I spotted an old man feeding some chickens on the nearby plot and I went over and spun him a line about liking the look of the building and wanting to build one just like it myself. Did he by any chance know who the builders were as they were clearly a most professional firm? The old guy fell for my patter and gave me all the information I needed. According to the old man, the wealthy Thai woman who was paying for the house had told the builders to stop work and to start constructing a restaurant on South Pattaya Road, Soi 2 he thought. He gave me the name of the head builder and his mobile phone number. Apparently the guy gave the old man a few baht every now and then to keep an eye on his scaffolding.
I drove back to the Penthouse Hotel figuring that I’d made a pretty good start on both cases and that I deserved a few tumblers of Jack Daniels as a reward. I showered and headed down to the bar. It went by the name of The Kitten Club and Mr Singapore was in residence and feeling no pain. We started playing pool again and buying rounds of drinks for ourselves and his fan club. We stayed until closing and then we wandered over to the hotel’s restaurant which was open twenty-four hours. Alan said that the girls would join us later and that we didn’t have to pay barfines. Considering that we’d spent the best part of 10,000 baht on drinks and snacks already, I figured it wasn’t much of a saving. Anyway, within an hour we had his fan club sitting with us again and there was lots of leg-stroking and breast-fumbling and tongue-swapping. I popped over to the toilet a couple of times and managed to get a few digital snaps of Alan and his mate and the girls. Eventually the two guys chose a girl each, said good night to me, and staggered over to the elevators leaving me with the remains of the fan club. Alan gave me a leer and a thumbs-up as the doors closed. I waved back feeling like a shit because I was going to have to tell his wife what he was up to.
The four girls left were pulling out all the stops persuading me to take them upstairs and I was starting to think that perhaps I deserved more of a reward than just a few JDs, then Miss Du wandered over and started whispering in their ears. She obviously told them about my herpes flare-up because five minutes later I was sitting on my own and my hard on had faded into a memory.
Before I hit the sack I emailed the pictures to Singapore. I felt bad about dropping Alan in it and did my best to explain to Cindee that her husband appeared to be just blowing off a bit of steam. It wasn’t as if he had a mia noy or even a long-term girlfriend, he was just hanging out with bargirls and I figure that ninety-nine per cent of the men in Thailand, single or married, do that at some time. It’s only natural, right? As I hit the ‘send’ button I had a feeling that Cindee wasn’t going to see it that way, though.
The next morning I launched into the hotel’s breakfast buffet then took a stroll down to South Pattaya Road, Soi 2. It was a rough area, even by Pattaya standards, and most of the residents seemed to be Thai labourers and their families. I sat down at a foodstall area and even though I wasn’t hungry I ordered a plate of kow man gai, one of my favourite dishes. It’s steamed rice and chicken and a bowl of watery soup. It tastes a lot better than it sounds. I got chatting to the middle-aged couple running the stall. They were from Kalasin but they had moved to Pattaya decades earlier to seek fame and fortune. They had six kids and the foodstall, which wasn’t much by Western standards but by Thai standards they were doing okay. I always figure that anyone who isn’t up to his knees in water planting rice by hand in the burning sun has got to be ahead of the game. The couple knew about the new Thai cabaret that had just opened further down the soi. They were too old to go out much at night, and they had to be up at first light to go to the market, but they often heard the cabaret’s band late at night. ‘They’re not very good,’ chuckled the old man. ‘I’ve heard drowning dogs that were more tuneful.’
I paid for my snack and wandered along the soi to take a look at the cabaret. A pack of mangy soi dogs watched me walk by, wondering what the hell a farang was doing in their neck of the woods. Soi dogs are strange animals. Like Thai people they’re good-natured unless riled, and they have a totally laid back approach to life. You’ll see them sleeping under cars, in the middle of the road, in gutters, totally oblivious to traffic and pedestrians. The dogs, that is. And the people, too, come to think of it. You never see soi dogs scrounging for food, either, the way you do in the West. They don’t go around begging, they just wait to be fed. There’s always a dog-loving foodstall owner who’ll put out a bowl of rice and meat for them or an old lady throwing out her kitchen scraps. The Lord will provide, seems to be their philosophy. Or Buddha will provide, I guess. I figure the dogs, given the choice, would opt for Buddhism rather than Catholicism or Judaism. The circle of life, and all that. I might only be a humble soi dog but next life I’ll be a general or a politician or a massage-parlour owner. Call me a naA?ve and sentimental old fool, but I always felt that I’d been a soi dog in a previous life. The one question I couldn’t answer was whether my karma was improving or not.
There was a large hand-painted banner stretched across the soi proclaiming that the ‘Isaan Allstars’ were in residence at ‘Gradai’s Cabaret and Beer Bar.’ There was an impressive frontage with a wrought-iron gate that led through to a gravelled area with twenty wooden tables facing a small stage. I figured that didn’t open on rainy nights because there was no roof. There were posters advertising Chang Beer, the tipple of choice for workers on the minimum wage, and a big hoarding with a photograph of a middle-aged lady holding a bulbous microphone with a raggedy bunch of Isaan musicians behind. It was obviously Gradai and the Isaan Allstars. There was nobody around so I went back to the Penthouse and had a few Jack Daniels and games of pool with Alan. He was in fine form so Cindee clearly hadn’t been in touch. He and his buddy had their fan club in tow though none of them would so much as smile at me.
I went back to Gradai’s Cabaret and Beer as the sun was going down. There was a young guy doing some half-hearted tidying up so I spun him a story about wanting to arrange a birthday party for my Thai wife and he gave me Miss Gradai’s mobile number. She lived in a posh apartment in nearby Jomtien with her partner, he said. A Thai policeman. It wasn’t looking good for Ronnie.
I phoned the number and Miss Gradai answered. I used bad Thai and it soon became apparent that Miss Gradai spoke perfect English so we switched to that. I stuck to my party story. I told her that I was in Jomtien and she agreed to meet me in a hotel lobby. I drove there as quickly as I could and was in the lobby when she arrived. She was in her late thirties and had obviously spent some of her husband’s hard-earned money on a nose job and bigger breasts and she was well dressed in a Versace shirt and Gucci jeans with Raybans propped up on her head. She shook my hand with a hand that was festooned with glittering rings. She was chatty and within a few minutes had told me that she was married to an Englishman, but that he was always busy and that he didn’t understand her. She was a singer, she said, and had just opened the cabaret and bar. Business was slow, she told me, but she expected it to pick up soon. Her band, the Isaan Allstars, would soon be household names, she said. As we started talking about my fictitious girlfriend’s party, her top-of-the-range Nokia mobile rang. She put her hand over the phone but I could hear enough to work out that she was talking to her Thai boyfriend.
‘Your husband?’ I said, when she’d finished the call.
‘My boyfriend,’ she said.
‘Oh, is he in the band?’
She shook her head. ‘No, he’s a policeman here in Jomtien. But he likes to sing.’
I made a provisional booking for the Cabaret and gave her a pay-as-you-go mobile number that I was planning to dump in a few days. I promised that I’d drop by the place that night and drove back to the Penthouse. I parked, then popped into an internet cafe and emailed photographs of the Cabaret and the unfinished house to Ronnie, along with an initial report. I didn’t like breaking bad news, but that was what I was paid for. And it was better that he learnt the truth sooner rather than later. Gradai was bleeding him dry, with a Thai boyfriend
to boot. I knew that Ronnie’s options were limited: the Thai legal system isn’t farang-friendly and the fact that the guy she was sleeping with was a Pattaya cop meant that Ronnie would have to tread carefully if he didn’t want to end up with a plastic bag over his head or at the bottom of a local high-rise.
I showered and shaved and changed into clean clothes, feeling pretty damn pleased with myself. I’d nailed both jobs in record time. I switched on the television and flicked through the channels. Inane game shows, boring chat shows, soap operas with giggling girls and foppish boys, the usual Thai fare. I stopped at the closed circuit view of the Kitten Club. Alan was sitting at the bar, his head in his hands. His mate was standing next to him, patting him on the back. I figured that Cindee had obviously been on him and given him an earful. I suddenly didn’t feel so happy about what I’d done. I’d done what I’d been paid to do, no question of that. And I’d been professional. But Alan was just doing what guys the whole world did and I felt bad for him. I just hoped that Cindee would make do with making him feel like shit for a few weeks and that she didn’t set Singaporean lawyers on him. I thought about going downstairs and buying him a few beers but there was an outside chance that he might figure out who’d sent the photographs to his wife so I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and I sneaked out for a few JD and Cokes at a bar overlooking the cesspool that passes for a sea. Having my thighs stroked by a long-haired beauty and being told that I’m a ‘hansum man’ always does wonders for my self-esteem.
At just after ten I wandered down to Gradai’s Cabaret. I already had all the information I needed, but Ronnie had paid me for three days so I figured that the least I could do was to see what the Isaan Allstars were like in full swing. The place was half-empty, or half-full depending on your point of view. The clientele seemed to be solely working class Thais drinking Chang beer or cheap whiskey. The cabaret was a couple of old comedians doing a slapstick routine that wasn’t funny in any language, and there seemed to be more waitresses and bar staff than there were paying customers. I doubted it would stay in business for more than a few months. It was only Ronnie’s money that was keeping it going.
Gradai and the Allstars came on stage just before midnight. She was wearing a too-tight red sequinned dress that showed off her silicon breasts, and far too much make-up. The Allstars were in denim and wore cowboy hats and were actually quite good. Gradai was terrible, though, and any dreams she had of making it to the big time were just that: dreams. At one point she said she’d take requests from the audience. I thought of asking her if she could play ‘Over The Hills And Far Away’ but figured she wouldn’t get the joke. I asked if they’d sing my favourite country tune, ‘Hua Jai Kradart’ about a man who complains that Thai women treat his heart like paper, screw it up and toss it out when they have used it.
It got a huge round of applause from the staff, but I don’t think that Gradai got the significance of the song. That was pretty much how she’d used Ronnie. Taken his money, lied to him, all but abandoned her kid. That’s no way for a woman to behave. I understand it when bargirls lie and steal and cheat. That’s their job. And their instinct. But Gradai was Ronnie’s wife and the mother of their child. There was no need for her to lie and steal. If she’d wanted out of the marriage the honourable thing would have been to have told him, sorted out their financial affairs and left him. I raised my glass to Gradai as the Allstars finished their song and she smiled and waved with her ring-encrusted hand. Rings paid for by Ronnie, I was sure.
I got an en email from Ronnie a few days later. He was divorcing Gradai, and she’d told him he could have sole custody of the boy. She, of course, was keeping sole custody of the cabaret and the half-built house. I got an email from Cindee, too. She was divorcing Alan, and thanked me for my help. I emailed her back, explaining that Alan was only blowing off steam, that the girls meant nothing to him, that she might think about giving him another chance, but I never heard back from her.
I don’t know what happened to the cabaret, but I’m still waiting to see Gradai and the Isaan Allstars in the Top Ten. I’m not exactly holding my breath.
THE CASE OF THE BARGIRL WHO TRIED
Like I said before, the bread and butter work of a Thai private eye is checking up on bargirls. The typical client is a middle-aged guy who’s come to Thailand, met the love of his life dancing around a silver pole, and then got back home. Back in the real world he phones his new-found love every day, starts to send her money so that she won’t have to sell her body, and starts to dream about bringing her back to his country and living happily ever after. The typical bargirl is from Isarn, dark-skinned and snub nosed, probably has a tattoo or two, a few scars from a motorcycle accident, and stretch marks from the kid she’s left in the care of her parents upcountry. Oh yeah, and a Thai boyfriend or husband hidden away and helping her to spend her ill-gotten gains.
Usually what happens is that something starts to nag at the guy. Maybe the girl keeps asking for money, maybe her phone gets switched off late at night, maybe he hears a man’s voice in the background. Or maybe he just visits one of the many websites that details all the pitfalls in a bargirl-farang relationship. That’s when the guy gets in touch with me. The email or phone call follows a standard pattern. The guy met the girl in a bar, she hated the work and was just waiting for a white knight to rescue her. ‘She’s not a regular bargirl,’ is something I always hear. ‘She’s different.’
At that point part of me wants to say that they’re all the same, that they are all just hookers hooking, and that the best way to see if a bargirl is lying is to check if her lips are moving. Rule number one in the private-eye game: If a bargirl’s lips are moving, she’s lying. Rule number two: If a bargirl’s lips aren’t moving, she’s preparing her next lie. But I don’t tell the client that, of course. I tell them how much I charge and I give them the number of my bank account and then once the money’s been transferred I go through the motions.
Do marriages between bargirls and expats ever work? I’ve known of a few, but success stories are as rare as hen’s teeth. I don’t understand why anyone thinks they are going to meet the love of their life in what is effectively a brothel. The girls are selling sex, not love. They rarely, if ever, confuse the two, but lots of guys don’t seem to understand that there is a difference. Still, if everyone knew the score there’d be a lot less work for the likes of me, so I’m not complaining.
Anyway, when Damien called me from Australia, there was nothing he told me that I hadn’t heard before. He’d just got back to Melbourne from yet another holiday in the Land of Smiles and he needed help on two fronts. He had a regular Thai girlfriend, a former pole dancer of course, and he wanted help getting her a visa so that she could visit him in Australia, and he wanted to check that she was on the straight and narrow. In my experience, the only thing straight and narrow about a bargirl is the pole they dance around, but I bit my tongue and had a long chat with him.
First thing I told him was that I couldn’t do anything to speed up his visa application. I’m not saying there aren’t ways and means of greasing things at the Australian Embassy, but I don’t have those sort of contacts and even if I did I’d use them very sparingly because bribing embassy officials is a quick way to end up behind bars.
The Australian Embassy, and the British and United States embassies for that matter, take their time issuing visas, especially to young girls with no steady job, no pay slips, no land or money in the bank. A visa could take as much as six months before it was approved, and that was always good for business because during those six months the boyfriend would be fretting in his country while the girl was sitting in Thailand having to ask him for more and more to support herself, and her family. A lot of bargirls are simply rejected for visas. Hardly surprising when a lot of them turn up for their embassy interview wearing a low cut top, tight jeans, and sporting a tattoo of a scorpion on their shoulder.
Damien didn’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. He was in
his mid forties and Ann was twenty-two. That always sets alarm bells ringing for me. A twenty-year age gap is huge even when you’re dealing with a couple from the same culture. But when the guy is effectively a sex tourist and the girl is a hooker half his age, well, it’s hardly a match made in heaven, is it? Anyway, he told me that Ann had been a star dancer at Hollywood Strip but that he had helped set her up with her own business, selling clothes on the street around the corner from Nana Plaza. He’d gone upcountry and met her family in Saraburi and had agreed to pay a small sin sot. Ann had been to the embassy for a preliminary interview but they hadn’t been satisfied with the evidence she’d provided. According to Damien she was finding the hours long and the work hard and that she wasn’t making much of a return on the business. She’d told Damien that he’d have to start sending her money or she’d go back to the Hollywood Strip. It was the usual scenario for a farang far from Thailand, caught between a rock and a hard place. If he didn’t send money, the girl would doubt his intentions. If he did send her cash, he’d start to wonder if she was just after his money.
Confessions of a Bangkok Private Eye: True Stories From the Case Files of Warren Olson Page 11
