Every Man a Menace

by Patrick Hoffman

  At one point, he drunkenly called Vanya’s old number. A generic message declared that the person he was trying to reach was unavailable. What could he have said? I’m sorry. I’m ugly inside. I’m depressed. I forgive you. He didn’t even know who she was.

  The next day, as the sun was setting, Semion’s doorbell rang. It took him a second, looking through the peephole, to realize that it wasn’t Isaak—that the man standing there, who looked somewhat like a shaved-headed version of his friend, was in fact Moisey Segal, their man in Bangkok. What the fuck is Moisey doing here? Semion thought. He was never supposed to come Miami, never even supposed to communicate with them. He was meant to stay in Bangkok.

  Moisey had a suitcase next to him. He smiled, warmly.

  Semion opened the door.

  At that moment, three thousand miles away, Raymond Gaspar was busy watching a handball game. Hundreds of men milled about in the prison yard.

  “Come on, Tully,” yelled the man standing next to him.

  Raymond spat on the ground. He looked at his wrist for a moment, at the place where a watch would have been. In his mind, he calculated the days until his release: twenty-three. Not gonna miss you guys, he thought.

  He thought about the women he’d chase when he got out. It had been a long time since he’d lain down with a soft body. There was a girl named Emily he’d like to talk to. Get me some Mexican food, pizza, burgers, fuckin’ Chinese. He imagined driving a car. Looking at the ocean. Then he remembered he had to remind Arthur that his release date was coming up.

  Seventy-two miles to the south, in San Francisco, Shadrack Pullman sat at the Bernal Heights public library. He liked to go there and surf the web. His bag, filled with gemstones, rested between his feet. He was reading a libertarian website, something about the United States Postal Service. There were a few different sites he liked to visit. He looked around to see if anybody was watching, then brushed his hair back with both hands and turned his attention back to the computer.

  Shadrack’s partner, John Holland, was stopping by a liquor store he owned on Third Street. The clerk saw him come in and asked if he’d seen the 49ers game.

  “Yeah, I saw it,” said John, shaking his head. “I saw it.”

  In Daly City, Gloria Ocampo was busy changing her grandson’s diaper. She made cooing noises and sang a song into his little face: You’re my baby, my little baby.

  On the other side of the world, in Thailand, Fariq—the Malaysian man who made sure the drugs were placed in bags of squid, frozen, and packed into refrigerated shipping containers—was sleeping in his bed. He was dreaming about a boyhood friend of his chasing him through some tall grass. It was a happy dream.

  In Bangkok, Eugene Nana, suffering from insomnia, sat in his living room and watched the financial news on television. His stocks were performing well, but he wanted them to do better. His wife was snoring quietly.

  In Myanmar, a Chinese man named Zhou Qiang was just waking up. He was the chemist who cooked the drugs for the Burmese. He had a busy day ahead, and he liked to walk to the river and back before he started work.

  In Cambodia, meanwhile, in Koh Kong City, a man named Sang Munny was trying to drink himself into oblivion. He’d been singing karaoke all night. He sang love songs. He had come to the bar alone, but he sang for his boss. He sang for his mother. He sang for his father and his brother. He sang for the turtles, the chickens, the pigs, and the ants.

  Part 3

  Five days before he went to Miami, Moisey Segal found himself sitting alone in the living room of his Bangkok apartment, slumped over shirtless on his couch. He was feeling lonely and scanning through a grid of male faces on his iPhone. One face caught his attention: the man’s name was Thong Kon. His picture made him look like a schoolboy. He wore a white button-up shirt with a loose blue plaid tie and a baseball cap. His face, lit by the sun, made it look like he was about to tell a joke. His profile header read: Lump of Gold. The app said he was within a kilometer. Moisey stared at the picture for a few moments, hoping the boy wasn’t a prostitute, then hit the Chat icon.

  Mo-Mo33: English?

  Lump of Gold: Speak English. Ya!

  Mo-Mo33: You 2 handsome for me.

  Lump of Gold: Ha ha.

  Mo-Mo33: Are you really 24?

  Lump of Gold: Plus eight months!! Too old soon!! Ha ha.

  Mo-Mo33: I like you just the way you are.

  Lump of Gold: How pretty!

  Mo-Mo33: Do you want to have a drink?

  Lump of Gold: So happy to drink with you!

  They decided to meet right then. Moisey lived in an apartment on Pan Road, in the Silom district; Thong Kon suggested they eat before drinking, and told Moisey to meet him at the chicken and rice stand outside Wat Khaek. I wear a pink T-shirt, he wrote.

  It was a twenty-minute walk from Moisey’s house. He decided not to take a motorcycle taxi, even though a cluster of orange-vested drivers stood gossiping on his corner. Sex addiction notwithstanding, Moisey was a romantic; he wanted to savor the moment. In his mind, he’d already upgraded Thong Kon from casual hookup to boyfriend.

  The streets were overloaded with people, as always. The ground itself changed every few steps, from tile to broken concrete and back. Electrical wires crisscrossed above his head, and carts with food sizzling on flat metal grates lined his path. Every inch of every wall seemed covered in airconditioning units, vents, pipes. He bought a pineapple juice from his favorite juice girl and paused to drink the whole thing before returning the bottle to her. She accepted it and stared over his shoulder without ever meeting his eyes. A homeless woman sitting on the ground held her hands cupped together like he might fill them with water. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

  When Moisey arrived at the chicken stand he saw Thong Kon waiting there already. The boy looked poor; he was skinny, almost malnourished. More than that, he seemed dirty. His shirt, though admittedly pink, appeared dusty and brown, as though he’d been working in front of a furnace. He made a funny face when he saw Moisey, then walked to him and greeted him in the Thai way—palms pressed and head bowed.

  “Mazzy?” he said.

  “Moisey.”

  “Moi-zee,” repeated Thong Kon. The men shook hands—his were clammy, Moisey’s dry—and laughed. Thong Kon guided them to a plastic table.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Little bit,” said Moisey.

  The younger man called something out in Thai to the cook, a skinny old woman with a grimace on her face. Moisey didn’t speak much Thai, but he understood the words: two chicken.

  They sat across from each other. Thong Kon scratched at the area under his Adam’s apple. “Australian?” he said.

  “Israel,” said Moisey. “Israeli.”

  “Ahhh, I want to go there. Beautiful, historic land,” said Thong Kon. “I know it.”

  Moisey asked him where he’d learned to speak English.

  Thong Kon’s eyes shifted. “School,” he said. “School, books, movie, television. And you? Do you speak Thai?” Moisey shook his head. “Not a little bit?”

  “Ra ka tao rai?” said Moisey. How much is it?

  Thong Kon laughed. “That’s all?”

  Moisey counted from zero to ten, raising a finger for each number.

  “You speak very nice,” said Thong Kon. “I teach you more. I teach you how to say everything beautiful in our country. Every word: sunset, moon, flower.”

  The food came. Chicken and rice. Thong Kon added spices, and Moisey did the same.

  “How long have you been in Thailand?”

  “Six years,” said Moisey.

  “No!” said Thong Kon. He covered his mouth. “And you don’t speak Thai?”

  “I do, though,” said Moisey. “Lot noi dai mai?” Can you give a little discount? That he only knew how to speak about money embarrassed him. “Where are you from?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

  “I’m from Bangkok. Ratchadamri? Near here!” Thong Kon pointed over
his shoulder. “And you? Why you live in Thailand so long?”

  The simple answer was that it was a better place to live than Israel. It had provided him with a tropical escape from his earlier life. But the more complicated answer had to do with the ease with which he could tamp out his inner black-nesses, thanks to the drugs, the sex, the sun. Also, of course, he had a job here. A very lucrative job, one he couldn’t easily duplicate anywhere else.

  “I like it here,” he said.

  They finished their food. Moisey paid, and they moved on to a bar chosen by Thong Kon. It wasn’t a gay bar, which made Moisey thankful—just a normal Bangkok place, with seats that faced out to the street. They drank Leo beers and smoked cigarettes. Thong Kon asked what Moisey did for work. Without thinking, Moisey responded “bartender,” and instantly regretted it. He saw Thong Kon study his face, and knew the man was measuring him in some way.

  “Currently not working,” Moisey added.

  The touching began with a playful pat. They laughed at some joke, and Thong Kon pushed Moisey’s shoulder. Even that felt weighted with sex. The dirtiness, Moisey noticed, didn’t extend to the man’s hands. He had clean fingernails, with large moons. A healthy thyroid, Moisey thought. He wanted to return the touch, but suddenly he felt shy. He hadn’t taken drugs in over a month, and now he wondered if that was what was slowing him down.

  Moisey had a hard time placing the Thai man economically. His English, refined and grammatical, seemed the product of university study, though Thong Kon denied that. His movements, his countenance, his posture, all seemed upper class to Moisey. But underneath, in the corners of his eyes, there was something thuggish, something criminal in the way he scanned the street while they drank.

  It didn’t matter to Moisey; he liked this Lump of Gold.

  They drank beers and took shots of whiskey. Moisey grew drunk. He was having a hard time filling the silent moments between remarks, and his romantic feelings had mutated into a grumpy carnal desire. Thong Kon kept trying to teach him new words. The man’s face shined with sweat. Moisey wondered whether taking him home was a bad idea; maybe he should rent a hotel. He thought about the crystal meth tucked away in his freezer, and suddenly he wanted to get high.

  “Let’s go,” he said. Thong Kon raised his eyebrows and downed his drink.

  They shared a taxi, kissing almost the entire way. By the time they arrived at the apartment, their breathing was heavy. Moisey noticed Thong Kon studying the address above the door when they got out. There was something determined in the way he stared at the numbers. When he noticed Moisey watching him, he smiled and said, “We live so close.” He held his hand up for a high-five, and Moisey slapped it.

  They continued kissing in the elevator. Thong Kon wrapped his arms around Moisey’s shoulders and pulled him in. Inside, the Thai man stuck his head out like a turtle and moved it side to side.

  “Nice,” he said, drawing out the word.

  Moisey’s apartment was small, clean, modern, and open. He led his guest into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out two beers. He noticed himself breathing the way drunk men do, but he craved more. He needed more.

  “Do you like ice?” he asked.

  “In beer?”

  “No, ice—sniff.” He put his finger to his nose and sniffed.

  “Ice! Me?” asked Thong Kon.

  Moisey had been trying to wean himself off the stuff, but he’d held on to this last bag the way a person quitting cigarettes will sometimes hold on to a pack. As if having it close at hand would make him crave it less. Now he pulled the baggie out and held it cold in his palm. Something about the moment was off, he knew, but he couldn’t stop. He held the bag up for Thong Kon to see.

  “Me? No!” said Thong Kon. “I am sober,” he added, pointing at his chest, although he was clearly drunk. Moisey shrugged his shoulders. He told himself the only way to salvage his mood was to sniff the drugs.

  “You stupid, go, do it,” said Thong Kon. He pushed Moisey’s shoulder. “I don’t care! Me, no. You do it. Sex, boomboom, too much!”

  Moisey opened the bag, and tapped a crystal out onto his kitchen counter. A small amount, the size of a large peanut. He pulled a spoon from the silverware drawer and began crushing the crystal into powder.

  “I need use bathroom,” said Thong Kon.

  Moisey pointed. “That way.”

  He pulled out a card and pushed the powder into a line. Then he rolled up a thousand-baht note—the king’s handsome face staring at him—and sniffed the burning drugs up his nose. That’s it, he thought—meaning both that’s all I’ll do and that’s exactly what I needed. He rubbed at his nose, drank from his beer, and became aware of the quiet all around him. He listened. What was taking the boy so long?

  Finally, the toilet flushed, and his Lump of Gold walked back into the kitchen. His face looked sad. Moisey decided to pretend he hadn’t done the drugs. “If you won’t do it, I won’t do it,” he said.

  “We need music,” said Thong Kon.

  They moved to the living room. The view showed the city stretching in all directions. Aware that Thong Kon would taste the drugs in his mouth when they kissed, Moisey sniffed and tried to clear his nose. He drank more beer, swayed, put his arm on his guest’s shoulder, went to his laptop, and scrolled through his music. He found his favorite song, the one by Katreeya English, and played it. A love song. They began a slow dance. Moisey bent down and smelled Thong Kon’s neck, kissed it, pulled the man into him. They danced like that for a long time. Moisey waited to kiss him again, drawing it out until he couldn’t bear it.

  The drugs had moved from his nose to his brain. Finally he felt a sense of peace. He rocked on his feet and pulled Thong Kon closer. With his eyes closed, he pictured what he was going to do to this Lump of Gold, and what was going to be done to him.

  And then, almost predictably, the moment was interrupted by a loud banging on the door.

  Thong Kon stepped away, a vacant look on his face. The knocking stopped for a moment—silence—and then picked up again, stronger. Moisey turned the music off. He was aware, instinctively, that only cops and gangsters knocked like that. He walked to the kitchen, opened the freezer, found the baggie, dumped the rest of the drugs down the drain, and turned the water on. The little button-sized baggie was stuffed into the bottom of his trash bin. His mind felt like a boiling kettle. The drugs were hitting home.

  Thong Kon hadn’t moved; he stood in the other room with the same downcast eyes, but now with both hands covering his mouth. Moisey took a moment to think. He’d dumped the only drugs in the house. There was nothing to connect him to his other business, nothing incriminating on his computer. He went to the door and looked through the peephole.

  Four Thai men stood in the hall. Three were in Metropolitan Police uniforms, which made them look like soldiers. The fourth man wore a gray suit over a blue shirt and a maroon tie.

  “One moment,” Moisey said in English, through the closed door.

  He stepped back to the living room. He wanted to warn Thong Kon not to say anything, but even as he turned toward him he knew the boy was responsible for his trouble. He balled his fist and pressed it against his visitor’s jaw. “I’ll fucking bury you,” he said in Hebrew.

  The knocking started up again, Moisey’s heart racing to match it as he returned to the door. He wiped at the insides of his nostrils and cracked the door open.

  “Yes?” he said.

  The man in the suit stepped forward, put his hand on the door, and tried to push it open. For a moment, the two men stood there silently, leaning against opposite sides of the door.

  “Yes?” Moisey said again.

  “Open please,” said the man. He said something in Thai, and one of the uniformed men, the biggest one, stepped toward them.

  Moisey opened the door. He stood facing them, blocking their way with his body.

  “What is it?” he asked. He tried to smile, but it felt fake.

  “Big problem,” said the
man in the suit. “You speak Thai?”

  “No.”

  “No Thai?” he asked again, in the same incredulous way that Thong Kon had. He pushed past Moisey, moving into the apartment. The other uniformed men followed. One of them went to Thong Kon, turned him around, and put him in handcuffs. It was for show, Moisey knew, but he watched as the cop sat Thong Kon down on the couch and the man in the suit proceeded to give him a long speech. Thong Kon listened with his eyes glued to the floor, nodding his head as though receiving a lecture from a parent.

  Moisey only understood the curse words. But it was a setup, clearly.

  He could see the whole thing in his head. Thong Kon worked with these men. Whether he did it voluntarily or not didn’t concern Moisey. He found gay white tourists, waited until he saw drugs, and then made the call. They probably did it a few times a night. Earned fifty thousand baht on the side. The problem seemed manageable—regular corruption. No sign that it was part of a larger investigation.

  “You live here? Or are you visiting?” said the man in the suit, sounding out each syllable like an English student. Moisey saw that he was older than he’d first appeared—over fifty, he thought. He had black eyes, bad skin, and a mole on his cheek.

  “I live here, sir,” Moisey said.

  “And your business is?”

  “I’m a bartender. But I’m between jobs at the moment.”

  The man in the suit swept the apartment with his eyes, the corners of his mouth dropping down. His face suggested that it was a nice place for an unemployed bartender to be living. Moisey could see the cost of the bribe rise.

  “Your state of origin?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “What country do you come from?”

  “Israel.”

  “This man is a known drug dealer!” said the man in the suit, changing gears and pointing at Thong Kon. “We follow him here. You have a known drug dealer in your apartment. Very big problem!” He was speaking loudly now. “I ask you one question: Do you have drugs in this house?”

  “Drugs?” asked Moisey. “No, of course not.”