Provincetown Follies, Bangkok Blues (Cape Island Mystery)

by Randall Peffer

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. This is about a bunch of stuff.”

  The boatman sits in black pajamas, a paddle across his lap, staring at him.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Honesty maybe. Helping people who need you. Loyalty. And guilt. A boatload of guilt.”

  The fisherman throws his arms up in the air. “Oh sure, that explains everything, buddy boy. Listen to yourself. You’re talking nonsense. Guilt about what? When Nixon was carpet bombing the Viet Cong, you were just a baby.”

  He drops off his chair. Squints at his father. “Maybe that’s the point. I’m not a baby anymore. I’m the son of a badass, a war vet, a fisherman, and a dreamer. So I’ve got some baggage. Maybe a lot more than I used to think.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I won’t just abandon her.”

  “What aren’t you telling me, pal?”

  Something sharp and cold seems to pierce his chest. He sees her again. She is not a woman like the others in Bridgewater or even Provincetown. Backlit in silhouette by the blazing sun outside, she could be a child. In Saigon. In Cholon.

  “Why not? Come on, Mo, talk to me!”

  “Because … because she could have been my …” His mind considers her gender, gropes for words of relationship. He hears her voice: Dung? Dung is my long lost brother. “Blood,” he says finally. A holy child. A love child. “Like … all of those forgotten children over there. You know what I mean?”

  His father sits frozen in his seat, staring at his hands folded in his lap. “Yeah, son,” he says softly. “But what are you going to do about Filipa?”

  FIFTY-SIX

  “I think we found them, Rambo.” The voice on the other end of the phone is Votolatto’s.

  “Beg your pardon?” It is nine thirty Tuesday morning. Michael is still sleeping when the phone rings. Since he got back from Nu Bej on Sunday, he has been surfing the web almost full-time, checking out the drag bars in and around San Francisco for any sign of Nikki and Duke. But nothing is turning up except a whole lot of spam from porn sights. The buggers must get his address when he logs into the drag clubs. Filipa’s going to love seeing this stuff.

  “The infamous Nikki and her bum buddy. I think we know where they are, and it ain’t San Francisco.”

  “Where?”

  “The Vineyard.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yeah. No shit, counselor. Your client’s tape checked out A-okay after we got it translated. So then we found your pal Kittikatchorn. What a mess, he was jonesin’ bad as I’ve ever seen. But he talked.”

  “Really?”

  “Confirmed what he said on tape to Tuki. Man, does he hate you, though. Anyway, we got some search warrants. Nothing comes up on the Russian queen. But we score on the boyfriend’s bank records, debit card. Seems like he’s been living the high life on the Vineyard, mostly Oak Bluffs, for the last ten days. Hotels, meals, freaking load of bar tabs, boat rides, clothes. Like the guy’s on his honeymoon.”

  “Now what?”

  “The captain thinks your client has a way with the gab. Thinks folks talk to her. Everything we got on this Nikki is circumstantial. Pretty solid stuff, but it doesn’t totally get your client off the hook.

  You hear me? How do we know it’s not a conspiracy thing with your client and Nikki? We’re thinking we want to send Tuki to them on the Vineyard wearing a wire. See what gets said.”

  Michael is not quite getting it. He can’t see how you just plop Tuki into Nikki’s secret love nest, uninvited, and expect anyone to say more than “Gee whiz, what the hell are you doing here?” But it sounds like the cops suddenly need Tuki. This is when the defense attorney says ‘I want a deal.’ He goes for the whole paella.

  “She cooperates, we want all the charges dropped on Tuki.”

  “Tough guy, huh?”

  “Just doing my job.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Rambo!”

  “Immigration charges, too.”

  “You’re out of your mind. What about the security tape, man? It’s got her stealing the murder weapon.”

  “It’s a fake. You’re looking at an imposter on the tape.”

  “Says who?”

  “Tuki. She says someone is wearing her drag. But they got the earrings wrong. They’re not her earrings.”

  The dick is silent for several seconds. “I’m thinking, Rambo.”

  “Think about this. Tuki plays her scene right for you, she makes you a hero. You get the bad guy.”

  The detective exhales heavily into the phone. “I can’t do anything about the immigration stuff, that’s federal.”

  “You know people.”

  “I hope you are not asking me to tamper with a case, commit a federal crime?”

  “She’s not technically an illegal. She’s the child of a U. S. citizen. Her old man was a Marine in ‘Nam. There are laws to protect people like her. We just need some time, six months, a year would be better, to get her documented. See?”

  “You’re busting my balls.”

  “No. I swear to god. We just need to get a copy of her birth certificate from Saigon.”

  “You’ve already been working this out in you head, haven’t you?

  The court’s not going to pay you for immigration work.” He shrugs. “I do what I can.”

  “I gotta hand it to you, Rambo. Not many public defenders would hang tough with a case like this. They would just plead out the client and move on. What’s your story?”

  “When I used to fish with my old man and my uncle for ground fish on Georges Bank, we would sometimes have three, four, five days of heavy wind and seas. Couldn’t fish. Could barely keep the boat afloat. Just jogging into it. One time I asked my father why we don’t just turn tail and run from the weather. ‘We came to catch fish,’ he said.”

  Votolatto does not say anything. He is thinking about fishing. Thinking he should have known that the college boy came up in the fleet. Fucking tough Portagee. Bone for brains.

  “Well, Vasco da Gama, are we going fishing on the Vineyard or not?”

  “You going to drop the charges?”

  “I have to speak to the D. A.”

  “Come on, you know you already did. You wouldn’t have called me otherwise.”

  “She delivers, she walks. Fair enough?”

  “On the immigration stuff, too?”

  “You know what, counselor? You’re a pisser.”

  “That’s what my old man says. Help me out here. I need time to take care of the immigration paperwork.”

  “Maybe there’s something I can do. But she’s got to give us a top-notch show. You think she can handle it?”

  “You ever see her onstage?”

  “Naw, I don’t go for drag.”

  “She’s a movie star.”

  “So it’s a go?”

  “I’ll tell her your offer.”

  “Don’t be jerking me around, Rambo.”

  “This isn’t my call. Tuki makes her own decisions. And one other condition.”

  “What?”

  “I get to come along to watch out for her best interests.” The detective growls. “Can I ask you something? Does she give you a hard-on?”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Wednesday there is a hurricane 150 miles east of the Cape. It is pulling in bands of heavy showers. Oak Bluffs—the square mile of Victorian cottages, restaurants, arcades, clubs, bars that Vinyarders call “Sin City”—clusters around a little harbor on the northern tip of the island. It is an old-school resort. There are scents of pizza and fudge, flooded streets packed with tourists of several races wearing Black Dog rain gear, trying to ride out the blow. Even though it is only three o’clock in the afternoon, the streetlights are on. It is that dark.

  “How’s that feel, sweetheart?” Votolatto smiles.

  Tuki is sitting on a metal stool in the back of a plain white van parked by the harbor entrance. She is naked from the waist up, except for her bra. It looks like a s
ports bra the way the straps cross her back. She’s got her hands up under the C cups adjusting her breasts.

  “Cool, huh?” Votolatto says to Michael, who is also in the back of the van with a couple of techies. “Latest thing in transmitters. We figure these queens are all touchy-feely. Maybe Nikki or the boyfriend may try to hug Tuki. They might find a conventional wire setup, but no way, now. The mike, transmitter, and battery are right in the falsies. Even if you take the falsies out of the bra, you won’t see the wire unless you know what to look for. Think of it. Tits with ears.”

  Michael nods. Never imagined such a thing. That is for sure.

  “Okay. Showtime, everybody.”

  Tuki pulls on a pink cotton pullover and gray windbreaker.

  “Don’t forget your surprise, princess.” Votolatto hands her a plastic baggie with something small and black in it.

  “You want the umbrella or just go with the hood up?” Michael is asking. He is trying to be helpful. Sweat is soaking his brow.

  Tuki gives him a little kiss on the cheek. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  “Yeah, Jesus, would you relax, Rambo?”

  “Maybe she should take the umbrella. In case she has to defend herself, you know?”

  The detective looks at the lawyer, like sit down and cut the shit. “Anything goes wrong, Tuki, somebody starts to get rough with you, five real tough guys are going to be in that bar in about three seconds. You drop to the floor and cover your head, okay?”

  The bar and every table are full at the Bluefin Café on Circuit Avenue when Tuki walks through the door. She pulls the hood off her head and shakes out her curls. Somebody whistles. Maybe a charter boat captain or one of the house carpenters sitting in the corner. A Dire Straits song is playing on the jukebox. “Tunnel of Love.” Duke is working the bar in a ‘do rag that makes him look like the Jolly Roger. He is busy pouring off some beer and does not see her until she sidles up to the service bar.

  “How about a Perrier with lime, la?”

  He looks her way.

  “Holy shit. Tuki! What? How …”

  She reaches across the bar. Grabs him by the strap of his tank top. Leans and kisses him right in the middle of his Fu Manchu. His tan face goes suddenly pale.

  “I’ve missed you, la.”

  Even the techies, Votolatto, and Michael, waiting up the street in the van, know she is not lying. This is a good start. An honest icebreaker. She is shooting from the heart, not reciting a script.

  Duke opens his mouth to talk. But she smiles and presses an index finger to his lips.

  “We need to talk. Where is Nikki?”

  “You on some kind of mission?”

  “I don’t have much time. I’m scared.” Her words are still coming from her heart.

  Duke asks a waitress to cover for him. He ducks out from behind the bar, grabs Tuki by the arm. Michael can hear a swinging door squeak on its hinges.

  “Fuck,” says Votolatto. “He’s taking her out of the barroom.”

  You can hear the crackle of a grill, the clatter of plates.

  “They’re in the kitchen,” he says into his radio. “I want a detail to get around to the back street. Let’s go. On the double. Cover the kitchen door!”

  “Hey, Nik, look who the cat dragged in.”

  Nikki is wearing a chef’s hat, shaking a basket of fries with her back to the door. She spins on her heels as soon as she hears Duke’s voice. When she sees Tuki, she drops the fries back in the frialator. They sizzle. With the heat and the humidity, the kitchen feels like Bangkok during the monsoon.

  “Padruga. My god! Where did …”

  Tuki is on her friend. It is a big back-rubbing hug.

  “You’ve got to get out of here. Like now, la. The cops are coming!”

  “What I don’t understand,” Duke seems to be getting suspicious, “is why?”

  “They want to talk to you about the fire and Alby.”

  “That a girl! Don’t give them a chance to think this through. Jig the bait, sweetheart,” says Votolatto in the tech van.

  Nikki slides out of the hug, wipes her hands on her apron. “Why? I already talked to them for hours. If I could help you, you know I would do anything. I know you didn’t do what they say. You didn’t kill Alby.”

  “Yes, la. But things have changed. Everything is getting confused. You know my boyfriend from Thailand? The police got to him yesterday. I think he is the one. He killed Alby. Set the fire.”

  Duke and Nikki exchange a look.

  “Really?”

  “He is all messed up on heroin. He was jealous of Alby. And he saw what Alby was doing to us. So he just took things into his own hands. I know that is how it was. And you know what? I’m glad Alby is dead.”

  “He was a first-class prick, padruga.” There is real venom in her voice.

  “Nikki.” Duke takes her arm, strokes it, tries to calm her down.

  “Why are the police coming here?”

  “Because he’s lying to them. He told them he was outside in the alley by Alby’s office when the fire started. He said he saw Nikki put a knife in Alby.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “I know. But what if the police find us? Do you think they will let us walk this time?”

  Nikki says something under her breath in Russian. Maybe she is remembering her last showdown at gunpoint with Immigration back in P-town.

  “How did they find us? How did you …?”

  Tuki eyes Duke. “This morning I was in the dressing room. I heard Richie talking to the police. He told them to look for you at this bar. It was the place you were working when he first met you. He said it was like your old crib. You were from this island. I caught the first bus to Hyannis, then the ferry here. What do you think we should do?”

  “Fuck,” says Duke.

  “Where can we go? We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “She’s good,” mumbles Votolatto. “She’s got them by the balls. Now squeeze them, honey.”

  Tuki reaches into her pocket. “I almost forgot. I brought you this.”

  Nikki takes the baggie.

  “What’s that?” Duke can’t contain his curiosity. Nikki shakes the onyx pendant out into her hand. “My earring. I thought it was gone forever. Where did you find it?”

  “On the floor in Alby’s bedroom.”

  Suddenly, the kitchen is so quiet you can hear the fries crisping into hard little rocks in the frialator.

  “Come on, Tuki. Set your hook, babe. Reel them in. It’s do or die time!” Votolatto coaches from the van.

  The do or die line gets Michael. He suddenly remembers that today marks the end of the week of grace he begged from Filipa. He has not talked to her yet. “Come on, Tu—”

  There is talking again in the kitchen of the Bluefin. Nikki’s voice now. “I don’t understand, padruga.”

  “It means that you were there. In Alby’s room, la. It means you wore my drag in there and stole his knife. You can see the earrings on the security tape.”

  “I just wanted the knife to scare him. I wanted out. I was sick to death of his telling me he was going to call in Immigration if I didn’t fuck his friends. Sick to death of him threatening to tell Richie about me and Duke! I just wanted to go off and have a life with Duke. I swear, Tuki, I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I never—”

  “But you framed me.”

  “I’m so sorry. I needed a disguise and your bungalow was open. I just borrowed some of your stuff. I didn’t expect you to get in so much trouble.”

  “Nikki!” Duke’s voice is booming. He’s telling her to shut up.

  “What if I go to the police with this? What if they are listening right now, la?” Something has snapped in her voice. Michael can hear it.

  “Shit!” says Votolatto in the van. “I told her no threats! She’s blowing this.”

  There is the distinct clang of cutlery. Like a sword being drawn. “You won’t have that chance! I’m sorry about this, Tuki.” Nikki screams. “Duk
e, don’t!”

  But it is too late. He already has Tuki collared with his forearm, squeezing her neck in a vice, with a carving knife at the top of her throat.

  “Go, go, go!” shouts Votolatto to his SWAT crews.

  Michael is already out of the van and sprinting down Circuit Avenue for the front entrance of the Bluefin when a loud metallic thud rings out from the kitchen. Five cops kick in the door.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  There is at least one body on the floor, smoke pouring from the frialator, when Michael gets into the kitchen. He is blocked by a swarm of cops in riot gear. Votolatto is already on his radio calling in an ambulance and EMTs.

  As Michael tries to push through the crowd, his cell phone goes off. He automatically snaps it to his ear. A voice squawks his name. It seems far away, unearthly. And it is really messing with his concentration.

  “Not now!” He stashes the phone back in his jacket pocket and bulls ahead.

  When he finally catches sight of the bodies, the air rushes from his chest with a deep bellowing. Duke lies on the greasy yellow linoleum. Out cold. His head cradled in Nikki’s lap. She sits on the floor shouting for people to back away, someone bring her water. The left side of Duke’s head and his ear are swollen and red. Michael cannot understand what happened … until he sees the cast-iron skillet on the floor next to Nikki. She clocked him. Scrambled his brains. But what about Tuki?

  He shouts her name over the crackle of cop radios.

  “We already got her out of here, Rambo.” Votolatto nods toward the open back door.

  He can see the rain coming down in buckets. Then he is in it. Two women cops stand in the back street holding umbrellas over themselves and a figure squatting down on her haunches, arms locked around her knees. They have put a blanket over her shoulders, and now she is rocking back and forth like an autistic child at Bridgewater.

  One of them catches his eye, reads his concern. “She’s in a shit storm of shock. Where in hell are the medics?”

  “Tuki,” he says kneeling beside her in the rivulets, “It’s all over. It’s all over!”