And almost every evening he drove for nearly an hour through the choked traffic of Sukhumvit Road until he reached one narrow soy, or side street, passing the ubiquitous roadside food stalls with their running kids and yapping dogs, the clutter of cars and motorbikes, and the clutches of smiling bar girls, and dined at the Cezanne, his personal club. The Cezanne catered mostly to American expatriates. Its ambience was the closest to family life that Simolzak ever cared to come. It had a regular coterie of customers, Americans whose professions ran the gamut from oil rigger to spy to corporate executive. It had a constant core of beautiful young Thai hostesses, women of taste who were technically not prostitutes but who would go out or home with a man if they liked him. It was, of course, mandatory that a woman’s host ‘pay the bar,’ buying her from the bar’s owner for the night, and then recompense her for her time. But a prostitute didn’t have a choice, while the women in places like Cezanne’s did, making them more like independent contractors than actual whores.
It was seven o’clock. Simolzak sat back in his chair at one of the Cezanne’s ground-floor tables, drinking his beer and smiling, surrounded by an atmosphere of thick smoke and loud American music. Behind him at the bar, two dozen well-dressed American and Thai men had gathered, sharing drinks and jokes, debating the merits of that night’s activities. A young woman half Simolzak’s age was massaging his back and cooing to him over the music and loud conversation. Her nickname was Sapphire. She was sultry and happy and beautiful. She wore a tight black bodysuit and blue jeans, an outfit that could have come from a page in a top fashion magazine.
‘Zak, you pay the bar, you pay the bar,’ Sapphire was urging. ‘I want to be with you tonight. You need a beer, let me get you one more beer.’
As Sapphire cooed to him and pressed her fingers into his massive upper back, another girl came over and helped Simolzak light a fresh cigar. She was shorter and had a round, wide-mouthed face. Although she was very pretty, the other girls had named her Frog. Simolzak joked with Sapphire and Frog as he pointed to the empty seats he had arranged around the small table.
‘Later, ladies. Maybe I’ll pay the bar for both of you. But first we’re going to have a party! In fact, here comes Father Mike right now.’
‘Oh, Father Mike,’ said Sapphire with genuine reverence. ‘He speak too-good Thai.’
Sapphire stopped rubbing Simolzak’s back and stood straight up, placing her palms together just underneath her chin, the Buddhist symbol of peace. The small, frail priest walked from the doorway to their table, wearing an unobtrusive short-sleeve pullover that barely showed his priest’s collar. He smiled, returning Sapphire’s gesture, dipping his chin until it touched the top of his joined hands, and greeted her sweetly in her native tongue.
Simolzak gestured grandly to one of the empty seats. ‘Father Mike, you’re good to join us. Sapphire, get the father a beer, would you?’
‘Well, I’ll take just one,’ said Father Mike, a phrase Simolzak knew the old priest would continue to repeat with every new round of drinks.
Father Mike had come to Thailand’s mountains nearly thirty years before, as a Redemptorist missionary. For the past twenty years he had ministered to Bangkok’s few and desperately poor Christians, most of whom slaughtered hogs and lived in the ramshackle slums of Klong Toey. The bald, devout missionary was a wily provenance of Christ’s message. To smooth his way with the predominantly Buddhist Thais, he mixed his message with their own cultural symbols. He did not discourage his parishioners from setting up shrines similar to those in Buddhist homes, with a statue of Christ instead of Buddha at the center, on which they left fruit and flower offerings and burned their joss sticks. And Father Mike matched the raucous American expatriate community drink for drink, curse for curse, so long as they allowed him his moment of ministry.
The beers arrived. Simolzak and Father Mike toasted each other and drank Singha from the bottle.
‘So, whose party is it?’ asked Father Mike.
Simolzak puffed on his cigar. ‘Well, it’s a double blessing, Father. Sal Marino’s back from jail, and Brandon Condley’s back from… hell, I guess. Viet Nam.’
‘I doubt that Brandon Condley will ever be back from Viet Nam,’ shrugged Father Mike. ‘And may the Lord bless Sal, because he needs our help and understanding.’ A teasing gleam shone in Father Mike’s eyes. ‘Will they be working with you, then?’
‘No, Father. But I think they might find each other’s company useful for the evening.’
‘Well, Sal does know where all the bodies are. And I heard that Brandon has been digging them up for the past few years.’
‘Exactly,’ smiled Simolzak. ‘Brandon is looking for somebody. And Sal is the man to ask.’
‘And what has this got to do with you and me, Theodore?’
‘Brandon needs Sal’s help, but as you will recall, they’ve never exactly been the best of friends.’ Simolzak watched the door, anticipating their arrivals. He put an arm on Father Mike’s thin shoulder. ‘I may need your mediation if things get out of hand.’
‘Me?’ Father Mike laughed lightly. ‘And which of them believes in God?’ He watched Simolzak shrewdly. ‘And speaking of God, I ought to urge you to come to confession. I haven’t seen you in a while.’
‘I became a Buddhist.’
‘Didn’t we all, then?’
The door opened quickly, as if it were being kicked in. They turned to see Sal Marino standing just inside the room, dressed in baggy slacks and a too-tight T-shirt. He was a small, wiry man, dark and nervous. His face was etched and hardened, and his long hair was streaked with gray. His hooded eyes scanned the club for dangerous faces, shadowed threats. Finding none, he nodded to the two men, walking slowly to the table. He nodded again to Simolzak, then peered for a moment at Father Mike, and finally extended a thin, hesitant hand.
‘I remember you.’
‘Kind of you to say so,’ answered Father Mike. ‘And how was Japan?’
‘Cold and damp.’
‘And what were you doing there?’ teased Father Mike knowingly.
Simolzak interrupted, gesturing toward a seat. ‘Welcome back, Sal. I’ll order you a beer.’
Marino slowly took the seat, now squinting at Father Mike as if he’d been deeply insulted. ‘I was running whores, but I lost my license. So I got myself an office in Fuchu Prison and made paper bags.’
‘Well,’ said Father Mike, knowing what Marino was saying but deliberately ignoring it, ‘you must be one of a very few Americans who’ve been able to do business successfully inside Japan.’
‘I could make about forty bags on a good day, depending on how cold my cell was,’ shrugged Marino. ‘When it was colder, my fingers got kind of stiff so I had to move slower. When it was warmer and I felt good, sometimes I could hit fifty.’
‘Forty bags a day,’ nodded Father Mike. ‘A lot of bags.’
‘I figure I made about twenty-five thousand bags. Think about that, Father. I personally reached out and touched twenty-five thousand Japanese, in less than two years. Consumers. People with careers and educations. And I didn’t even have to leave my… office.’
‘And how did you come to this good fortune?’ asked Father Mike.
‘I lost a fight with an Okinawan cop. I thought he’d be easy. I mean, I had two keys of marijuana on me and I knew I was toast, so I thought I’d take him out with a quick punch and run off into the alley. But as soon as I pulled my fist back, the little bastard walloped my chest with a henbo stick, then floored me with a quick uchi taoshi. Right in the fucking throat. I couldn’t move. Thought I was going to be a quadriplegic the rest of my life.’
‘Tough little bastard, indeed,’ nodded Father Mike.
‘Kicked my ass. One raised fist, then a crushed windpipe and two years in solitary on Candid Camera in an unheated cell. And all because of a few lousy keys of marijuana.’
‘Totally inconsiderate,’ said Father Mike.
‘Fucking camera on me all the time!’ said Mari
no. ‘They caught me beating off one afternoon and added two weeks to my sentence.’
‘I’d have settled for a few Hail Marys,’ said Father Mike.
‘They didn’t bother me when I was running whores. That was illegal in Japan too, but they didn’t care. I had a great deal going on. American women on Okinawa. Lots of them there. Military, schoolteachers, even wives. The rice dicks would pay up to a thousand dollars a trick just to spend time with an American. They really loved the blondes. Put some blond wash on the girl’s hair if they needed it, teach them how to give a man a bubble bath, and send them off on an adventure in some of Okinawa’s best hotels with the safest, cleanest customers on earth. I’ll tell you, Father, it was a win-win-win situation. Everybody was happy. Especially me.’
‘So why did you get into the marijuana business, Sal?’
Marino shrugged. ‘I got lazy. I started to think I was a business genius. And I started thinking that Okinawa’s cops were like Bangkok’s.’
‘Bad assumption,’ grunted Simolzak, waving to Sapphire, reminding her of their beers.
‘It didn’t take me long to notice there weren’t any drugs in Japan. And I knew where to get them. All these years in Bangkok, you know. Seemed like a pretty straight business proposition.’
Simolzak laughed comfortably. ‘Maybe you forgot that the Japanese are pretty brilliant businessmen themselves? If it was a simple matter of supply and demand, don’t you think the Japanese would already have solved it?’
‘Gee, Simolzak, where were you when I needed you?’ grunted Marino. ‘That’s what’s fucked up about Japan. Sex is sex, but drugs are jail.’
Sapphire approached with a tray of beers. As Father Mike nodded his gratitude to her, his face hardened slightly. ‘So that’s what you are these days,’ he said, never losing his serenity. ‘A bag man, is it?’
Marino laughed at Father Mike and spat onto the floor. ‘Save it, Father. If you don’t shut up I’ll drink your beer, I mean it.’
‘Well,’ interrupted Simolzak, deciding to end the stand-off. ‘We just thought we’d have a little dinner to welcome Sal back. And maybe do a little business.’
‘Business,’ said Marino, immediately growing suspicious. ‘You never said anything about business.’
Marino looked up from his side of the table and saw that virtually every man in the club had now grown silent and was looking his way. He flinched nervously but then also noticed that Simolzak, and even Father Mike, were also staring, not at him but past him, toward the door. He turned around in his chair, following their eyes.
Van filled the doorway, staring back at them, a smiling vision of black and white. Her black hair fell in piles along her shoulders and down her back. Her dark eyes rested comfortably on the room before her, measuring them all seemingly without emotion. She had taken Condley shopping that afternoon and now wore a white silk pantsuit and carried a black patterned Gucci bag. Even the Thai women of Cezanne’s stared at her in admiration or unmuted envy. Their tired litany of false worship and passion-for-hire seemed as tinny as the go-go drums on the club’s stereo as Van slowly walked to the table, followed by Brandon Condley and Hanson Muir.
‘Vietnamese,’ whistled Simolzak with a devouring look. ‘My God. I haven’t seen anything like that in years.’ He stood, taking her hand and giving her his chair. Van sat slowly, with deliberate grace, as he then scrambled to a nearby table and retrieved another chair. For a moment she was silent, as if gathering herself. Then she nodded to Father Mike.
‘How are you? My name is Van.’
‘Well, I must say,’ answered Father Mike, rising to take her hand, ‘you look like an angel, come upon us from above. Nice to meet you, dear.’
Simolzak spoke softly, dropping reality on the table like a hand grenade. ‘And you remember Brandon Condley, Sal?’
Marino spun quickly, finally recognising Condley. ‘I’m out of here,’ he said, rising to leave.
‘The hell you are,’ said Simolzak with a sudden fierceness, standing up and slamming Marino back into his chair. Marino stood again. Simolzak slammed him down again. ‘Stay in that chair.’
Marino tried again. ‘Get your fucking hands off me!’ Simolzak slammed him down yet again, now holding him there. ‘Brandon needs to talk to you.’
‘I said, get your hands off me, mung ball.’
Marino was reaching for an ankle holster. Simolzak smoothly chopped the smaller man’s wrist with a fist and took his pistol away from him. ‘Oh, you’ve been in jail too long, Sal. You’ve got to be faster than that.’
‘Give me my gun, fucker,’ growled Marino.
The larger and stronger Simolzak easily restrained him, slamming him one more time into his chair. ‘Salvatore, I’m buying you dinner tonight. You should at least be polite.’
Marino sat very still in the chair, breathing heavily, his eyes staring vapidly forward, reflecting his defeat. The other club patrons, used to such occasional disruptions, went back to their drinks and conversation. Van, who had backed herself against the wall, readjusted her chair, sitting next to Marino without looking at him. She smiled uncertainly to Father Mike, who had not even moved his elbows from the table during the entire altercation.
Father Mike winked to Van. ‘Relax, my dear. This is normal. And it is a delight to meet you.’ And now he stood, taking Condley’s hand in both of his. ‘Brandon, Brandon. I’ve prayed for you every day.’ He glanced mischievously down at Van. ‘And perhaps God has been listening after all.’
‘She’s just a friend, Father.’ Condley caught Simolzak giving Van another look. ‘A very good friend, by the way.’
‘Brandon is famous for the quality of his very good friends,’ beamed Simolzak, reaching out and touching Van on a knee. ‘I’m Ted.’
‘You can call him con trau,’ said Condley, causing Van to laugh.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Simolzak.
‘You forgot your Vietnamese,’ said Condley. ‘It means water buffalo.’
‘OK, con trau!’ Van leaned across the table and took his hand. ‘I think Cong Ly is saying you are strong and kind, like the waterbull!’
‘I meant ugly,’ said Condley.
‘No, he’s not ugly!’ teased Van. ‘He’s very handsome!’
‘I’ll go with strong and kind,’ said Simolzak. He then turned to Marino. ‘OK, Sal, this is very simple. Brandon wanted a little reunion.’
‘Jesus,’ said Marino, turning his head toward the door like a dog ready to bolt. ‘Sorry my daughter isn’t here.’
Condley shrugged as if protesting his innocence. ‘That was a long time ago, Sal.’
‘Yeah, and I haven’t seen her since.’
‘So,’ said Father Mike, his small hands around another beer and his face wrinkled in a teasing smile. ‘Sal has approached the obligations of fatherhood in the same upstanding manner as he has the duties of citizenship.’
‘Father, get over it.’ Marino again glanced at the door. ‘Don’t tell me about being a bad citizen. I served my country in a time of war.’
‘What’ve you done lately, Sal?’ Father Mike turned to Van with mock seriousness. ‘He’s not always this bad, dear. Once I actually saw him help a little lady out of the traffic. Of course, he then stole her purse.’
‘I never did that,’ answered Marino. ‘And why don’t you give Condley one of your little lectures, huh? Tells my own daughter that I slept with other men. My own daughter, who I hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years.’
‘Well, you didn’t have any problem with it before she came,’ shrugged Condley. ‘Some of them for money.’
‘So I needed money!’ Marino turned to Father Mike, as if for support. ‘And then he sleeps with my daughter!’
‘Sal,’ sighed Condley. ‘She asked me to. Tell him, Father. It’s a sin to turn away an attractive woman when she asks you.’
‘I’ll have to look that one up, Brandon,’ said the priest wearily. ‘Are we talking about the King James version, here?’
Marino glanced at Condley, then looked malevolently at Simolzak, muttering under his breath, ‘You happy?’
‘I’m always happy.’ Simolzak raised his shoulders in a helpless shrug, trying to calm Marino down. ‘Just take the meeting, Sal. Or you’re going to have to listen to Father Mike all night.’
Condley leaned across the table toward Marino, speaking quietly. ‘I need to find somebody, and you’re maybe the only guy who would know. Sal, I know we’ve had our problems. But you were a good soldier. That means a lot to me. This guy was an asshole. He killed another soldier. He deserted. He fought for the other side for years, killing a couple of my Marines along the way. Then he killed an Australian photographer to steal his passport and his identity. And I think he’s here.’ Marino was weakening, he could tell. ‘His name is Deville. Theodore Deville. If anybody would have a take on him, you would. That’s it. No hidden agenda. No paybacks.’
Marino’s face was a mask, but his eyes flitted quickly around the club, taking note of who was near them. ‘I don’t know anybody like that.’
‘Meet with me privately.’
‘Don’t ever bother me again?’
Condley smiled coolly. ‘You’ll never see me again.’
‘All right, let’s go.’
Marino began to rise, but Simolzak read something in his eyes and slammed him back into his chair again. ‘Uh-uh,’ said Simolzak.
‘I’m going to meet with him, goddamn it!’ Marino snapped, on the verge of violence. ‘Simolzak, you got my gun. You embarrassed me in front of all these people. The next time you push me down, this whole place is going to blow up.’
‘All right,’ said Simolzak, sensing also that Marino had reached his limit. ‘I respect that. Let’s do business, Sal. If you walk out that door and don’t meet with Brandon, I lose five thousand bucks. I’ll say that again: five thousand dollars. I’ll make you an offer. You go upstairs and meet with him, I’ll give you a thousand out of my five. Consultant fee.’
Lost Soldiers Page 34
