

“We have to stop him. You do know that.”

A long pause. “This isn’t easy. What do you want to do?”

“Live with you. Sleep with you.”

Doubtfully: “Will that do it?”

My heart in my mouth: “It’s worth a try, don’t you think?”

A groan, then she closes the phone.

39

I
believe it is intrinsic to your cockeyed morality,
farang,
that when a man and woman engaged in law enforcement are forced to pretend, for strategic reasons (say, a decoy-stakeout situation), to be lovers, they must be scrupulous in preventing their false embraces from developing into full-blown copulation—correct?

Well, fuck that. Chanya and I, in our tiny love nest on Soi 39, which is the best I can afford in this expensive part of town, go at it like rabbits. Not only is she beautiful, she is also generous. Who am I
not
to love her? Her extraordinary beauty might not be of her making, but that tactile friendliness, that gentle concern that expresses itself in soft touches, sweet caresses, premeditated kindness—that is all from her soul, and I would have needed to be stone. Nevertheless, it is part of the job to parade our passion up and down the
soi,
especially in the evening when the Japanese clubs are open and the mamasans stand on duty outside, checking the street. During the day our duties are more practical.

It is a traditional little apartment, which is to say ablutions are performed courtesy of a great tub of water out in the yard. There is a double gas cooking ring also in the backyard—oh yes, and a single rickety cupboard. There is no bed, so I bought a couple of futons that we keep side by side. I love her best in the mornings when, still sleepy, she rolls over onto her side to admit me from behind. Or do I love her best when she is horny late at night? Or is it when she’s washing out in the yard, using her sarong to conceal her body from the neighbors? Don’t ask me. Love is a form of insanity that pervades every fiber. It is also much increased by the knowledge that one stands a good chance of dying within the week. We keep our mobiles charged, and I check the Net every day at the local Internet café. Day after day, night after night, there is still no word, no attack. Perhaps we are growing complacent. When I remember I’m a cop, I try to elicit relevant information. Generally, she’s happy to oblige but with heavy editing. Her story of the second half of her relationship with Mitch Turner is like the story of Othello without a single mention of Iago.