Tuki fans the air with her hand as if to drive off a foul vapor. She does not want to hear that name. Every time it comes up, there is some new mess right in the middle of her life.
Ruby heaves a sigh, says that Tuki does not understand. Does she not know that her boyfriend is threatening Alby? The guy who looks like Jackie Chan. The guy from Bangkok.
Suddenly, she feels snakes racing through her veins. Last night, for just a second, she thought she saw a man who looked like Prem sitting in the audience at the Follies. She told herself then that it could not be him. She had blanked the picture out of her mind. An impossibility.
But it is true, says Ruby, he is here. In Provincetown. He was at Alby’s office last night a little before the Follies show. He had a gun. He told Alby to stay the hell away from his girl, that he was taking you away. Alby told him to eff off, get out before he called the police. The next thing you know, he shot a bunch of holes in Alby’s computer. Little flames rose out of the monitor.
Alby had a bullwhip hidden under his desk. When he started shooting, Alby grabbed his whip and zapped the guy right around the chest. Declared she was his property. And if this little prick from Bangkok came within a mile of her, he would kill his ass. Like don’t fuck, Jasper.
Tuki says nobody owns her. Ruby shrugs, maybe so. But Alby wants to see her. Now. He says her immigration status could be at stake here. Tuki can hardly believe her ears. Is she being threatened? Ruby shrugs again. The man has a proposition. First, he wants to take Tuki to dinner after the show tonight … and then he wants her to move her things into the Glass House.
Tuki’s mind starts sorting through pictures. She sees the jet to Montreal and a gun in her face … right beside some guy’s chaang.
“No thank you, la,” says Tuki. The Alby show is over.
Ruby’s voice grows shaky, frantic. She says that Silver is going ape shit. Right after the Bangkok cowboy shot up Alby’s office, the Great One told Silver that he was out-of-his-mind crazy, like heart and soul, over the girl from Bangkok.
The news itself didn’t break Silver’s heart, but Alby is Silver’s sugardaddy. Not simply to the tune of a glass house to live in for the summer, a sharp Harley to ride around town, and all of the costumes a girl could dream of. He is her ticket to six figures a year. He owns the loft in Soho where she lives in the winter. Gives her use of his townhouse in Munich, a beach condo at Cancun. And he has been backing Silver’s film, TV, and video career to the tune of a half mil. One other thing, the Great One is working a deal to protect all of his girls from the INS. From deportation. Including Silver.
But Silver could not take the long view on her relationship with him. Not now. She just hated the feeling that her hold on Daddy Warbucks was slipping. She had thought that he was over his little infatuation with Tuki. But now, because the old flame has shown up, Alby is in meltdown again. Things are flying out of control in Silver’s life. She is pissed, jealous, not sure what to do next. Maybe hurt somebody.
As some kind of payback thing, Silver invited about a hundred people to Shangri-La to a party at the Lodge after the show on the night Tuki’s ex and Alby had their little showdown. The night the Great One told Silver she was old news.
A lot of cocaine got passed around. People started doing crazy, sick things. One of the dragon waitresses from the Follies got herself smashed on margaritas and lost her virginity eight times on the day bed in the back of the kitchen; three women stripped and did a girl-on-girl thing in the hot tub. And Silver made Ruby get down on her knees in front of the fireplace, pull up Silver’s skirt, and lick a line of coke off the ho’s you-know-what. The guests cheered Ruby on, while Silver did a lip-synch in the half-light of a flickering fireplace to “Do That to Me One More Time.”
Tuki tells Ruby to forget Silver. But she just sighs and says she can’t. It’s complicated … she just can’t.
Ruby begs her to just pour water on this fire. Tuki is the only one who can. She must do what Alby thinks he wants. This once. Just go out to dinner with him. Jump his bones a few times. He has a crush on her. She is not the first. This kind of thing has happened before. Let it run its course, he will not hurt her. He only wants what he does not have. Then everything will be okay.
THIRTY-SEVEN
It is the seven-day gay fiesta called Carnival Week. The opening party is at the Slip. There is a talent show featuring P-town’s working divas, followed by dancing. Now it is time for Michael to put the case aside for the moment and pay up. And Chivas is collecting. Tonight he is the one trading favors, not his client. He is her escort. And at seven o’clock in the evening, he is standing in the Tango dressed as the Sheik of Araby in one of Harry’s old costumes.
Chivas makes her entrance looking like an aging, overweight version of Glinda the Good Witch from The Wizard of Oz … in a gauzy white gown that you can kind of see through. But there is definitely something draggy about the look—maybe the way the eye shadow is way too green. Michael thinks he is out of here if anybody starts taking pictures. The last thing he needs is for a photograph of him tonight getting back to Filipa, his father, or Tio Tommy.
And a photo is a real possibility because he is not just stuck with the queen mother—she has invited Tuki to join them. She has to do a little number in the talent show, and she is dressed to take no prisoners. A sultry, Lena Horn look in a blue, rhinestone-covered evening dress that fits like a glove and slits way up the leg. Flame lipstick, hair pinned up off her neck, a fake diamond necklace, a pair of rhinestone heels. Patrons in the Tango whistle and hoot.
Chivas takes her dates by the arms. Out the door they go, arm in arm in arm, to the ball. Provincetown high society.
The sun has just about set over the bay. Shop lights are coming up in reds, greens, blues, yellows. All of Commercial Street is a runway. He has never seen anything like this. The crowd is so thick, the few cars that brave this narrow lane get swallowed in a herd of party animals. You can hear the buzz of the throng, the rustling of costumes, the rumble of disco and house up and down the street. The scents of Chanel and Obsession hang in the air.
A pair of identical twins—about six and a half feet tall—in black corsets, garter belts, and hose walk arm in arm. They look totally outrageous with their little blonde goatees and vinyl caps. Coming from the other direction is Eva Perón—dolled to the hilt like Madonna in Evita. Outside the Crown and Anchor, Oprah, Xena, Pocahontas, and Snow White strut their stuff for the crowd. At the intersection in front of the Governor Bradford, a Julia Roberts clone and two girls dressed like waitresses are reviving the Mystic Pizza thing and taking turns helping the policeman direct traffic.
And here come the drag kings. Everyone from Drew Carey and Jerry Seinfeld to Mick Jagger and Alan Jackson. For every king or queen whose character Michael recognizes, he sees ten other people in costumes that range from ballerinas to ostriches.
Maybe Prem is here, he thinks. What if he—
“Wave to the crowd, darlings. They love us,” says Chivas.
After fours stops for toddies in friends’ shops, Chivas is spinning out of control—tall men, short men, gay men, straight men, young men, ancient men. The old girl does not care. She passes out winks, wiggles, and kisses like it’s Halloween and she is the treat.
Then, suddenly, Chivas groans. “Fuck. Smile for the King and Queen of S&M.”
Coming out of the Pied Piper is none other than the Ice Queen of the Follies. Silver has outdone herself, looking more like Sharon Stone than Sharon Stone does. She is wearing a sexy white dress like Stone wore during the—sans panties—Michael Douglas/beaver shot scene in Basic Instinct. Silver looks all uptown and Vogue. She also has a dog leash in her hand clipped to a collar around the neck of a drag king dressed in a tux, trying to look like Brad Pitt. It is Ruby in a wig and drag.
Tuki is beaming a smile like a good little girl from Thailand should when Silver stops about five paces from them. She looks Chivas and Tuki up and down, and says to Michael in her skank British accent, “
Hey love, where did you find this crusty relic of a three-dollar blow job and the juke joint ho?”
“Leave us alone!” says Tuki.
“Pardon me?” Silver, arching her eyebrow.
Out of the corner of his eye, Michael sees a crowd gathering to watch. Someone whispers “cat fight.”
The fur on Tuki’s back is up. “Find your DVDs, la?”
Silver’s eyes flash. “Light any fires lately?”
Tuki smiles. “Maeo mai yu nu raroeng. When the cat is away the mice will play.”
“Kiss my ass!” Silver shouts as she stomps into the throng on Commercial Street … with Ruby at her heels.
“PMS,” Chivas explains to the crowd gathered around them. “Every girl’s secret shame!”
The talent show comes and goes at the Slip with both Tuki and Silver drawing raves from the crowd. Now everybody is down with dancing. Michael stands on the edge of the dance floor. He is tasting some champagne that Chivas has thrust in his hand. He realizes that the old girl has kept him laughing all night. So much so that he has almost stopped scanning the crowd for a Thai assassin.
A slow set comes on. The DJ spins a tune from Pretty Woman, a sexy cha-cha number called “Fallen.” It played in the background of the scene where Julia Roberts first got transformed from a hooker into a stunning society girl. It is one of Filipa’s favorite movies. She’s made him watch it a dozen times. Now when he hears the music, he can picture Julia Roberts in her gauzy red dress with a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of diamonds around her neck sparkling almost like Tuki’s tonight.
He is listening to the song, having a little daydream, watching all the queens and kings dancing, when he feels someone grab his elbow. Tuki.
“Can I have this dance?”
He wants to beg off, lie. He says he is a lousy dancer. He cannot dance with a tranny. No way.
But her hand holds on. Suddenly they are dancing. She feels as light as a phantom in his arms. His feet are remembering eight years of dancing school in Nu Bej. “You can’t call yourself Portuguese if you don’t dance,” his father used to say. So when a lot of the other kids were playing baseball or boosting bikes, he learned to dance, learned to love the feeling. It makes him sad sometimes to think how Filipa is clumsy, unschooled, exaggerated on the floor. They ought to take some lessons before the wedding.
But this, right now, is amazing. Tuki dances like a dream. He cannot believe it. So smooth, so light on her feet, so straight, so strong, so subtle. They spin together; they break; they move hip to hip, side to side, back and forward … his right thigh grazing—spooning—the backside of her left leg. The blade of his hip slides against her soft rump.
He twirls her and pulls her back … this time to his chest. The tenor sax moans. He is in trouble here: the song is only half over, and Lauren Wood is singing about how erotic it is to be back in the game. He wants to swear. This just cannot be happening to him. He cannot really be dancing like this. Not here, not now, not with this person. Straight men just do not do this kind of thing.
They are lying side by side in her bed back at Number Three. Talking. Talking about Asia again … and New Bedford. Not the case. They talk like they are unraveling a giant ball of yarn in the moonlight. All the time they were dancing, she was noticing his gold ring with a small sapphire set in it. It is an engagement present from Filipa. He wears it on his left hand like a wedding ring. She cannot ignore it. She has to ask.
“Are you married, Michael?”
“Getting—” he chokes.
“Getting married.”
“When?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“Oh, la.” Her voice is just a whisper.
After a while she adds, “What is her name?” She reaches over and takes his hand. It seems an unconscious gesture.
Anita Baker is singing “No More Tears” in surround sound. Their bodies look like silver shadows on the moonlit bed. Ripples sparkle outside on the inlet.
“Would you mind a whole hell of a lot if we don’t talk about it right now?”
He feels nasty. The nastiness of welcoming the scent of her freshly washed hair … the flirting in her voice. The nastiness of giving in a little to the woman she appears to be.
But when she starts to unbutton his shirt, he catches her hand in his and stops her.
He says something in Portuguese—a person’s name, a place, something else—she does not understand. His voice sounds funny. It’s no longer warm and husky, kind of shaky.
“Did I do something …”
He pulls away from her arms, sits up in the moonlight, leans back against the wall. She sits up beside him. He feels afraid.
It seems like hours go by before either of them says something more. Finally, he tells her he better go.
But he does not move. She presses her cheek to his chest.
He feels his skin tighten.
“I am sorry I am not what you want me to be.” She strokes his head. “Oh Christ!” he says and jumps to his feet. She curls into a ball and braces herself for what she fears is coming next.
It takes months and months, a private doctor, round-the-clock nurses, and a bundle of money, but Prem gets clean. His parents arrange everything. They send him to a famous hill station—a kind of mountain resort in Malaysia—to recover. He calls the club after two weeks. He says he is feeling better and he asks her to come. Please come.
But how can she? She has no passport. For the first time she truly realizes that she is an illegal, a person without a country. Even in Thailand.
“Hurry,” he says. His parents have big plans for him. They want to change his life.
“What do I do?” she asks Brandy and Delta. “Follow your heart,” they say.
So they arrange for her fake Thai passport, the one with the picture of her as a boy. Then she puts her drag in a suitcase, dresses as a boy, takes a second-class seat on the overnight train. It crosses the border at Hat Yai. In Alor Setar she pays a car and driver a string of pearls that Prem gave her to take her up into the mountains to the hill station. She has the car stop by a mountain stream and changes into the gold shantung sheath she wore on their first date. She puts on her makeup in the back seat. The driver watches in his mirror, but he says nothing.
When they reach the hill station, the air is cool and misty. The guard at the gate asks for her reservation confirmation number. She does not know what he means so she says she is a guest of Mr. Prem Kittikatchorn.
That would be impossible, says the giant Malaysian guard. He looks down his dark, broad nose at her and smiles. The person she speaks of has asked not to be disturbed under any circumstances.
“Mr. Kittikatchorn especially does not want to be disturbed by some filthy little Patpong trash. Go away. He puts a hand on the machine gun that hangs on a sling from his right shoulder.
She feels like a flea in the soft mud under the hind foot of a water buffalo.
THIRTY-EIGHT
He is slipping into his loafers, trying to get himself out of Tuki’s bungalow with a few shreds of self-respect, when the room suddenly goes white. He feels something hot on his back, turns to look. There are two figures shining flashlights in his face. He can see a man and a woman wearing dark ball caps. One of them has a pistol in hand. “Please, come with us.”
Some people say that bad things come in threes. He has never believed in this sort of superstition. He has always believed that you make your own luck. But now he is beginning to wonder, because here comes bad thing number three right on top of Chivas’s tale of the daisy chain of jealousy infesting his case, coupled with whatever you want to call this misguided interlude with Tuki.
He and Tuki end up sitting in the living room of the Lodge with Ruby and Silver giving statements to four separate agents about who they are, what they do, and why they are here. The storm troopers are not the Provincetown or Truro Police, who are known for their tolerance. These are Gestapo in full battle gear—walkie-talkies and blue windbreakers with INS in gold l
etters on the back. There are state cops among them, too. And while the girls and Michael are giving statements, the storm troopers go through the Lodge and bungalows of Shangri-La bed by bed, drawer by drawer. Not only do they suspect that the girls are illegals, but they think they are keeping a disorderly house for immoral purposes. Michael, here, is some of the evidence. A John. Caught in bed with one of them. Not with his pants down. But close enough.
He has so much static in his brain he hardly remembers what he tells the female agent in jack boots who grills him for about two hours. But he cannot forget a few high points of the night. Like when an agent asks Tuki her name. She tells him, you know, Tuki Aparecio. And the agent comes out with, “Your REAL name, sissy boy.”
A foggy dawn is settling over the Lodge and the inlet when Immigration makes their captives all strip together and bend over the dining room table. An agent who looks like Tommy Lee Jones snaps on a pair of rubber gloves, greases up his hand, and announces that he is going to “search all body cavities for incriminating evidence.”
Michael is getting his rectal exam with what feels like a cattle prod, when another agent suddenly shouts like he has found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
“Jesus H. Christ, help me out, Linda: this one has a pussy … under his lil’ pecker!”
Something begins to churn down in Michael’s stomach. When he looks up, he sees that the person who has the vagina is not Ruby, who Chivas had told him was an actual woman, but who he can now see clearly has a dick.
It is Tuki. She has the plumbing of a what??
There she sits on the edge of the dining room table with her legs all spread apart getting a pelvic examination by a female trooper.
“Except for the IUD, this one is clean and just like god made … him … her?” The trooper sighs. She does not look even a little happy to be a part of this detail. “What is your game, sweetheart?”
Provincetown Follies, Bangkok Blues (Cape Island Mystery) Page 14
