PR04 - Queen of Patpong

by Timothy Hallinan

  Peachy, who’s been sitting on the sidelines, says, “Were some bars better than others?” She’s the only woman in the room who’s never worked in the sex industry.

  “Yes and no,” Nit says. “They were like the houses we clean, but smokier. Some people are good to work for and some aren’t. You know, some of them cheat you—”

  “All the bars cheat you,” another woman says.

  “But some are worse than others. Some of them steal your drink commissions or say you missed days when you actually showed up, so they can fine you. Some of them want you to go with every man who asks you. They fine you if they think you said no too often.”

  Peachy says, “Oh, my.” She clasps her hands in her lap, a gesture that always makes Rose think Peachy would be happier wearing white lace gloves. “What about the men?”

  “They’re the same in every bar,” Fon says. “They’re the same everywhere in the world.”

  “Not here,” Rafferty says. “Arthit and I are princes.”

  There’s a knock at the door. Arthit gets up, saying to Rafferty, “Sit. One gun is enough.”

  “A gun?” Nit asks.

  “Joking,” Arthit says, picking his way between the women. There’s another, louder knock. “Cop,” he announces. “Only cops are that rude.” He disappears around the corner of the hallway, and they hear the door open. Arthit comes back in with Kosit in tow. Kosit is holding a large manila envelope.

  Rose says, “Let me see them.”

  “Wait,” Kosit says. He opens the flap on the envelope and sorts through the pictures with a fingernail, without removing them. Then he pulls one out and holds it to his belly so only the back shows, and he hands the envelope to Rose.

  She lifts her chin in the direction of the one he’s hiding. “What’s that one?”

  “Not Horner,” Kosit says.

  “Then who? I took the pictures, and I think they’re all of—”

  “You didn’t take this one.”

  “Okay,” Rose says, sliding the pictures out of the envelope. “Be mysterious.” She flips through them, her face rigid with distaste. “These are better,” she says. “This is the best.” She holds up a color photo of Horner, a medium shot that shows him sitting at a table in what appears to be an open-air restaurant. He’s wearing a T-shirt and leaning back in his chair, supremely confident. He’d been eating when Rose pushed the shutter, and he has a knife in his hand, point upward.

  “Oh,” Nit says, looking startled. “I remember him.”

  Arthit says, “Did he take someone from your bar?”

  “A few girls, I think. I went with him once or twice.”

  Peachy fans herself.

  “You’re sure it’s the same man?” Arthit asks. “After all this time?”

  “He’s handsome,” Nit says, as though that explains it. “I went with him.”

  “Which bar?”

  “Not in Patpong. Over on Soi Cowboy. The Play Room. It’s closed now.”

  “Did all the girls come back? I mean, after they went away with him, did any of them disappear?”

  “Maybe.” Nit looks over at Rose and then back at Arthit. “Why are we talking about him?”

  Arthit says, “Before you go any further with this, Poke, I want to cover two things. First, I want to make sure that everyone here knows that this man has killed at least five bar girls.”

  Peachy gasps theatrically, but the other women just look at one another. Nit, eyes narrowed, says, “Five’s a lot.”

  “There are probably more,” Arthit says.

  “Her name was Ploy,” Nit says. She shifts as though the floor has become uncomfortable. “He took her for a few weeks at a time for almost a year, and then he bought her out for a month and she didn’t come back.”

  “Nobody worried about her?” Arthit says.

  “She told us she thought they might get married and she wouldn’t be working anymore.”

  Rose says, “Fon. Remember when we talked about me marrying him?”

  “Yes. It was pouring. The rain ruined my hair.”

  “That was his idea. He said it would be good for me to talk it over with someone.”

  “So you tell Fon and Fon tells everybody in the bar,” Rafferty says. “And when the girl doesn’t come back, nobody pays attention.”

  Arthit says to Nit, “When did he take Ploy?” He’s pulled a pad from his trouser pocket and is looking for a pen. Rose extends hers, and he takes it.

  “Mmmmm, hard to say. Four years ago? Five? Maybe 2005.”

  “Do we have one in 2005?” Rafferty asks.

  “In the first bunch he found,” Arthit says. To the women he says, “We have a cop looking through unsolved cases to find women this man might have killed. What month did he take Ploy?”

  Nit says, “I don’t know. Summer, I think.”

  “She washed up in August,” Arthit says. He puts his left hand on top of his right shoulder and rubs, hard. “Goddamn him.”

  Nit says, in a tiny voice, “Ploy was a nice girl.”

  “Here’s the second thing,” Arthit says. “I want Poke to tell all of you—and me, while he’s at it—exactly what he’s got in mind for you. What he wants you to do, and why, and how he’s going to guarantee your safety.”

  “Fine.” Rafferty sits. “We’re going to create a storm, and we’re going to wait for him to come to us.”

  “A storm?” Arthit says. “It must be nice to have the time to be metaphorical.”

  “Mapmakers used to use figures of gods or beasts blowing on the water to indicate prevailing winds and storm areas. That’s what we’re going to do, we’re going to blow on the water. We’re going to create a magical storm area just for Howard Horner, one that won’t affect anyone else. We’ll fix it so every bar worker and every vendor in Patpong, hundreds of people, will recognize him on sight. We’re going to find the bar his current girl works in, and if he hasn’t taken her already, we’re going to spirit her away. When he comes into the bar, he’ll be told she’s gone out to eat and that he should wait for her. Then they’ll call us. If he goes into a different bar, or if someone spots him on the sidewalk, they’ll call us.”

  “Who will?” Rose asks.

  “The mama-san. The girls. The only real problem is if he’s already taken her down to Phuket, but I doubt that, because we just saw him and we hurt him.”

  “He’s not going to slow down because he’s hurt,” Rose says. “As long as he can walk, he’ll come up with some story and use it to make the girl feel sorry for him. Then he can flatter her, tell her only she can make him feel better.”

  “Even if he’s on his way down there,” Arthit says, “there are two cops at the airport in Phuket with these pictures. He won’t make it out of the terminal.”

  “So,” Rafferty says, “here’s what we’re going to do: In half an hour or so, we’re going to go to the copy shop on Silom at the foot of Patpong and make about ninety color photocopies of the picture Rose is holding. Then the women here tonight, the ones who agree to help, will go into the bars they used to work in and talk to the mama-san. The idea is to get the mama-san to let you stand at the edge of the stage as each shift comes off and to make sure all the girls see the picture. Every girl, even the ones who are in the restroom. If girls are out on short-times, the mama-san will show them the picture when they come back in.”

  “And you think they’ll all remember him if he comes in?” Arthit asks.

  “If we tell them that he killed those women. That should get their attention.” Rafferty looks back at the women. “Oh, I kind of messed his face up—”

  “Good for you,” Nit says.

  “So you should tell them he might have some injuries, maybe even bandages.”

  Kosit, who’s been standing near Rose with the photo still pressed to his stomach, says, “Wait a minute.” He navigates between the seated women to the dining room and shows the picture to Arthit, then leans down and whispers into Arthit’s ear. When he sees the photo, Arthit’s up
per lip lifts to reveal his teeth, and he darts a look at Rose. He turns his attention back to the photograph.

  He says to Kosit, “Good idea.”

  Kosit says, “This is ugly, but you should see it.” He holds up the picture as the women crane at it and, one by one, turn away. They look at the window, at the floor, at their laps, at each other. The room is completely silent.

  “Girl number two, the second one we found in the files,” Kosit says. “From 2007.”

  Even from where Rafferty’s sitting, the photograph is a window into horror. The woman is colorless and cold-looking, with skin like white wax. Her eyes are rolled back as though she’s seeing something high above her head, and her wet hair streams out onto the dented table. The water-puckered, fish-slick skin has been sliced to ribbons. The cuts, long bled out and laundered by the sea, open into more whiteness.

  Rose gets up and goes to Kosit. She takes the photograph from him and holds it up to the room and says, “We show them this one, too. We tell all of them that he did this. We show them. Even the girls who are on drugs will remember.”

  “Will they believe you?” Arthit asks.

  Rose starts to answer, but Nit pushes her way in. “We’re sisters,” she says. “Whether we like each other or not, we’ve all been through the same thing. We all have the same story. And we all know there are men like this one.”

  “They’ll believe us,” one of the others says to Arthit, “faster than they’ll believe you.”

  Arthit nods and says, “You haven’t finished, Poke. Go through the rest of it. And I mean step by step. What keeps these women safe?”

  “First thing they do when they walk into the bar is say hello to anyone they know. The pictures will be in folders we’ll get at the copy shop so no one will see anything until it’s time. Second thing they do is sit for a few minutes with the mama-san and make sure he’s not there. If he is, she never takes out the pictures. She just leaves and calls us from outside. If he’s not there, they do the third thing, which is to show the picture of Horner to the mama-san and ask if she’s seen him. If the answer is yes, the next question is when. If the answer is this evening, or recently, they ask whether he’s been taking one girl regularly and, if so, whether she’s in the bar. If the answer to that is yes, then the woman with the picture gets the girl’s name and calls us and leaves without showing the picture around, and we go in a few minutes later and get Horner’s girl. If the answer is no, then we revert to normal procedures and we make sure all the girls see both pictures as they come off the stage. These women will never get near any action, if any takes place.”

  Rose says, “Who here doesn’t want to do this?” There are no responses.

  “You keep saying they’ll call us if he shows or if he’s just been there,” Arthit says. “Where are we going to be?”

  “Right there, on Patpong. There are six bars that no one here worked at, so we’ll take care of those. Anand and Kosit, if you’ll let them, will show the pictures to the vendors in the street market and the touts working the sidewalk. If we don’t get him tonight, we’ll go back tomorrow, and the next night. My phone number will be written on the back of every picture.”

  Arthit says, “My phone number.”

  Rafferty nods, trying to conceal his elation.

  “As if you didn’t know I’d say that.”

  “Oh, well,” Rafferty says, and then dumps the rest of what he was going to say because of the way Arthit’s looking at him.

  “If we find him, Poke”—Arthit’s voice is soft—“what then?”

  “You guys are three cops,” Rafferty says. “I’m one me. I suppose it’ll be whatever you want to happen.”

  “You know,” Arthit says, “I could do this without you. I could forbid you from getting anywhere near Patpong.”

  “I guess you could.”

  “Will it be necessary?”

  Rafferty says, “I’d be more comfortable about answering your question if I hadn’t seen the picture of that girl.”

  “But you have seen it. Am I going to have a problem with you?”

  It’s almost a minute, with all the women looking at him, before Rafferty replies. “If you do,” he says, “I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it.”

  Chapter 28

  It Used to Be a Good-Natured Sewer

  Above the bright lights of the night market, the sky flickers chalky white and darkens again, like a loose lightbulb. A moment later a breeze kicks up, carrying the sweat of the crowd to Rafferty’s nostrils.

  “Could rain,” he says.

  “So what?” Arthit says, bulling his way through the slow-moving throng. “You afraid you’ll shrink?”

  “Rudeness one, small talk zero,” Rafferty says.

  Arthit grunts.

  Rafferty says, “Not so busy, is it?”

  “If you need to chat, it’s not busy because it’s early,” Arthit says. “Only seven-twenty. It’ll pick up.”

  Ahead of them Arthit watches Nit go into a bar called Bamboo, her folder held against her hip in a businesslike fashion.

  Rafferty says, “Don’t worry about them. They know what to do.”

  “You’re the one I’m worried about.” Arthit stops, the shirt of his uniform already wet in back. “Look at this junk,” he says. “Patpong was always a sewer, but it used to be a good-natured sewer.”

  Rafferty looks over his friend’s shoulder at a miscellany of murder weapons, gaily displayed in the shimmer of the spotlights: Gurkha knives, switchblades, gravity knives, nunchucks, brass knuckles, ninja throwing stars. Behind the display, a cheerful-looking woman sheds some of her smile when she notices Arthit’s uniform and facial expression.

  “They’re just for fun,” she says.

  “You have an odd idea of fun.”

  She brings both hands up as though the items on the table were red-hot. “Me? I wouldn’t have any of this in my house. They’re for farang. The farang like to kill each other. Look at the movies.”

  Arthit says, “We shouldn’t let you sell these.”

  “You could close some of them,” the woman says eagerly. “There are four on this street and two more on Silom. I could pay you a commission. You close them down, and I’ll give you one-third of the increase in my profits.”

  “No thanks.” Arthit turns to go.

  “Half,” the woman says. “I couldn’t give more than half.”

  Arthit says over his shoulder, “I’ll think about it.”

  “Sixty percent!” the woman calls.

  “The respect is so rewarding,” Arthit says.

  “If it’s any comfort,” Rafferty says, “I respect the hell out of you.”

  “You’re nervous,” Arthit says. “You don’t usually natter.”

  “It’s not nerves, it’s plain old hatred.”

  “But you’re going to do what I tell you to do.”

  “Oh,” Rafferty says. “Sure.”

  Ahead of them Patpong runs from Silom to Surawong, the longest short block on earth, in Rafferty’s opinion. Arthit’s right: It’s still early, and a lot of the people have come for the night market that stretches down the center of the street, rather than the bars. There are farang women everywhere, flushed pink with their own daring, holding blouses up to their shoulders, wrapping belts around their midsections, ransacking faux-Vuitton bags like manic customs agents, and bargaining amateurishly for the privilege of paying three times more than the whatever-it-is is worth. Looking around, Rafferty sees a lot of future buyer’s remorse.

  Two booths up, Anand is talking to a seller of counterfeit DVDs. He flashes both pictures, and the merchant grabs the iron-pipe frame of her stall for support.

  Rafferty says, “They’ll all remember.”

  “Here,” Arthit says, heading left, toward the sidewalk and a dingy-looking door beneath a small, stuttering neon sign that reads BOTTOMS UP CLUB. As they approach the door, a dark young man in a T-shirt and shorts materializes from nowhere, opens the door just enough to slip his han
d in, and pushes something. They’re listening to the buzzer upstairs as he fades back into the crowded street.

  “Don’t worry,” Arthit calls up the stairs in Thai. “No problem.”

  The stairs are vertiginously steep and so narrow that the walls almost brush Rafferty’s shoulders. At the top he and Arthit find themselves in a long, dim, windowless room not much wider than a broad hallway with an unoccupied stage on one side, maybe two meters wide, adorned by a single pole that hasn’t been wiped down in years. Palm prints fog its shine and dapple the broken mirror behind it, the lower right corner of which has fallen away and is propped against the wall. At the far end of the room, framed by incomplete strings of Christmas lights, a small bar blinks at them, decorated with plastic chrysanthemums, the perfect advertisement for alcoholic depression. The bottles behind the bar are the only clean surfaces in sight. Rafferty inhales the smell of a hamper full of dirty laundry that’s been damp for weeks.

  “Hello, hello,” says a woman of indeterminate years, crammed into a tight dress, the seam of which has popped open on her left hip. She thinks her anxious grimace is a smile. She might have been pretty once, but she’s used herself badly for a long time, and what’s left of her beauty has been broken into random fragments—a nice set of cheekbones, a mouth that was probably plump before it got fat. There are four other women in the room, all overweight and, by Patpong standards, overage. They’re all sheathed in the kind of tight, floor-length dresses that Rafferty associates with high gloves and big-band singers from the forties. All of them look nervous, but nowhere near as nervous as the two men sitting on the bench that runs along the wall facing the stage. They’ve obviously made hurried adjustments: One of them has half his shirttail hanging out of his pants. On the floor in front of each of them, a pillow has been placed. The pillows are permanently dented by years’ worth of knees.

  “You two,” Arthit says to the men. “You need to go to the bathroom.”

  “You bet,” says the one with half his shirt tucked in, jumping to his feet. He and his companion trot the length of the room and disappear into a dark corridor to the left of the bar.