by Greg Dinallo
I can’t blame her. I’m a definite liability. A shortcut to a severely shortened lifespan. I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “I think you made the right decision.”
Her eyes soften with friendly affection. “That’s not what I meant. I have to meet Vann Nath.”
“Oh! I forgot all about that.”
“I want to ask you something. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“After all this, I’m feeling a little—well, I mean, you think maybe I could borrow your pistol? You know, take it with me?”
The fear in her eyes stops me for a moment. “I’m sorry Kate, it’s gone.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah, I lost it at the street market. As they say, we’re traveling light.”
She nods glumly. “Tell me about it.” She pulls at her blouse, reminding me that our luggage, along with our toiletries, personal items, clothing, laptop, and statistics were all destroyed. We have nothing but the clothes on our backs and our wits; and I’m not so sure about the latter.
“I wouldn’t mind a shave and change of underwear myself. But we’ve got to get our hands on some firepower, first. And I’m not talking .25-caliber toys. I wonder if that guy downstairs has a phone book?”
“What for?”
“To look up the nearest gun shop or sporting goods store.”
Kate shakes her head and smiles indulgently. “There’s something you have to understand about Bangkok. You can buy everything here from knockoffs of Gucci bags to teenage sex slaves. But not guns.”
“You mean, legally.”
“Of course.”
“Well, you lived here. You must know somebody in the black market, or a connection who could put us onto someone who has a friend who has another friend who knows someone who—”
“Vann Nath might.” She pauses briefly, working up to something. “I was sort of hoping you’d offer to come with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with asking, you know?”
“I think I just did.”
“Where is this nightclub?”
“Patpong Road. Where else?” she replies brightly, clearly relieved she won’t be going alone.
“Never heard of the place.”
“Come on! It’s where a half-million GIs went to get laid. You’re not going to tell me you went sight-seeing.”
“I went to Saigon and Manila,” I explain, getting to my feet with an exhausted groan. You have an international driver’s license?”
She shakes her head no.
“Damn. Me neither.”
“Why?”
“Can’t rent a car in this town without one.”
“‘Yes, I know. But there’s no need to. We can—”
“I don’t like depending on taxis. I’d rather have a car. Come and go as I please.”
“Who said anything about taxis?”
“Then what?”
“Are you finished, Morgan?”
“I have a feeling I’d better be.”
Kate leads the way downstairs, taking us on a brisk walk though local streets to a gas station where dozens of motor scooters are neatly aligned.
“I would imagine,” I say sheepishly, “One doesn’t need an international driver’s license to—”
“Nope. I used to rent them here all the time,” she interrupts, heading toward the rental office. “The only way to travel in Bangkok.”
A few minutes later, she emerges and crosses to one of the scooters. It’s a top-of-the-line maroon Honda, with a curved windscreen and elongated seat that extends atop the rear tire housing. She swings a leg over the scooter, rocks it off the kickstand, and stabs the key into the ignition, starting the engine.
“Put your feet on those pegs, grab the handles on either side of your butt, and hang on,” Kate orders as I climb on behind her.
As soon as I’m settled she pops the clutch, and the scooter zips down the alley into the darkness. The harsh chatter of the engine echoes loudly off the buildings as she accelerates and snakes through the maze of sois. The sound, the movement, the cool air blowing in my face combine to give me a second wind. I’m twisting around to make sure we’re not being followed when Kate takes a turn and catches me leaning the wrong way.
“Hey?! Lean into it,” she shouts over her shoulder, fighting to keep the scooter on line. She stops at the next corner, reaches back and pulls my arms around her waist. “Lean into it with me.”
We make our way south along Rama IV Road toward the nightclub district. In the distance, the glow of neon turns the mist hovering above the Patpong rooftops into an ethereal rainbow. This is the heart of Bangkok’s legendary nightlife, where the pleasures are carnal and the promises written in light: Massage, Massage, Massage, Fire Cat Disco, Soul Kiss A-Go-Go, The Flesh Pot, Massage, Massage, Massage. The signs shout in a montage of flashing, chasing, and blinking graphics that turn night into day with acerbic brilliance.
Kate skillfully maneuvers the scooter between the tourists and businessmen who meander through the streets and pulls up to a nightclub.
Above the entrance, in sync with the throbbing disco beat blaring from within, the word Lolita pulsates in blue-green neon, while a pair of lush, brilliant red lips part sensuously, revealing a fuchsia tongue that licks a heart-shaped lollipop.
Inside, in the center of a massive room, young Thai women, very young as the sign promises, dance in mirrored cages surrounded by patrons gyrating to the driving music. Laser beams and blinding strobes pierce the infinite blackness overhead. Windows circle the room. These are really one-way mirrors through which more young women, with numbers affixed to their skimpy bikinis, can be seen posing seductively. Hostesses snake through the crowd, deftly balancing their trays and taking orders for drinks and “dates.” We spot Vann Nath at a table away from the center of the action.
“Is he here yet?” Kate wonders anxiously as we join him.
Vann Nath nods. “He lives upstairs. His name is Pha Thi.” He waves over a hostess, wraps a twenty-baht note around one of his business cards, and whispers some instructions before sending her off with it. Moments later she reappears and gestures we follow her. She leads the way through the club and up a flight of stairs. As we approach the landing, I detect a chemical odor, but I can’t place it.
She ushers us into a loft that serves as Pha Thi’s apartment and studio. The walls are papered with photo blowups of Asian girls in provocative poses. At the moment, his camera and attention are focused on a nude model who vanishes in a blinding explosion of light as we enter. By the time the spots are gone from my eyes, she’s slipped into a robe and is hurrying off to a dressing room.
Pha Thi is a diminutive man with spiky jet black hair, faded jeans, T-shirt, and clogs. He sets his camera aside, presses his palms together, and bows slightly, then introduces his wife and children, who appear from their living quarters. The oldest, a girl in her teens, possesses striking beauty.
Kate says something to him in Thai.
Pha Thi responds with a puzzled smile.
Vann Nath explains he’s a Meo. Though indigenous to Laos, this mountain tribe has its own language. It’s akin to Tibetan, not Lao or Thai, which are dialects of the same language and mutually intelligible. “I told him you said he has a lovely family. He thanks you. He said he is very proud his daughter will soon be old enough to dance in the nightclub.”
“How nice,” Kate says, forcing a smile.
Formalities dispensed with, Vann Nath gets down to business. The two men converse briefly in Meo. Money changes hands. Finally Vann Nath turns to Kate and says, “He claims your husband was captured alive.”
Kate’s eyes brighten with hope. “Is he sure?”
Another brief exchange follows. “He says he was present at the time. He has proof.”
Pha Thi nods several times in confirmation and smiles expectantly.
Vann Nath produces more cash, but holds on to it this time. Payment is contingent on whether or not the alleged proof is forthcoming.
>
Pha Thi goes to a row of battered file cabinets, rifles through a stuffed drawer, and returns with a black and white photograph. Stripped to the waist, hands tied behind his back, face unshaven and drawn from exhaustion, eyes pained and defiant, Captain John Ackerman stands in a jungle clearing, towering over his gloating Pathet Lao captors.
Kate gasps and looks away.
Vann Nath nods solemnly and deposits the cash in Pha Thi’s palm.
I squeeze Kate’s arm supportively. “Does he know what happened to Captain Ackerman after that?”
Pha Thi shakes his head no when he hears the translation, but his eyes seem to suggest otherwise.
“He knows, doesn’t he?” Kate observes.
“He’s probably holding out for more money.”
Vann Nath nods and takes Pha Thi to task over the matter. But it’s obvious from the tiny photographer’s reaction that his reluctance isn’t born of greed, but of compassion. When he finally gives in, what he says upsets Vann Nath, who turns to us and says, “He claims the officer in charge of the patrol that captured Captain Ackerman sold him to a farm collective.”
“Sold him?” Kate echoes in an anguished wail.
Vann Nath nods grimly.
“To a bunch of farmers?” I exclaim, incensed. “Why would they do that?”
“He isn’t sure. But he thinks it was because so many of the oxen and water buffalo they used to plough their fields and pull their wagons were killed in the bombing raids. Considering the circumstances at the time, I wouldn’t put it past them to have bought POWs to replace their animals. Especially American pilots, whom they held responsible.”
“That’s inhumane, for Godsakes,” I protest. “It’s slavery. It’s against every article of the Geneva Convention.”
“Yes, but to their way of thinking no different than your migrant farm workers, for example.”
“How can you say that?”
“My parents owned several plantations, Mr. Morgan. They sent me to the United States to be educated. UCLA ‘68. I wrote my thesis on the political impact of Caesar Chavez and the United Farm Workers. Perhaps a better analogy would be criminals who have been sentenced to hard labor. My point is that when it comes to these matters, I think it’s very important to be aware of the other side’s mind-set.”
“Can’t hurt,” I reply grudgingly.
“Ask him if he knows where this collective was located,” Kate suggests, fighting to maintain her composure.
“No, he doesn’t,” Vann Nath responds after a short exchange. “It was in Houa Phan Province, in the area around Sam Neua. That’s all he remembers.”
“Opium-growing country,” I say.
Vann Nath nods sharply.
Pha Thi asks a question, gesturing to Kate. He lowers his eyes sadly at Vann Nath’s reply, then goes on at length with heartfelt concern.
“He asked if you were the man’s wife,” Vann Nath explains. “He said he is very sorry to cause you such pain and unhappiness. Furthermore, though he knows it will increase the weight of your sorrow, he thinks you should know that he recalls hearing several shots fired as the patrol was leaving the area.”
Kate pales and lowers her eyes.
“I don’t understand. Is he saying those farmers executed Captain Ackerman?”
“He doesn’t know. It’s possible. It’s also possible the Captain tried to escape, which was his duty. On the other hand, the gunfire may have had absolutely nothing to do with him.”
Kate looks at me forlornly and shrugs. She’s emotionally drained, torn by the uncertainty. I’m on the verge of exhaustion. There’s no more to be said, no more questions to be asked. Vann Nath leads the way down the stairs and out a side door to the street.
“I’m sorry, Kate,” he says, as we near his car.
“Don’t be. It’s something. It’s a start.”
“I’ll talk to some of my contacts about locating that farm collective and give you a call.”
“That’s brings us to another matter,” I say solemnly. “It’d be better if we call you.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” he asks, picking up on my tone. “What haven’t you told me, Kate?”
“We’re not at the Oriental anymore,” she replies. “There was an incident today just after you left.”
“The bombing . . . ?”
She nods gravely.
“It was all over the news tonight.”
“The room they blew up was assigned to us. I was the target,” I explain.
“My God. Why?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out. You recall if our names were mentioned?”
“No. No, I don’t believe they were.”
“That’s a relief. You made me an offer today, Mr. Vann Nath.”
“Of course.”
“We’re walking around here unarmed. We have to get our hands on some firepower.”
He nods and thinks for a moment, then turns to Kate. “Have you thought about contacting Timothy?”
Kate sighs. “I tried his number when I was in Hawaii, but I got a silk factory or something. There was no other listing.”
“Who’s Timothy?”
“Timothy Roark,” Kate replies. “You remember I told you I had two contacts here? Timothy was the other. He took me to crash sites.”
“I haven’t seen him in years,” Vann Nath resumes. “I hear he’s become a bit of a recluse, taken to living on a khlong north of the city. I’ll see if I can find out where.”
“Listen, I don’t want to put you to a lot of trouble. You sure it’s worth looking this flake up?”
Vann Nath’s eyes flare and lock onto mine like a gun turret ready to fire. “This flake, Mr. Morgan, has two silver stars, four bronze stars with additional citations, and several purple hearts. It would be your privilege to know him.”
“I’m sure it would. This man—he’ll know where we can get weapons?”
“No.” Vann Nath replies with a dramatic pause. “Timothy will have them.”
He hugs Kate, gets in his car, and drives off. We’re standing in the darkness beneath a pair of neon lips sucking on a neon lollipop.
A half hour later we’re back at the hotel.
Kate and I fall on our beds without undressing, the decision to sleep in our clothes prompted as much by exhaustion as modesty. But try as we might, neither of us can fall asleep. I don’t know how long we’ve been tossing and turning. I imagine she can’t get that photograph of her husband out of her mind. I can’t. I’m finally dozing off when I think I hear her getting up. I assume she’s headed down the hall to the bathroom, but a few seconds later, I feel her burrowing in next to me. Like a child sneaking into her parents’ bed during a thunderstorm, she’s frightened and wants the comfort of human contact. To be honest, so do I. It’s a strange feeling being this close to a woman again. A pleasant one. I wrap an arm around her and close my eyes. For the first time, I’m aware of the smell of her perfume.
“Morgan? Come on, Morgan, wake up.” I haven’t been asleep an hour when I hear Kate’s voice and feel her shaking me. I roll over. Daylight’s blasting through the window. It’s morning. I can’t believe it. I slept like a rock. Over eight hours without moving a muscle. I sit up, rubbing out the cobwebs.
Kate is standing at the foot of my bed, smiling like she knows something I don’t. Then she hands me a toothbrush.
I glance across at the other bed. She’s been shopping: A tube of toothpaste, a razor, a can of shaving cream, shampoo, hair brush, and a few pieces of clothing are neatly arranged on the cover.
“There’s a street market around the corner,” she explains, tossing a pair of Jockey shorts on the bed in front of me. They’re custard yellow. “I figured you were a 34/36. Sorry about the color. It’s all they had.”
I grunt unintelligibly, gather a few things, and stumble down the corridor to the bathroom. Twenty minutes or so later, fully reconstituted and dressed, I return to the room.
“I’m starving,” I announce brightly as I sweep
through the door. “What do you say we get something to eat and figure out what we’re going to do next?”
Kate nods stiffly. She has this funny expression on her face. Then her eyes shift slightly to one side of the doorway behind me, the side against which the door hinges open.
I’m about to turn when I hear the floor creak and feel a gun muzzle pushed into my back.
“Don’t move, Mr. Morgan,” a man says sharply.
I freeze. Ajacier’s thugs have found me. I’m waiting for him to pull the trigger, waiting for the searing bullets to tear through my body, when a second man comes around in front of me. He’s a Westerner in his early thirties, casually dressed with neatly combed hair and a hard professional face. He holds his gun on me while the other frisks me from behind. I’m glaring at him, frightened, my mind racing for a way to overcome them, concerned about Kate.
“He’s clean,” the frisker says.
“United States Drug Enforcement Agency, Mr. Morgan,” the one in front says coolly, showing me his identification. “I’m going to have to ask you to come with us.”
28
I’m in an office in the United States Embassy on Wireless Road, a broad boulevard where many diplomatic missions are located. In contrast to the architecture prevalent in this area, the building has severe lines. And, in keeping with this modern style, the office is cool and austere. A place for everything and everything in its place.
“Have a seat, Mr. Morgan,” the DEA agent says. “It’ll be a few minutes.”
What will be a few minutes? I wonder. I’m prompted to ask, but I know it will be futile. These are terse, dispassionate men. The questions I asked during the drive here elicited polite replies.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, sir.”
“What’s this all about?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”
“Then drop me at the next corner.”
“Can’t do that, sir.”
The chair the agent offers me is in the middle of the room in front of the desk. I’ve always disliked sitting with my back to the door, especially in these circumstances. I pull the chair around to the side, but before I can sit down, the agent returns it to its original position, making certain the legs match the marks in the gray carpet precisely. I take my seat, wondering why? A hidden microphone? A camera? Am I being secretly videotaped? More than a few minutes pass before a blind panel in the wall off to one side of the desk slides open.
