by J. M. Parker
“Sure,” said Bannon.
In the street he spotted a motel and he headed for it, taking a room for an hour. He snorted the first line as soon as he entered, the stress fading out of him in one long hit. He threw his tattered clothes away and stepped into the shower, barely able to feel the steaming water on his skin. He toweled off and rummaged around the room, the fridge was empty and unplugged. Bannon cursed, slamming the door before he uncapped the prescription bottle and ground up another line of hydrocodone.
*
Within a week he was out of drugs. He looked anxiously around the room as the pharmacist studied the prescription. “What’s the problem?” said Bannon, his temper worsening as he felt his joints start to ache.
The lady looked up and scowled. “Here,” she said, pointing to a date at the top of the prescription.
Bannon read it, 8/4/94, two days prior. “Come on,” said Bannon.
The lady shook her head, moving her hands to the top of the prescription and starting to tear the paper. Bannon lunged for the prescription, landing flat on the counter as she ripped the thing in two. The lady stepped back and called for help. “Shit,” said Bannon, seeing her scared face. He dragged himself back off the counter and straightened up. “Sorry,” he said, turning away and racing for the exit. He stepped out into the sunlight and hurried along the street. He saw the open door of a bar and he pushed inside, grabbing a waitress immediately. “Whiskey,” he said.
The waitress looked nervously back. “Do you want ice?”
“Just bring me a bottle.”
He snuck into a corner booth, trying to stay out of sight. The waitress came back quickly and set the bottle on the table. Bannon grabbed it, already drinking before she could hand him his glass. He lowered the bottle and took a breath. The waitress stepped away and Bannon watched her go, the worry fading as he dumped some whiskey into the glass and took another gulp.
*
He gasped as icy water hit his face. “What the…” said Bannon, his words interrupted as another load of water splashed across his shirt. A man stood in front of him. Long black muttonchops lined his white face. His hair was cut into a scruffy mullet. “You owe me for the whiskey and the clean-up,” said the man.
“What?” said Bannon, his head throbbing as he looked around. A chain-link fence surrounded the small parking lot, he could feel the uneven surface of the wall digging into his back.
“It’s fucking hard enough to run a business without scum like you scaring away the customers. You drank a bottle of whiskey in an hour, puked up your guts before you staggered out here.”
Bannon looked down, vomit stained the wrinkled surface of his shirt. “Is there blood in it?” he said, spotting a spattering of little red dots.
“I don’t give a fuck what’s in it,” said the man. “What are we going to do about my fucking money?”
Bannon reached for his pocket and threw a handful of bills at the man. “That should cover it.”
“What’s the matter with you?” said the man, staring at the money as it blew across the ground. “You’re an absolute mess.”
Bannon laughed, hoping suddenly for the man to lash out, wishing he’d slam his head against the wall, wishing he’d knock him senseless. “It’s all a mess. All a bunch of lies.”
The man took a step back and Bannon laughed harder “No,” he said. “Smash my teeth in. Gouge my eyes. Cut my throat. You’re right. I’m a goddamned piece of shit.”
The man gathered the money and thrust it into Bannon’s lap. “Keep it. Just get the fuck out of here or I’m calling the police.”
Bannon looked up and grabbed the man. “Do it,” he said. “Beat me to death. Sweet peaceful fucking death.”
The man pulled his arm away and raced through the back door of the bar. Bannon heard the lock click shut and he rolled onto his side, still laughing deliriously as the money slipped from his lap and blew across the ground.
*
The police came and carried him away. They held him for a night, a small crowd gathering at the bars as he screamed the Frenchman’s name. “Come on, Jean. Come and cut me a deal.” When he sobered up they released him. Bannon headed south, passing through a run of Bangkok bars before he drifted back to the coast.
In a seaside town he thought he saw Alina. He felt his throat lump as he looked at the girl, her blonde hair sweeping across her tanned back. He staggered out of his stool, his anger building as he crossed the bar. He took a final step and grabbed her arm. The girl turned. “Get away from me,” she said, pulling her arm away and stepping back. Bannon didn’t move, he felt his anger turn to confusion as he stared at the stranger. A group of men gathered around the girl and one of them dragged her away.
“Alina,” said Bannon, watching as the girl disappeared into the crowd. A man stepped toward him, stopping as he seemed to spot the scars on Bannon’s arms. Bannon spat in his direction, hoping once again for someone to knock him out of his misery. The men backed away and Bannon felt a familiar delirium come on. “Cowards,” he said, his voice sounding above the music and turning more heads in his direction.
*
The bouncers pushed him out into the street and Bannon wandered aimlessly for a while. He heard the sound of waves breaking on the water and he headed that way, stopping at the water’s edge and staring out across its black surface. He felt the water brush against his toes and he stepped back, fear gripping him as he remembered the dream: the Frenchman dragging him into the black water of the lake, Alina slipping from his grip above him. Tears started to well in his eyes and he turned away, stopping on the spot as he saw the dark outline of a building. “It couldn’t be,” said Bannon, staring at the shape.
An orange glow seemed to shine out of its center, and Bannon broke into a run as he recognized the dive shop. He stopped as he reached the building; boards covered the windows and the doors. The orange light of a fire flickered inside and Bannon stepped closer, spotting a gap in the planks around the door. He pressed his face to the gap and thought he saw the dull outline of a man. “Hello,” said Bannon. Something moved inside and Bannon called out again. He pushed one leg through the gap and squeezed inside, the room taking shape in the light of the fire.
Something moved in the adjacent room and Bannon spotted a small vagrant huddled in the corner. The man muttered a few words in Thai and Bannon took a step closer. The man recoiled, pushing himself back into the corner. “It’s alright,” said Bannon. “I ain’t going to hurt you.” he edged backward and saw the vagrant uncurl slightly. “I’ll leave you be,” said Bannon, turning around and crossing into the old locker room. The window at the top of the wall had been boarded up, the wood from the benches had been ripped away. Screws rolled across the floor and Bannon picked one up. He remembered struggling through the window and he shuddered as all that fear came flooding back. Tears started to stream from his eyes as he looked around the gutted interior of the shop. He heard footsteps at the door and he turned, wiping the tears from his eyes as he saw the vagrant again.
The man was holding a small knapsack and he reached into it, drawing out a tin mug and a bottle of booze. He filled the glass and retreated from the room. Bannon heard the sound of metal being set down on the concrete floor. He rose, grabbing the glass and peering back into the main room of the dive shop. He watched as the man filled a small metal pot and set it on top of the fire. Again the man reached into his knapsack, drawing out a cluster of mud-covered roots and lowering them into the pot. A bitter smell started to creep from the mixture as the man grabbed a handful of gray fungi and dropped them in as well. “Wait,” said Bannon. “What is that?”
The vagrant didn’t seem to understand and Bannon pointed to the pot. The man cocked his head to the side and his face appeared in the light of the fire. Deep wrinkles covered his skin and gray hair sprouted in tufts from his otherwise bald head. Bannon inched across to the fire, trying not to startle the man and listening as the water started to boil. The man leaned over the pot and inspect
ed the contents before he said something else in Thai.
Bannon heard a familiar word and he felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. “Did you say ’voodoo’?”
The man nodded, his rotten, jagged teeth showing in a smile. “Yes,” he said. “Voodoo milk.”
*
Bannon raised the cup to his eyes and drank. A bitter burnt taste filled his mouth. He felt the man press the cup back against his lips and he swallowed again, draining the contents of the mug. “How long do I have to wait?” said Bannon.
The man didn’t understand, he just leaned back on his elbows and stretched his legs out beside the fire. They sat that way for some time, Bannon staring at the man and watching as the light of the fire shone in the pupils of his eyes. The man muttered something and Bannon leaned a little closer, feeling a sudden light-headedness. The man spoke again and Bannon watched as the light of the fire seemed to consume his eyes, spreading across the whites of his irises until two little balls of fire shone out of his skull. Bannon turned away, he heard his heart thumping inside him, each beat sending tingling vibrations shooting around his body. He peered through the gap in the door and saw the stars shining overhead. He stared at the largest one, watching as it shone brighter and brighter until the whole thing seemed to tremble before his eyes. He took a long breath and felt the vibrations intensify as the star exploded in a blinding burst of light and everything flashed white.
Bannon blinked into the brightness, watching as long streaks of the white light descended from the sky. He heard them crack against the sea, the sand, the walls, and wherever they struck prisms of color burst from the point of contact. He saw another beam shoot out of the darkness where the star had been, falling in one long arc and passing through the gap in the door. He felt it strike him in the chest and he felt an immense wave of pleasure course through his body. He laughed, rolling onto his side as every fiber of his being seemed to tremble with energy. He heard something crack beneath him, the sound of it ringing like thunder around the room. He looked down. Saw the broken match. He saw light bounce from its surface and new shapes started to form in the room, people constructed out of lines of searing white light. He saw himself and the Frenchman, standing outside the Phuket bar, the first time they ever met. He watched as the Frenchman passed the matches across, the lines of light breaking up and forming a new room. Bannon sat in the center of it, turning the box of matches in his hand. He watched as the silhouetted woman lifted from its surface and appeared like a hologram on the roof. He felt another surge of energy as it lowered into him and the white light passed through his body again. He took another long, deep breath and felt words form on his lips, the same words he’d seen printed across the box of the matches. “Moonshine,” said Bannon. “Moonshine Dive.”
17
The midmorning heat was creeping through the boards when Bannon woke. His muscles still tingled and he felt unusually calm. Across the room the hermit lay in a pile of frayed blankets. Bannon saw the broken matches scattered across the ground and he remembered his hallucinations from the night before. He tried to think about his time with the Frenchman, if there had been any hint of where the Moonshine Dive might have been. He wondered if the box of matches was full when he received it, newly acquired or something dug out of a pocket. He felt his calm mood change as he thought about the Frenchman, still out there, still profiting off the setup. He took a long, deep breath and tried to focus on the matchbox; he was sure it had been new. He grabbed his backpack and checked the rest of his money, a little less than two thousand baht, and he cursed as he tucked it into his pocket.
*
He caught the cheapest ferry to Phuket. A crew member passed by and Bannon called her over. The lady stepped over to his seat, stopping about three feet away as she noticed Bannon’s scarred skin. “Have you ever heard of the Moonshine Dive?” said Bannon.
The crew member didn’t answer and Bannon tried again in Thai. This time the lady shook her head. “Thanks anyway,” said Bannon.
When he reached the city he headed straight for the old Irish bar, stopping at the base of the stairs and looking up at a half-completed restaurant. He’d hoped Sullivan might have been able to help and he stood for a moment, wondering what to do next. He felt another violent burst of anger as he thought about the Frenchman getting away. He gripped the railing of the stairs, his forearm tingling as the movement seemed to trigger a residual blast of the drugs. “Breathe,” said Bannon, his mood improving as the pulsing sensation ran out into his torso.
*
The bartender stepped away from the fridge and set the bottle on the counter. “You ever heard of the Moonshine Dive?” said Bannon.
“No.”
“Then I’ll need a directory, too.”
The bartender wandered over to the telephone and began searching the cabinets around it. After a minute of searching, he found the book. “Want another?” he asked, pointing at Bannon’s empty bottle.
Bannon paused. He looked from the bartender to the thick wad of pages in his hand. “No,” said Bannon. “Better focus for a while.”
He searched through the directory for almost an hour, finding nothing. He closed the book and slid it back across the counter. “I’ll take that second beer,” he said. The bartender grabbed another bottle and set it on the bar. “Anything else?” he said.
Bannon didn’t answer. He felt his muscles quiver again as he leaned toward the beer. He remembered Alina talking about the ayahuasca, the orgasmic feeling of the drug passing through her body. “Like an orgasm,” said Bannon, the words stirring another memory, the Frenchman surrounded by the massage parlor girls. He remembered his first conversation with the Frenchman. He’d asked what it said on the matchbox, asked if the place was a bar. He felt another residual wave of the drug flow through his body as he recalled the exact response of the Frenchman: “No, my friend, it is not quite a bar.”
*
He spent the last of his money on a prostitute, hoping desperately that his hunch was right. Lines of small rooms stood side by side, curtains draped across their entrances. He could hear the sounds of other people fucking as the prostitute dragged him into a room. Before Bannon had a chance to speak she’d already slipped out of her robe and sat on the edge of the bed. “So, you can only afford a suck,” said the girl, reaching for his belt.
“No,” said Bannon, pushing her hands away. “I just wanted to ask you a question.”
The girl picked up a condom and started to tear the package. “Okay, but make it quick now.”
“Have you heard about the Moonshine Dive?”
“What place?” said the girl, placing the condom on the mattress and reaching again for his belt.
Bannon tried again in Thai and the girl stopped, her fingers still touching his buckle. “Yeah, I know that place.”
“And?”
“Real big shot place.”
“Big shot place? Like exclusive?”
“Yeah, big shot place. You know?”
“I know some people that go there.”
The girl let go of his belt and looked at his face. “You know people?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you introduce me, girls in that place make big money.”
“Sure,” said Bannon, “just help me find it.”
The girl looked puzzled. “You don’t know.”
“I lost the address.”
“Okay,” said the girl. “You promise you introduce me?”
“Sure.”
The girl listed some street names and started to unbuckle his belt again.
“Can you repeat that?” said Bannon. She repeated the streets and Bannon tore himself away. “I’ll find you,” he said, dashing for the exit as the girl called out behind him.
*
He stood across the street from the brothel. The last of the voodoo milk seemed to have worn off and he felt a familiar paranoia. He wondered if the Frenchman was inside, wondered what he’d do if he found him. He ached for a drink and he considere
d calling for help. He reached for the business card with the agents’ numbers and then he shook his head, a fresh bitterness coming on as he thought for a moment about Alina.
The door to the place swung open and Bannon looked that way. A fat Thai man stepped out into the street and hurried over to the parking lot. “Shit,” said Bannon.
An hour passed. A few more men came and went but still no sign of the Frenchman. He shifted on the spot, that old delirious feeling coming on when he heard something crack beneath his feet. He looked down, a faded Coke can lay crushed on the ground. He glanced once more at the door and reached for the can, ripping it open and twisting the jagged metal into a point. He took a long, deep breath, tucked the shank into the arm of his coat, and headed for the door.
He knocked twice on the door and it swung open again. A massive Thai man stood behind it. A headset was stretched around his bald head, his enormous flats of muscles rippled beneath his shirt. “Members only,” said the man, moving to close the door.
“Wait,” said Bannon. “I think my friend might be in there.”
“Who’s your friend?” said the security guard, still gripping the handle.
“Saint Jean.”
The guard’s hand fell back to his side. “You know Saint Jean?”
“Yes.”
“He’s not here.”
“Is there someone who could take a message?”
The doorman raised a hand to his ear and spoke into his headset. Footsteps sounded out behind him and a short, stocky man moved into view. He wore a blue pinstripe suit, the jacket worn open over a light pink shirt. His hair was neatly combed and his dark skin seemed to shine in the light as he moved a little closer. “You don’t look like a friend of Saint Jean’s,” said the man.
“I am. You’re sure he’s not inside?”
“He’s not. What’s your message?”
Bannon paused, trying to think of something to say, when he saw the outline of a pistol tucked into the front of the man’s pants. “Nothing,” he said, taking a step back.
