by John Burdett
“Lork?” says Lek, trying to catch my eye.
As she gets out of the cab at the Grand Britannia, there’s a catch in her throat: “My first angel.”
Back at the station I’m thinking about the Englishman named Tom and trying to work out what the hell he was doing at Yammy’s atelier, when my cell phone rings.
“It isn’t going to happen,” the FBI says.
“What?”
“We’re not going to let him go through with it. I’m having nightmares about the knife, and I’m not even asleep yet. Ugh!”
“Of course he’s going through with it. For a true transsexual, the surgery is the most important day of his life. It is the birth of his real self.”
“It isn’t going to happen,” the FBI says in that tone Americans use when they intend to bomb the future into submission. “He’s too beautiful. Give me his phone number.”
“No,” I say, and close the cell.
15
Next day Lek comes to see me at my desk at about four in the afternoon. He has something of the weary professional about him, which he manages to feminize by passing his hands deftly through his long inky hair and shuddering. He has not been able to resist adding a touch of rouge to his cheeks. He takes out a yaa dum aromatherapy inhaler and sticks it into his left nostril.
“I’ve been chasing leads all day,” he explains, switching nostrils, “and it’s hot and stinky. That whore has been everywhere, really everywhere, but she never stayed long. I tried to follow what her ex-husband, that American Baker, told us about her, and he was basically right. She was steadily working her way upmarket.”
“Was she attached to any bar at the time she died?”
“That’s what I’m coming to. She’d done Soi Cowboy, Nana, and Pat Pong, where she was one of the best earners on the street. Then she moved to the Parthenon Club.” A pause while he searches my face.
“The Parthenon,” I repeat, swallowing. I guess it was inevitable, but it hardly simplifies the case.
He looks at me to make sure I’m aware of possible obstructions to further inquiries.
“And? Who did you talk to there?”
“I needed a disguise, didn’t I?”
“Lek, what did you do?”
“Pretended I was looking for work. How else was I going to get anyone there to talk to me? If I’d told them I was a cop, you would have had the male half of Bangkok’s HiSo on your back.”
“They take on katoeys?”
A proud pout. “Of course. No bar is complete without us these days.”
“Who did you talk to?”
“A low-ranking mamasan. I told her Damrong was my cousin, and I was using the connection to look for work. She told me Damrong worked there for the last two months. She said she didn’t know why Damrong hadn’t turned up for work recently—she assumed it was because Damrong had found a highflier to look after her. That’s what all the girls and boys at the Parthenon are looking for, of course.”
“You didn’t find out which members she’d been with? Anyone special in her life?”
“I had to keep it all on a gossipy level, you know, emphasizing my cousin’s amazing success in her work. The mamasan didn’t exactly spill her guts, but she did let on that Damrong had been the favorite of two club members.”
“Farang or Thai?”
“One was farang, the other Thai.”
“You got their names?”
“No. If I’d started asking questions like that, I would have blown my cover.”
“Right.”
“By the way, that female farang in the cab yesterday—is she a hundred satang to the baht?”
“The FBI? Why?”
“She got hold of my number from the station switchboard and says she’s interested in gender reassignment and wants to take me out to lunch to discuss it with me. I told her F2M is very complicated and nothing I’m going through has any relevance to her case, but she insisted, and out of greng jai to you, I said I would go.”
I am blinking rapidly. “When’s the date?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’d like a full report,” I say, not meeting his gaze.
I’m pondering and frowning, not sure if there is going to be any way to penetrate the Parthenon Club without committing professional suicide and wondering if this is the case that will finally reveal my secret martyr complex, while I take the stairs down to the cells. The word from the turnkey is that the farang Baker is more than ripe for interrogation.
He is sitting in a peculiar position at the end of his bunk with his forehead pressed so hard against the bars, he seems welded to them.
“He’s been like that for hours,” the turnkey says. “He stopped eating and drinking. I think we’ve broken him already.”
I nod for him to open the cell door. I tell him to leave it open and to disappear from view, while keeping an ear out in case the farang turns violent. When a personality splits like this, you never know which way the particles are going to fly.
I step inside the cell, which is to say I step inside the psychology of its inmate: a meltdown at the center. Reaching out with open hand, I grab the hair at the back of his head and pull him away from the bars. He is shivering and twitching like a rabbit. I have to caress his head and face to calm him down. The bruise under his left eye is healing well but has turned dark. Now he’s looking at me with helpless eyes. I grab a chair and sit directly opposite him on his bunk.
“Why are you here, Dan?”
A blink. The challenge of verbal communication is lifting him from a mood that is sustainable only in solitude. It is, of course, exactly solitude combined with classic Thaicopparanoia that has broken him. He blurts and blabbers at first.
“Why am I here? Because you put me here. Because you’re a Thai cop who’s found a fall guy and doesn’t give a damn about truth, or justice, or freedom, or democracy. You’re all about sending me to death row so you can get on with the next case. So I ran away, and now you have an even better excuse.”
“You know a lot about the Thai system of justice?”
Bitterly: “I’ve been here four years, man. I’ve seen a lot. You don’t have a justice system.”
“If it’s so dreadful, why are you in Thailand?”
Suddenly: an avalanche of words that must have accumulated in his feverish brain during the couple of days he’s been down here. His tongue races to keep up with the thoughts:
“I’m here because there is no such thing as rehabilitation in the free world: one criminal conviction and you’re out, no jobs above subsistence level for you. I’m here because marriage doesn’t work. I’m here because I’m bald and almost middle aged—sounds silly, but I haven’t come across a single Thai girl who gives a damn if I’m thirty or forty, bald or not, divorced or not. You’re a nonjudgmental people, and it’s taken me four years to find out why. You’ve got a massive underground hell called the prison system that devours anyone who falls off the tightrope. It’s amazing, it’s the most outrageous institution in the world. It isn’t really a prison service—it’s a Stone Age money factory owned and run by cops and prosecutors. No one is safe. It could happen to anyone, Thai or farang, male or female, old or young: you’re walking down a quiet street one night, a cop emerges from nowhere, plants an Ecstasy or yaa baa pill on you, and takes you off to jail. You have a choice: pay his fee for freeing you, or watch the system gobble up the whole of the rest of your life. In your society there is only one judgment to be made: has he fallen into the pit or not?”
“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 sl
owly 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. A jao 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 some 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 roué 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 décor 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.
