Rock Solid

by Paul Slatter

  There were more framed photos of the King on the wall in this place than usual, he thought, as he looked out across the river. The slim boats carrying tourists from around the world passing by with their rudders sticking out way behind, scooting them along in the sun through the dark murky river full of fish and filth.

  They’d made their deal; as it stood, the Irishman would be the middle man, saying he’d have his man make it and package it all special, and Rann would buy through him. And now Rann wanted more, adding to the package, the tablet he took from Padu was just a tiny piece, only 25mg of a 100mg tablet. Butting in on the Irishman listening to his wife talk at five hundred miles an hour and still staring at her friend’s legs, Rann said, “What I’m after is a special order. Think of me like I’s one of them companies that come in, right, and I’m saying, give me a special order. What I want is this, 33,000 packets of six times 25 mg of this Sildenafil shit with a bit of sugar put in to make it taste nice and bulk it up a bit.”

  The Irishman stared at him, then said, “We can’t focking do dat? Who’d you think you is, a fockin pharmaceutical company?”

  And Rann replied, “No but you ain’t paying, I am, so we can. So fuck off. You want kids damaging their dicks by taking too much, do you? Jesus—25 mg tablets will be fine, that’s one 100mg tablet cut into a quarter—This is what I want and I won’t keep up saying it over and over, so you’d better put that drink down and start listening.”

  And he said it again, “I want—33,000 packets containing six 25 or 30 mg tablets of Sildenafil mixed with sugar or orange or whatever other fruit the guy wants to compress, and on the package, I want printed the letters R.S.”

  And straight away, the Irishman asked, “And what the fock is that standing for?”

  Rann smiling now as he replied, “It’s me, my initials R.S., and it also stands for Rock Solid.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said the Irishman.

  “I’m paying, you’re not,” said Rann again straight back, and then said, “and I’m going to pay one dollar a packet which is thirty-three thousand dollars more than you would have had to play with. So, you can work out your commission and go sort it out and take your cut off the top or you can leave it and I’ll go speak to another source I’ve got in Laos. So, I suggest you get on the blower quick and call him, or I’ll be getting on the plane to Vientiane in the morning.”

  He liked that bit about Vientiane in Laos, having never heard of the place until he’d seen it on the map by accident that morning as he’d wandered about the hotel lobby looking at the pictures of the Thai King and Queen scattered all around his hotel, reminding him of his grandmother and his grandfather—but without the turban.

  The Irishman’s wife sat there listening to the two men bickering amongst themselves. She understood a bit—the odd words or numbers she’d learned working the bars, earning her keep, until the Irishman took her back to his room one night and she’d managed to get him to love her with her long sexy legs and tongue—enough to keep him as her own, to some extent. But the accents and the speed they were speaking made for an impossible translation. From her perspective, it was going to be worth his while. Her husband never left the part of town where he felt most at home. Just as she was about to smile and ask Rann if he liked her friend’s dress, she heard her man snapping out, getting all red in the face, “I’m the man making it happen, I’m the guy with the focking connections. I’m setting it up, keep on treating me like a focking monkey, keep trying to be funny, ya focking gobshite and you’ll be on your own!”

  She got that—the monkey bit. She knew how funny they were, the monkeys, she knew Phetchaburi well, having grown up there and been back many times, picking up the packages for her husband while he slept with other women. There were monkeys everywhere around the pharmacist’s building, coming off the mountain where the temples and palaces of the old king still stood but which now were unhoused and broken. Smiling and taking them both by surprise, she said, “The monkey families at the pharmacy are very funny.”

  They were. These monkeys, all living together at the edge of the city. Carrying on with cheek and audacity, living up to their name, acting as they were expected to, carrying on as they do, swinging from the telephone wires and scaling walls, unobstructed in the urban setting of a major city.

  Rann stared at her, wondering if she was talking about herself or her family. Maybe the Irishman saw what he saw in her, he thought, and called her monkey woman or something like that in some strange but affectionate way. He said to her, “Your family, they live round there, near this guy?”

  Paddy rolled his eyes. He’d had enough, the Paki with the turban was getting on his tits and he wanted to get this sorted. So, he said, “What she’s got is a kid who lives round that way. But what’s she’s talking about is this, you get a shitload of monkeys live round the pharmacist’s shop, the focking things are everywhere, pissing and shitting and fucking each other all over the place. Come in along the focking telephone wires they do, swinging on them ’an pulling ’em down, snapping them all the time, they are, that’s why I can’t call him just yet to make the focking deal. And once they get in his place and start reaching in the windows and eating this hard-on shit you want him to put together they’ll be twice as many of the fockers.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Patrick arrived back in Vancouver, having taken a private jet that he knew was a waste of money. But he’d hoped to find some more celebrities going out of LAX in the executive bar, and he had; seeing Samson, a good looking young TV star, doing well from a series that was getting big, and his girl, Crazy Sue—who he’d never heard of. Both of them hiding away, being cool and elusive, and Patrick in there like a dirty shirt, letting it slip he was on his way up to Vancouver to have an evening meal sit-down with a couple of his clients—Marshaa, as she likes to be called, and the hot new kid doing the BlueBoy campaign, Dan, who wanted to talk to him. Catching their interest, he explained how he would chat with them for a bit, then pull them to one side and discreetly sort out this trouble that’s giving them bad press. Because not all bad press is good press and they could do without it. It’s a pain, but it’s what he does and that’s life. Saying also that Buffy was coming up. That she was taking her own executive jet once she’s finished—she’d been so busy—and Marshaa was picking her up.

  “Marsha’s picking ‘her’ up?” they asked.

  “Oh yeah, Buffy’s great, she’s so happy right now, but she’s exhausted—just secured an incredible three picture deal with Tom Cruise, I honestly don’t know how she does it. Soon I’m telling you, she’s going to be taking over this town and we’ll all be working for her,” Patrick had said, and then, casually added, as though it was the norm, “Hey, come along. Marshaa’s a big fan of you both, thinks you’re fantastic and totally loves Crazy Sue, she’d go crazy herself if you turned up.”

  And she would, because the truth was Marsha hated her.

  Patrick hit the plane running, still on form. Loving the Captain, the Captain loving him, laughing, joking, smiling. The hostess on the plane an actress herself, flirting with him as he told her how he’d just spent the afternoon with ‘Marshaa’ sorting out Marshaa’s problems, it was a pain, but it’s what he did. Her telling him he reminded her of that guy on the back of the bus she saw when she had a layover in Vancouver and visited her mother.

  “A lot of people say that,” he’d said, then carried on with a smile saying, “But I don’t do public transport.”

  They should do lunch sometime, she’d said, just as he was thinking the same thing and wondering how kinky she could be, loving it, playing somebody and becoming that somebody in his mind with every breath he took.

  He jumped into a limo and followed a bus on the road that ran away from the airport towards the city with its mountainous backdrop not too much further on from its center, standing there bold and strong, rising away from water into the sky above, covered in snow, sometimes mist or just pure sunshine.

  Anothe
r bus took the first one’s place, and Patrick was now smiling back at himself—the Indian driver doing the same to him in the rear-view mirror. Patrick waving his arm at the guy, dismissing himself and hating the man who he once was—the same guy who he used to be, whose smile had made him millions.

  He sat back in his seat and stared at the mountains in the distance, wondering how Chendrill was doing with the maniac blackmailer he no longer cared about. People in the industry he was now in did that kind of shit, he thought, it’s part of the package. They’d probably think there was something wrong if he didn’t have some sort of perverted kinky itch he couldn’t live without being scratched once in a while. I’m sure Marsha had one, he thought—liked it one way or the other. Maybe she got herself off with something whilst watching herself in the mirror, he thought. It had taken a lot of control to just play it cool and not say something cheesy to her all afternoon as he’d kept her beautiful firm titties just below frame.

  Wanting to just say, “Why are you crying about this guy, when there’s real men around.”

  Older men at that.

  But he hadn’t, he’d kept himself decent and worked it.

  ******

  Mazzi Hegan was having a meltdown, just as he was about to tell Rann to fuck off, he’d got to him and all he’d had to say was—“Tax man.”

  Then he’d said, “I’ve got your file in front of me now and it looks like you’re full of shit. You’ve been spending the money you sent back to Sweden paying off a credit card you use here.”

  And hung up.

  He had, but how did this prick know, Mazzi thought, and was it wrong? Quickly he called his accountant and asked. It was, fuck. How did he know? The fucker had his file and was harassing him. He should call Chendrill, he thought, but if he did he’d never be able to call him an asshole again. And that could be a tough thing to live with.

  He sat back on his chair and rubbed his fingers through his hair as he liked to do when he was stressed and shouted out loud, “Motherfucker!” so as everyone in their little cubicles could hear.

  He liked to do that, get it off his chest. But normally it was stupid stuff like photos, or someone in the office wearing a pair of shoes that didn’t go with an outfit, or Chendrill driving around in his car he wished he could park so he could look cool.

  But this was different—a lot different.

  Then just as Patrick had in a panic, Mazzi did the one thing he should never have done and called the man back.

  ******

  Rann had a small bit of info to work on. But he was a professional and years of working his craft had taught him he could make a mountain out of any mole hill, and Mazzi Hegan’s tax details were just that. He’d asked Malcolm Strong in a brief phone call to do him a favor, just like he’d been doing Malcolm, and give him some dirt on everyone at Slave, telling him it would be good for his soul and give him something to do whilst he waited for the box of hard-on drugs to come in from Asia.

  Sebastian was a boy-scout and the government owed him money, but Mazzi Hegan had a bit of history that could be easily exploited, history in his creative use of expenses on his tax returns, history in his continual buying the whole bar drinks when he was bombed out of his skull and all sweaty on wine and poppers, history in waking up in a hired limo after it’s taken him and a bunch of guys to Whistler to party and claiming it all as legitimate expenses. This was the kind of history Rann loved and thrived on. And it was just this and a whole load of other questionable filings the tax man was now considering which Rann now had his teeth into.

  “I’m just trying to do you a favor that’s all. It makes no difference to me,” Rann said to Mazzi.

  He wanted to tell him right there and then to fuck off, just like he had the last time, but something inside told him to keep talking and find out just what the prick was referring to, see what shit he had to say, that would be better, find out then straight after say ‘Yeah well that’s great, now why don’t you just go back home and suck on Prince Charles’s dick,’ then when he realized he’d just insulted him and his precious royal family, Mazzi would say, ‘and while you’re down there, have a word with his friends about why you’ve no longer got a team that can play football, you English prick.’ That would get him, the English hated that, knowing they were useless at the game they invented. So, he said, “Maybe I’ll just put the phone down and send Chendrill back over to kick your ass.”

  “Tell that ape if he comes round here again, it won’t be a lawn chair that drops onto his Ferrari.”

  He’d heard about Chendrill sorting it out for Patrick over dinner. Patrick telling them all what a superhero Chendrill was getting this parasite off his back, but he hadn’t heard about the lawn chair hitting the Ferrari. What the fuck was that all about? He said, “Chendrill said the chair never hit the Ferrari, it missed.”

  “Really, is that right?” Rann said straight back, taking the bait. “The lying prick, if he comes here I’ll put him out the window and as for you, you’ve got other issues.”

  “Which are?”

  “Tax related.”

  “My taxes are fine.”

  “Then why did you call me back?”

  “Because I like English guys, especially Sikhs. They turn me on. I like looking at the tops of their turbans when they’re sucking me off.”

  Mazzi Hegan waited as he listened to the silence on the other end of the line. It was good. Hitting on him had thrown the prick and turned the tables for the moment at least. Then he heard the man say, “Tell that to the judge when the tax man’s finished with you.”

  “I’ll tell it to the judge when the police are finished with you—you blackmailing son of a bitch.”

  Then he hung up. A minute later, the phone rang again and he heard Rann say, “Forget the tax issue, forget the judge, no one speaks to me like that. All I wanted to do was help you. I’ll be coming to see you and you’d better know how to fight.”

  Then he hung up.

  Mazzi Hegan stared at the wall, this time, trying to be clever, he’d taken his crudeness to the wrong person. He’d been a smart ass once too often and now it was time to call Chendrill.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chendrill paced up and down Mazzi Hegan’s office, watching as Hegan nervously ran his fingers through his highlights as Hegan said, “Well how was I to know he was going to react like that?” His Swedish accent showing strong with the pressure.

  “I wish you’d just called me.”

  “Well shoot me.”

  Chendrill stared at him saying, “This is the problem.”

  Hegan stood quickly, his silver belt buckle showing strong on top of his jeans. “You saying the guy’s going to try and kill me?”

  Chendrill took a deep breath. The Sikh was becoming more of a pain each day.

  “Not at all.”

  Mazzi sat down again, took a deep breath, calming himself. Then, as the room drew quiet, suddenly screamed out, “Fuck!”

  Then the door opened and Sebastian walked in, and looking to Chendrill said, “He does that, it’s his thing, letting it all out. What’s going on?”

  And Chendrill said, “Our friend from your hometown has been harassing Mazzi.”

  “About what?” Then he said, “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.”

  Sebastian walked to the window. After thinking, he turned and said, “When I was a kid at school, I thought I had a friend and he was a true friend. I told him of my persuasion and he made me pay to keep it quiet. After that, I swore that I’d never do that again in my life, cowering down to such a beast of a person. Chuck darling, is there anything else we could do to get this retched person to leave us alone?”

  And looking up at him, Chendrill simply said, “Yeah, don’t pay.”

  Then Mazzi butted in, letting it all out saying, “Sebastian, I’ve got tax issues, he’s found them somehow and that’s why he’s harassing me.”

  Sebastian walked over and placed his hand on his business partner’s shoulder and sa
id, “Mazzi, tax men are only human beings just like you and I—they’ll strike a deal. I don’t need to know what your issues are, but what I suggest is that you talk to my accountant. Tell him everything. Absolutely everything. And then let him sort it out and I’ll cover his bill and whatever you owe. I want you to relax. Personal issues get in the way of your creativity, it’s not healthy. My man will work it out and strike an anonymous deal for you and it will be done.”

  Fuck me, Chendrill thought, just like that, all the guy’s tax issues sorted. But there was still the big issue of the lunatic East Indian still being out there. But as he glanced over to Mazzi, who looked as though he was going to cry, he decided that for now, he’d throw it out there again and see if Sebastian would take the bait.

  “Yeah, I’ve got some tax issues of my own Mazzi, I know the feeling.”

  Then, completely ignoring him, he heard Sebastian say, “And Chuck I’ll need your keys, I’m giving Mazzi back his Ferrari.”

  What? Dan the prick, Chendrill thought, stealing it and causing trouble, now he’d be back in a leased Buick or something. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. If Sebastian was pissed at him, why couldn’t he have just smashed his dinner plate?

  “I’ve called the guys at Ferrari Mazzi, and they’re putting a computerised radar system in that parks it for you—you can pretend you’re still driving of course, go through the motions, no one will ever know.”

  Trying to hide his disappointment, Chendrill looked to Sebastian, feeling like a six foot four two-hundred-and-fifty-pound kid who’d just been told off by his dad, as Sebastian turned to him smiling and said, “Oh, and don’t worry, Chuck. I’m getting you an Aston Martin.”