by Ian Patrick
3
Bali – June
Ben Hamer is having a bad day. “What do you fucking mean you don’t have a villa? I specifically booked a fucking villa with my own pool and complete fucking privacy.”
His accent invades the serenity of the hotel reception area. I could see this was not the start to the holiday he’d expected.
The manager approaches him and motions to a side room, which he declines. “Look, can you fucking read?” Hamer flips open the titanium laptop cover and the screen illuminates. He clicks the mouse pad and a video plays the layout of the villa he had been expecting to accommodate. I have a good view from where I am.
“Sir, we have no villa available at the moment. We have an oil convention here and all villas are currently occupied. Please, let me show you to your room, it has a sea view and is spacious.”
The manager pauses, hoping Hamer will concede. Hamer takes a deep breath.
“I am not taking no for a fucking answer. I spent an extra five hundred dollars specifically for the promised, FULL, Indonesian experience. Read it! This included my OWN, I repeat MY OWN fully enclosed private fucking villa with personal attendant. Now go fix it.”
He shuts the lid to his Apple Mac Pro and walks to a seated area in the lobby. “Hey, I’ll be over here. I expect you back with my key and a bag boy in five.” Hamer enforces the time requirement by showing the manager his limited-edition Rolex watch and tapping the watch face. Hamer has ten days to indulge with the lady of his choice. She joins him after inspecting the bathroom, applying makeup and tying up her recently dyed blonde hair. He pats the seat beside him. She sits down and stares at her nails in admiration. Hamer stretches out his legs and checks his watch. The manager has two more minutes.
Two minutes pass. I’ve been monitoring the wall clock whilst appearing to polish the reception counter. He would be your average hostage taker’s worst nightmare. You’d throw in the towel after thirty minutes and give yourself up putting it down to a bad day at the office.
“Well? I don’t see any key or bag boy. I would advise you NOT to fuck with me. If I don’t get the villa I booked I swear I will just make my way to the first one I see and take it. Do you understand the gravity of this situation? Who else can I speak to? I have no faith that you even understand what I’m saying. Get me someone above you, now!”
Hamer moves around the desk and bangs on a staff door. Other staff begin ushering guests towards the cocktail bar whilst Hamer continues his assault on the Balinese oak.
I hear the whole conversation. That’s what happens when you’re assigned to front desk area. I’d requested the duty. I already knew Hamer was arriving today. I also knew that I would be his personal attendant. I knew how to alter the booking system to make it appear as though there was no spare villa. Why would I do this? I need to be his saviour, because I’d been told to look after him and give him everything he was entitled to. It was my brief. It was my job and I’d spent the last two months awaiting his arrival. Like his watch, it was precision engineered. My firm knew he was in trouble. The tap on an associate’s phone confirmed it.
Hamer’s boss was getting nervous around the chain of tanning shops laundering his drug money. The shops were becoming popular, not just for the leather skins wanting to top up but from other firms wanting to cash in on his enterprise. Now these ‘firms’ won’t go and get a business loan from a high street bank, oh no. These firms just move in. A business takeover if you will, but without the paperwork. That’s why he’s under pressure. My people knew he would be sent here, as this place was Vincenzo’s favourite destination. He’d invested money in The Reef. So the police took a gamble and got me out here to get a job and be in place for his arrival. Hamer had another job. Come up with an alternative cash flow plan to run alongside the salons or retire. Hamer was onto a good thing.
He wasn’t about to throw in the towel and open a pretzel franchise. His idea of addressing the issue was to start talking to police. Hamer wanted out. What Hamer didn’t know is that the police weren’t interested in dodgy tax affairs. They wanted the whole empire. What the old bill didn’t bank on was Hamer going sour over his cut of the cash from the information he provided. We have many bills to pay on a reduced government payroll. Informants are way down the list of cash recipients, especially the two million he was hoping to get.
So how does he resolve the issue? He begins channelling funds away from the salons and into an Albanian car wash he set-up and oversaw. It was good business. I mean, 200 cars a day and a £20,000 per week turnover has to be, doesn’t it? The thing is, Hamer’s time was running out. I know this because I’m here and the job needs putting to bed. My role? Get close to Hamer and find out Big H’s next move. Big H is Vincenzo Guardino the largest importer of heroin in Europe. Hamer is an arsehole.
I wait. Never rush. I learnt the worst you can do is intervene early when a guy is getting heated and smashing his fists into an inanimate object. In a bullfight the matador waits for the animal to tire before he goes for the kill. It can get tedious seeing another human being in such distress even for a voyeur of human nature. I approach the desk and speak with Robert, the services manager.
“Finally you’ve some fucking sense. I take it this is the bag boy?” Hamer points at me. I don’t react. It isn’t my place. We’re not formally introduced and my role hasn’t been explained. The manager takes over. “Mr Hamer, sir. I am very happy to tell you that we do have a villa prepared for you and your companion. This is Mr Sky and he will be your assistant for the duration of your stay here. Mr Sky has personally requested this role and I am happy for him to undertake it. Please come and find me or send Mr Sky should anything not be to your satisfaction, sir.”
The manager bows his head and places his hands as if in prayer. I do the same but unlike the manager I don’t let my eyes leave Hamer as I bow.
“Well hoo fucking rah. Take my bags and be careful with them. Get me to my villa and I hope to God it’s the one I booked on your website.” Hamer summons his lady. His bags are crammed in the seated area by her feet. Each one of the five-piece Louis Vuitton luggage set looks new, never before travelled. I can tell a traveller’s luggage set having worked at The Reef for the last two months. I have a luggage cage so this would be no problem. I couldn’t help but wonder what contents were in his lady’s case. Sex toys, no doubt, for her not him. No way he could satisfy her, he has no patience.
I’d seen it all here. Most couples are discreet the first week then they just accept me as one of the family, well, slave, and couldn’t give a shit what they leave out for me to clear away. For the record I don’t swear in front of guests or monks, but in my head, well that’s game on. I mention monks as I live within a Buddhist community when I leave the hotel. Why? I teach them English. In return I get to stay in a single-room Indonesian wooden hut on a raised platform. I still claim hotel room rate expenses from the police. I work in one after all.
I have a bed mat, a small desk and a carved wooden Buddha statue. All my washing, which is minimal, I get done by the hotel laundry in exchange for medication I acquire from the guests.
This isn’t stealing. It’s doing the laundry staff a service to prevent sickness by medication they can’t access or afford. I make my way to the villa with Hamer and his woman behind me, following like I own them. I check the key number against the villa gate that encloses their private garden, pool and beach. I knew it was this one but thought the delay would add to their ‘Indonesian experience’.
“This better be the one, bag boy.”
I turn the key, open the door and invite them in to their own private paradise. He goes in first, followed by the blonde who has looked up from her hands and nails and is taking in the scene. Wooden loungers with luxuriant mattresses guard the private pool. The bougainvillea petals rest on the water. I spend half my time fishing these out whilst spreading virgin petals on the bed to add to the romantic feel. Wind chimes add to the ambience with a soothing lament. Statues of lions add a
certain regal and opulent quality to the courtyard and outside dining area.
“You can put the bags inside the room.”
I do as he asks, making sure the bags are secure. I wheel the cart back to the pool area. Hamer’s sitting on a lounger checking his shades; she’s on her phone.
“Hey! What did I tell you about no phones here? Are you fucking thick? Give it here.” She comes off the phone and hands it to him.
“Who was it?” he demands.
“It was the cattery telling me Oscar was okay,” she almost whimpers, losing her air of confidence. He says nothing as she leaves, tears forming, heading into the villa. I wait as she passes.
“Hey. Don’t just stand there. The show’s over and there’s no tip. Where do I get a drink?” I stop the cart.
“Mr Hamer, sir. If you will allow me to take this cart back I will return and fix whatever drink you wish.” It’s in my job description.
“Oh yeah? What part of ‘there’s no tip’ don’t you fucking get?” He raises both hands in front of him.
“Sir, I expect nothing in return. It’s my job to assist you whilst you stay with us. I am your attendant at this villa and require no further payment.”
He looks confused for a second then begins nodding in recognition of my role as slave.
“Right…right, now I get it. You’re a little old to be a bag boy so I guess they keep you on out of sympathy. Get rid of the cart then come back in and unpack our stuff and mix me a scotch on the rocks, no water.” He leaves and so do I.
It’s calm outside Villa Trauma. Guests mingle in the lobby waiting for taxis to take them outside for the evening. Why you’d want to leave here is anyone’s guess. You have a choice of five exquisite restaurants catering for every taste that provides a good rotational dining experience for the duration of your stay. I figured Hamer and his woman would need some space to clear the air so I go and see Sinta in laundry.
Sinta means chastity. In Sinta’s case this is not adhered to. She runs the ‘pharmacy’ amongst the community as well as other personal services. She’s in her early twenties but inhabits a body of advanced years. This doesn’t seem to damage her trade. I’m at an advantage in the pharmaceutical sense as I’d seen Blondie’s nose and she’s bang on cocaine for sure. She will have a prescribed substitute in case of drought and that will be good for Sinta and good for me. I know the signs of drug misuse. Every good attendant should. It provides security for you and the guest in the event of accusations or drug withdrawal.
The kind of drugs I’m hoping Blondie will have: Baclofen, Disulfiram, Modafini or Propranolol. I don’t mention this to Sinta. She has my laundry and I don’t want to let her down. I figured they’d had long enough back at the villa and a runner I’d sent confirmed he had seen them walking about their private garden.
On my way back I go via the lobby, log into Hamer’s room account and add a $300 bottle of Highland Park twenty-five-year-old single malt whisky. He will settle the account at the end and won’t quibble. I also feel like a treat. I go to the wine and spirits vault and speak to Anak.
Anak isn’t like Sinta. Anak is around fifty-five, wears small round spectacles and walks with a slight stoop from working in the vault for so long. If it’s not a verifiable order, then no booze. That’s why the management put him in there. He checks the screen, sees the approved entry and smiles a satisfied smile to himself as he disappears. He returns, carrying an oak box with the ornate Celtic symbol of the brewer that he opens to reveal the bottle, which is as it should be. He nods. I take the case and he bows. I sign, bow, leave and head back.
I arrive to a calmer reception. Hamer is inside, jet-lagged and asleep. Blondie is poolside on a lounger in a two-piece Paul Smith bikini, a floral design befitting the setting.
I don’t approach her. If she wants something she can summon me. At the edge of the pool is the private bar they can swim up to and sit at whilst drinking. It is also a small haven for wasps that gather to enjoy any sweet leftovers. My time here hasn’t been wasted. I devised a feeding bowl the wasps would congregate at, feed and go fully satiated. It also adds credence to my cover story.
A small crowd gathers as a fresh dish of nectar in the form of Pepsi is placed out. I had just started cutting some fresh coconut when I see Blondie’s hand go up to her head in a salute to shield her eyes. Her other hand waves me over.
I hope she’s applied lotion. I hate getting my hands sticky whilst dressed.
“Hi, I wanna drink?”
Her accent is North London, more Islington than Muswell Hill.
“What drink would you like, Miss…?”
“Stone. Zara Stone. A rum and Coke, ta.”
“Ice? Miss Stone.”
“Go on then.”
“You don’t sound like the others here.”
The others. That could mean any number of nationalities that are at the hotel but I surmise she means the staff.
I dismiss the question.
“May I ask where you have travelled from, Miss Stone?”
“Hackney, London. Do you know London?”
“I have visited once or twice. A charming city.”
I wasn’t far off in my estimation as to location. If I were to be pedantic the boundaries overlap.
“Charming? It’s a fucking shithole. You never visited Hackney then, that’s for sure.”
I bow and go and prepare her drink. She lays back down on her back with her hands now stretched out behind her head. From my view at the bar I can tell her tits are fake. Her belly button’s pierced. Underneath it is a tattoo of a lotus flower. Its open petals cradle the gem. It all looks cheap, apart from the tits. Tits like those have Harley Street credentials. If I were to look properly they’re probably trademarked.
She’s around six foot tall. Hamer looks like a midget against her but small enough for him to feel empowered. After all, he’s an accountant and wants to protect his investment. That means paying $650 for a bikini with a made-to-measure top. I have no idea how she came to know him, but that can wait.
I add the obligatory straw, cocktail umbrella and carry the drink on a small silver tray, napkin supplied.
“You can put it down there, ta.”
I had guessed the table next to the lounger was a safe option.
She takes a sip and looks at me over the top of her Armani sunglasses, leaning on her elbows.
“So…how long have you been here then?”
“Long enough. I enjoy the sea and of course making sure guests have a pleasant stay.”
I lie, but I’ve perfected the art of appearing sincere. Her accent stabs at my skull dragging up memories of tougher times. No wonder she never spoke outside the villa, Hamer would never permit that.
There’s still no sign of Hamer emerging from their love pit. I made sure that he could see us when he woke up.
I seize this early opportunity
“Do you enjoy London?”
“I live on an estate run by gangs. It ain’t all that but it’s all I’ve ever known.” I nod in recognition, indicating I’m listening.
“How did you meet Mr Hamer?”
She hesitates and takes a sip of her drink.
“He met me at a strip club in Green Lanes and liked what he saw. Said he’d show me a good time and offered to look after me. He’s an arrogant prick but he’s loaded, so game on I say.”
She carries on drinking and begins to relax. Her secret’s out and she can be herself. I find this honesty endearing, if not a little naive. I also know that as soon as he wakes she’ll act differently towards me. That’s what’s expected when you are ‘just staff’.
This is one subject I have the most difficulty accepting. Take a large burger chain or restaurant; do you think those that serve you are uneducated or lazy? No. The majority, are university educated and intelligent. All waiting for work, in their trained fields, to arise. In the meantime there are still bills to pay. To be of service is the most honourable of trades.
Hamer slept four
hours. I sweep the patio and drag leaves from the surface of the pool. Every now and then a painted bronzeback tree snake appears. I make a note of where it is just in case it decides to move down its perch. I know they’re harmless, but guests don’t like sharing their habitats and get as skittish as an untrained racehorse on seeing one. The sun greets us with temperate arms but at this early hour of the day it seeks nothing more. Miss Stone is happy with her drink.
I take advantage of the impasse to place a banana leaf basket of flowers and fruit on the small courtyard shrine and light an incense stick. This is for my benefit, keeping me focused on my job and patient in my role. One thing my training taught me was to spend time getting in role. Here I’m not a copper, I’m a servant to the rich. It’s imperative I remain so. Goffman was a shrink who had a vision he called a dramaturgical theory. We all have different masks. We choose one to wear dependant on the situation and others’ expectation of it.
“Hey Fly, or whatever your name is. Come over here and fix me a drink like I asked. And let me set some ground rules for our stay here.”
The fat bastard is awake.
I don’t react immediately, bow to the shrine then begin walking towards my entertainment for the week. I know it’s for a week even though they are booked for ten days. This was going better than expected. As I approach he’s sitting on the edge of the deck, the white linen robe his only comfort. His gut crease appears above the tie line. His gold neck chain buries into his grey chest hair. If he were to sit naked his tits and stomach would replicate the face of Homer Simpson. I bow to him.
“I hope you slept well Mr Hamer. I took the liberty of providing this twenty-five-year-old scotch. I am sure it will meet with your approval.” I get the bottle out of the oak case and make him a drink. I couldn’t give a shit whether he likes it or not. For all I care my own piss would be too good for him, warm or with ice. I hand him the crystal glass and he looks at it suspiciously before tasting. The nod of approval takes an age and I stand, as is customary, awaiting further direction.
