Bangkok Slip

BANGKOK SLIP

A Novel of Suspense

B.D. WOOLMAN

~ For Elin ~

Copyright

(c) 2015 by Bruce D. Woolman

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American

Copyright Conventions. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First printing 2015

ISBN 978-1-329-02335-2

Published in the United States

By Bruce D. Woolman

www.bdwoolman.net

All the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Prologue

If Newt, my housekeeper, had not been terrified of the ghost in my garbage disposal then I would not be around to write this account. 

Read this odd connection as a Thai variation on the Butterfly Effect. The idea is this: A butterfly flaps her wings in Maui. This stirs a tiny eddy of air that, stage by stage, spins its way up into a typhoon that crosses the Pacific Ocean and erases a Japanese island or two, and then, perhaps, Rangoon. Chaos Theory 101.

The butterfly moment came when I was returning to my Bangkok apartment from a particularly unpleasant whitewater expedition in upcountry Thailand—my ride through the rapids was accomplished without a raft.

Given all that had taken place in the previous seventy-two hours I should have known better than to go home, but I went anyway. Poor impulse control can be a general plus for a journalist, but this time it worked against me. Come to think of it, it usually worked against me.

I arrived home—a condo overlooking Bangkok’s Chao Praya River—in a state of dull fury. I was filthy, ragged, bruised, and exhausted. I was limping badly from a sprained ankle.

Since I no longer possessed a housekey I pounded on my door. No answer. Out of habit I twisted the handle. Sometimes Newt left the lock off when she was moving laundry up and down stairs. It turned. I pushed through. My living room was in shambles. Furniture was upended. Tapes, CDs, books, dishes, and assorted underwear littered the thick white carpet.

Newt, I yelled, my panic building. Silence. I walked towards the bedroom. Then, from behind, I heard an all-too-familiar Australian brogue addressing me. Nice you dropped by. Stupid of you, but nice just the same. The Crocodile Dundee twang had emerged from the face of a wallet-sized Chinese gangster I had nicknamed Little Boy the first time I saw him several days before. But, whereas he loomed small, the pistol he was holding, a Browning nine millimeter, loomed large. He stepped from the shadows of the kitchen nook into the living room. His fat brother—who I had cleverly dubbed Fat Man—materialized next to him holding a matching Browning. As was their habit they were matched in dress as well. Today it was tan slacks and pale-blue polo shirts.

Where’s Newt? I shouted.

Shut up, replied Little Boy. Then he turned to his brother. See if he still has our guns, Eddie.

I allow I had relieved them of their firearms during our previous meeting, which, from my perspective, had gone rather well.

Fat Man walked over. While Little Boy covered me, the big Asian gave me a good frisking, never once getting into the line of fire. Why did you keep this piece of shit? he said, as he worked an old Colt revolver from my pocket. He tried to pocket it, but failing, tossed it into the corner.

Where’s Newt? I yelled again.

Shut up, said Fat Man.

I’ll shut up when I get some answers, I shouted. Where’s Newt, my housekeeper? Where is she, you shitbag?

Little woman? asked Fat Man sarcastically. Five feet tall or so? Cute, black hair, big brown eyes? He shrugged his shoulders. Haven’t seen her. He turned to Little Boy and raised his brows in exaggerated innocence. Have you seen her, Martin? Then he brought up his gun. He was close, but out of reach. Maybe she’s with your girlfriend up in Burma. He narrowed his eyes and pushed the gun even closer, but not close enough. Now, I have a question. Where are they?

Where are what?

You know what, the computer parts, the hard drives. Where, you fucking thief?

I don’t know what you’re talking about, I replied. It was a lie. I did know what he was talking about.

Fat Man’s purplish lips compressed themselves. He shoved the Browning into his flabby waistband and narrowed his eyes. All right then. Cover him, Martin. I’ve an idea how to make this cheap journo tell us just whereabouts he hid the bloody things. I’ve been thinking about it all morning. It’s a trick I learned from a bloke in Sydney. I was praying I would have the chance when I saw the electric pig. Then he turned to me with a smile. Stand still and give us your paw, but first kiss it good-bye. You’ve gotten us into a lot of trouble with Uncle Lim.

I decided not to resist because Little Boy’s knuckle was turning white on his trigger finger. And I did not like it that his eyes were rolling around in a funny way. I had no idea what Fat Man wanted as he snatched my forearm up into a powerful grip. Little Boy moved over and kept me well covered. They wanted me alive because they thought I had information.

In truth, I had little. Although I had stolen the hard drives, I did not know for sure where they were. I had entrusted the hardware to my girlfriend, Terry Parks, who was, I had just now learned for certain, safely across the border in Burma; that is, safe until Burmese Army regulars overran her place of refuge.

He forced me over towards the sink. It finally dawned on me that ‘electric pig’ was an old-fashioned Briticism for garbage disposal. Things suddenly snapped into focus: The old sausage-mill routine.

I recalled from a previous life that it was the way Shanky Dog had recouped a fifteen-thousand dollar heroin debt from Billy Barclay in Baltimore City one  Christmas Eve. He never did have to grind him, at least as the Shank told it, but Billy did wet his pants. I resolved to try not to.

Fat Man now used both hands on my right forearm. I guess his arm was a little bit better—he had hurt it earlier in the week playing with a friend of mine. We went closer to the sink. I struggled, but not, I hoped, hard enough to alarm Little Boy into shooting me. Fat Man pushed my hand toward the drain. I resisted a bit, but did not put my heart into it. I had remembered a little something—a little something that had to do with, ghosts, chaos theory and typhoons.

Before I continue, perhaps I should introduce myself and then fill in some of the gaps in the story to date. My name is Ted Oldfield. To dignify what I do by calling it journalism would be pretension itself. Hack writing gets it better. I ply my craft for an Asian publishing house run by an old friend who is too Chinese to let an old friend starve. Besides, in Asia the only qualification needed for an English-language reporter is an ability to string one declarative sentence after another together so that the verbs agree (mostly) and the plurals are, well, plural.

It should be apparent to anyone with the sense God gave a parakeet that by the time I confronted the two Sino Australians that my life had gotten unmanageable. On reflection I would say the current high level of complication all started a night about six weeks earlier when I hooked up with my old friend Terry Parks at a Narcotics Anonymous dance party back in the US and, much to my surprise—but not to hers—fell in love with her.

Chapter 1

Care to dance?

Not really, Ted.

Oh, come on, Terry. Just for a little while?

Terry shrugged her shoulders. Okay, just for a little while.

We edged onto the floor and started shuffling around to the beat of some anonymous urban funk, but I was surprised to see Terry so subdued. Her movements were tentative; her hazel eyes hunted the corners of the room. She was not awkward exactly, but self-conscious, like a teen at an adult party.

I thought I could manage, she said, shaking her head and breaking step, but I hate this. It’s like I think people can tell I used to dance naked. Christ! I even feel naked. Can I sit down, Ted? Sorry. It has nothing to do with you. She gave me an apologetic, backward glance as she walked towards the table and sat down.

The little incident sticks in my mind because later that evening everything changed for us. And I guess the awkward dance kicked up a lot of feelings between Terry and me.

The passion that ultimately overwhelmed us that night was not sudden. It had been simmering for years. The truth is that Terry and I were more than old friends; we were recovery pals in Narcotics Anonymous. We had spent a lot of time bumming around together getting clean. Great buddies, but never lovers. These days my job kept me mostly in Bangkok. And, although we actively corresponded, we rarely saw each other.

I looked over at her. Some inner reef of shame had blocked her from one of life’s simple pleasures. I understood it, but it hurt to see it.

Then I noticed in myself a certain tenderness towards her that I had never felt before. To my mind Terry’s beauty, combined with her street toughness, had always lent her a mantle of invulnerability. Now, as we sat there, that illusion crumbled and I felt embarrassed—not for myself—but because my pestering had caused my friend such misery.

It only took her a few moments to regain her usual composure. She swept a thick lock of blond hair out of her face, sipped her lemonade and adjusted the shoulder strap on her black cocktail dress. Then she smiled at me.  I always forget what a big SOB you are, she said as she peered at me over the rim of her over-sized paper cup. But I think you lost some weight.

Been working out, I replied. I’m motivated these days. You should see my new health club in Bangkok. It’s a palace, orchids in the locker room, river view. I go every day. And after all that concerted torture it’s just a little bit harder for me to indulge.

I’m the reverse, she said. When I hit the gym, I want to reward myself. I feel like, if I worked it off, I deserve a treat. But you know how sugar kicks my ass. I wake up and can’t get back to sleep: a mild version of those three-AM horrors.

The addictive metabolism at play, I said.

A shadow fell across the table and we looked up. A tall guy in a black NA-Way tee shirt was leaning over us. He looked at me. Hi, Ted. Mind if I borrow Terry for a dance? he said amiably.

She’s not mine to lend, I replied. Better ask her.

Amusement glinted in Terry’s eyes. But she looked at me, not at him when she replied. You know I don’t dance, Sweet.

But I just saw—

Failed experiment.

He took us both in. He looked at Terry again and comprehension lit his eyes. Nice seeing you, Terry. You in town long, Ted? he asked, moving away.

About three weeks.

Maybe I’ll catch you at a meeting. ‘Night, Terry.

‘Night, Sweet.

Sweet? I inquired when he was out of earshot. How’d he know my name?

Oh, you know him. Uptown Group, Saturdays. That’s how he knows you. Jonathan Sweetbaum, lawyer.

Oh that guy. Sweetbaum. Hardly recognized him. I remember him, though. We used to lay odds on how long he’d live. I laughed. We were both silent for a while.

The DJ spun a hip hop side and cranked the volume.

Do you want to go? Terry shouted.

Yeah. I wasn’t sure you were going to show.

Neither was I, she said, laughing. I knew you’d ask me to dance.

Let’s take in the boardwalk. It’s not too chilly, I said.

If the pier is open we can go on rides.

French fries, I yelled.

Careful, guy, you’ll spoil me, she shouted into my ear as we made our way out through the crowd. We played around in the amusement areas for a while, and then took a walk down the boards. The surf was loud; a strong sea breeze roared in our ears. The September air was tolerably warm, but had a bite to it, a whisper of far-away ice. We walked closely together, shoulders bumping occasionally, heads slightly bowed to the wind. Terry began talking, her speech directed toward herself as much as to me.

You can’t stay sober and stay in the life. It’s the hooker’s dream, you know, clean, sober and all that easy money. I think about it sometimes, the money, but it doesn’t happen, at least not often. Most people can’t do both it seems.

She paused, turned and stood at the rail of the boardwalk to face the sea and I joined her. Her special scent now blended with creosote, salt and seaweed. The thundering breakers were just visible across the strand, ruffled white lines in the semi-darkness. Wind hissed across the pale beach.

I didn’t say anything, so she continued. Not possible for me. But I know people. Terry paused and then gave me a serious look. To my mind a woman should be free to sell herself if she can hack it. I mean, What belongs to you more than your body? Making prostitution illegal is just a way of putting the money into men’s pockets. Pimps. Cops. Sexism dressed as morals. Just another personal service is all, along the lines of cutting hair.

She smiled. Well, maybe more personal. But, so long as it’s something you decide to do yourself, Who’s business is it but yours? She shook her hair out in the wind. I cleared fifty-five thousand this year butchering hair at Salvadoro’s. It’s peanuts compared with what I made before as a dancer and out in Vegas, but I’m grateful as hell. He’s been pretty good to me, you know. Sent me to Vidal Sasoon School and all—in London. Then, last year, he even brought me into the business. He needed cash and I had some—a lot actually. She smiled faintly. Thrifty me. He sold me stock. It’s a good business, Ted. I want a future. I think I did well, too. Even Sweet said so. Sal’s been expanding like crazy. He has a new partner.

I think you’ve got a future, I said in a low voice.

Terry smiled. I think so, too. He’s been talking up some deal he says is going to make a truckload of money. Remember that Asian guy you were talking to at Sal’s party the last time you were here about a year ago? He was very fem, wore a touch of eye makeup and a Savile Row suit? Rich.

I dredged up a name. Mr Paul? He was a Thai. We had chatted a bit. I speak the language.

Yeah, Mr Paul. Can’t even say his last name—even if I could remember it. Well, he’s the partner. They’ve been seeing a lot of each other recently and something’s up. Sal’s real excited about it. They talked on the phone a lot lately and now he’s back. Did Mr Paul get in touch with you or anything there? I saw you trade cards.

No, he didn’t. Bangkok’s as big as New York. I only know Mr Paul slightly, from here. Funny I should meet a Thai here, and through Sal of all people. But Mr Paul’s got to be rich or important; he’s attached to that Thai trade delegation I’m covering. It’s no coincidence we’re both here at the same time again.

Oh, yeah. What’s it all about? What’s the story you’re doing?

The wind roared around my ears, but I could see Terry was genuinely interested so I continued. I raised my voice to the wind. "Boring stuff mainly. US import quotas are a big deal over there—bread and butter—and a Thai business newspaper writes my checks. But the big story is that there are movements in the US Congress to punish the Thais on trade issues because they have not done enough to discourage the flesh trade, particularly in young girls, kids really—slavery. Anyway, after-hours these Thai delegates will try to put out some fires.

Some Congressmen are very worked up over a new report from a United Nations funded human rights outfit, and they’re loaded for bear."

I warmed to my topic. It’s pretty amazing. It’s the cops, you know, who run the brothels. The Thai government really doesn’t have that much control over their police—law unto themselves. Corruption on steroids. Meat and potatoes to a hack like me. Anyway, it’s like a lot of places.

Yeah, like Vegas. Terry laughed nervously. Then she hugged herself, smoothed her heavy blonde hair from her face, and turned to look at me. Her hazel eyes were wide and serious.

I’ll have eight years in December if I don’t pick up. My mother called the other day. She’s so fat these days. She was drunk, too—big surprise. Anyway, she told me how jealous she was. She said I was in my prime and that I should do more for her. She wants… Terry looked away from me, out to sea, and her voice went low and funny. Kids in whorehouses. It’s weird. Did I tell you that when I was fourteen mom sold my virginity for three-thousand dollars to a Japanese guy? Terry snorted out a little laugh. He was hung like a cashew. Lucky for me, though. What a riot.

No, I said slowly, you never told me that.

She was flat broke. She had lost a lot of money at blackjack. We left Vegas for Florida that very night. She wanted to work the big hotels there. She dressed me up like a little girl—well, littler than I was, anyway. We cruised the lobbies together—I was just a shill. She wasn’t… I prostituted myself later, in Atlanta—you remember from my story—but she just turned me out that once… with Mr Cashew. Not that it’s any excuse. She said she was desperate. Terry gave me a hard look. I may think it should be legal, but turning out kids? That’s just about the worst thing in the world. Ask me. I know. Terry grabbed the rail and leaned back, arching her back and swinging down a bit, bending her knees and stretching her arms and shoulders in the process as she talked.

Anyway, with a kid like me along the house detectives were less likely to think she was a pro. I mean, they wouldn’t have thrown her out, they would’ve shaken her down. She was beautiful in those days, and very smart.

I had known Terry for a long time, but she never talked this way. This stuff about her early life she left out of her ‘story’, the tale of woe and triumph that recovering people are encouraged to tell occasionally at 12-step meetings.

She had never lied exactly, she had just left the impression that her addiction began when she left home. It’s just that she never said what her home had been. Now she was letting me in.

Terry smiled fondly. We had a great time in Florida that winter—a great time. Boy, did she make money, and at the track, too. She’s an ace handicapper, but she was getting inside tips from some of the high rollers. Bought a nice little house down there. She’s still smart. Terry did another standing pull-up on the rail. I forgave her two years ago. I had to, really. I mean I did it formally, in a letter. Sally M, my sponsor—she’s the only one who knows all this junk—made me. I hated her so much—mom, not Sally—but you know we have to forgive people, get on with our lives. We talk now, mom and me. It’s okay.

I was at a loss. Terry had come of age on the other side of a peep show spy hole. Me? I’m a typical, no-real-excuse dope fiend from suburbia. Even though I wound up on the streets for while, I’m straight from middle-class suburban America: Bethesda, Maryland. There was, to say the least, a big culture gap between us. It was time to reply, but I didn’t quite know what to say. How do you forgive somebody—your mother for Christ’s sake—for introducing you to a life of prostitution? But then again, how do you not?

The wind had penetrated my light jacket. What’s the matter? she asked. Are you mad at me?

Furious, I said with a smile. You walked out on our dance number. Remember?

Oh, well, she said, appearing to take me a little more seriously than I intended, I’ll try again at next year’s convention. I am just a work in progress, you know. But I have been a little blue lately; I get that way. She gave me a rare, shy smile—nothing feline in it at all. The breeze increased a notch and I heard the awnings on the shuttered shops start to pop. Just as she looked away Terry smiled again. This time it was a self-directed, secret smile.

It’s cold, I said. I’ll take you back to the beach house.

You can come in if you like.

I always like.

Terry and I had been friends for eight years—which is how long we had both been clean—but, as I said, romance was never a part of it. There had been a time, though, when the world might have told you we were lovers; we were joined at the hip for about eighteen months.

In those first months of our recovery we both had had to admit to ourselves that we suffered from many problems with relationships—to put it mildly. It seemed a given that, if we slept together, it would end our comfortable and valued friendship. So we did not.

We had even talked about it; the attraction was there. But Terry went through men. I went through women. Not that we were not trying to do better at real life; it is just that we were a couple of pretty sick kids in adult packaging.

Then, after two years in the US cleaning up my act, I returned to Bangkok to take my old job back at Business Life Company, my Thai-based publishing house. So, if something had been about to develop between us, it just did not have the chance. We always corresponded, even when we got into more successful relationships. I nearly married a pretty Welsh hotelier, but could not—would not—follow her to Singapore. Terry lived with a Washington Post reporter whom she had met at an NA roundup, but he cheated on her and that ended it.

That night we were both free, and, well, it was just our time. Terry knew it earlier. I knew it as soon as we walked in the front door to the beach house and saw the look on her face.

I did not lure you all the way from Bangkok to play Scrabble, she said with her hands on her hips. Our long habit of friendship had immunized me to her earlier, more refined, signals.

You didn’t lure me; I was coming over here already. Remember?

You talk too much, she said, as she came towards me.

That night I stayed at the beach house, which Terry had rented along with another woman, Samantha—Sam she called her. Terry explained that Sam was an old friend of her mother. On hearing that Terry was renting a beach place for the week Sam offered to pitch in if she could come down just for the following weekend. On the third night, Terry got a call from Sam, who said she was not going to be able to make it after all.

I gave up my motel room. Over the next days we went to the beach together; that is, when we were not holed up in the house making up for lost time—and kicking ourselves for holding out for so long—or when Terry wasn’t at the Ocean Inn heading a workshop on personal inventory, 11th-Step meditation or some other recovery-related topic. Come to think of it, we saw very little of the beach.

Terry was an NA activist. As a result she was in a lot of the scheduled events. She went to a lot of meetings. She had exactly one million friends.

I took my cameras with me one day when we did actually make it to the beach. Terry mugged for me on the boardwalk and by the water. It was a pleasure to photograph her long tawny body clad in the fluorescent scraps that pass for swimwear. I set the Nikon on a trash can with the timer on and took pictures of us both in front of another trash can with the amusement pier behind us.

We were seldom alone when we walked outside. We never went more than ten feet on the boardwalk without Terry getting greetings. Occasionally, she stopped to give and receive the intimate body-to-body hugs that are a big part of the NA culture—some of the hugees, I noticed, were men.

We saw Sweet a couple of times, too. An exquisite little woman with a shoulder-length cascade of chestnut curls always accompanied him. Her name was Sharla.

Sharla was one of Terry’s pigeons; that is, someone she sponsored in the program. Sharla was a hard case. Terry, I recalled, had saved her life by sheer force. When Sharla came to Terry years before Terry broke an unwritten rule: she let Sharla live at her place. One day Terry came home to find her apartment stripped. She called her own sponsor Sally M and they went hunting. They knew where to go.

Eventually, after three days, they found Sharla in a shooting gallery in NE Washington DC geezing with the used needles from the ashtrays. She was just finishing the heroin she had bought with Terry’s stereo, TV and microwave. They dragged her back to Terry’s and took turns holding her hand, by that I mean they wouldn’t let her go. Call it kidnapping if you want—Sally said Terry actually sat on Sharla. After the third day Sharla agreed to stay at a halfway house and use Terry and Sally as sponsors. Sally told me it was Terry who got through to her. Sharla has not used since. It has been seven years.

I got introduced to a lot of people at the convention, and a lot of people remembered me, too, but it was always Terry they were interested in. She was a star in our small tightly knit world of the healing wounded. The phone at the beach house rang all evening—until we would unplug it at midnight—and Terry would talk to her sponsees, some of them newcomers and some of them women she had known for years. She also called Sally M a couple of times while we were there. She kicked me out of the room for their chats, presumably because they were going to gab about me. Sally worked for the government and could not get away to the convention.

One night Terry got a call from her mom. She kicked me out for that one, too. It upset her enough to call Sally M right after, but she did not tell me much beyond the fact that her mother was still on her back.

As we were packing up to leave, Terry gave me a serious look. Ted, will you stay at my place when we get back to Washington?

Well, gladly. But Terry—

She must have seen something in my face. I know, I know, Ted. But we’ve known each other for such a long time. I’m not trying to corner you. It’s… You’ll have to go back to Asia at the end of the month and, and… Well, I just want to see, to see how it works with you and me. I feel down for it Ted, and I know you do. So… She held out her hands, palms up, a fait accompli.

She was right. I felt as though I had come home. I had told her how I felt that first night. And then I had showed her. But there were practicalities, brittle realities.

But I’ll be going, I said. I have a job I love. I have an assignment coming up in Burma. It’s dangerous, but I can’t stop. It’s too important. And, I mean, is this wise? We can always be friends at twelve thousand miles. But lovers? Real lovers? What if it does work when I come stay with you now? What then? Even now I’m going to be miserable without you. This changes things.

I wadded up the red tee shirt I was packing and used it as a prop. I gave her a serious sidelong look. Right now we could backtrack. I waved the shirt back and forth for emphasis. It would be hard, but we could do it. We’re grown up enough.  We could lie to ourselves and say it was convention fever, that we had always wanted to sleep together, and that we finally did, and that it was great. We could say ‘now it’s over’ and declare ourselves friends again. Terry started to speak, but I motioned her to stop. But if we chase this thing, Terry, both you and I know we’ll have decisions to make, major changes to our lives. Who is going to move where? All that kind of agonizing shit. We’ll have to pay a price.

Terry just shook her head. I could see she was hearing me, but it wasn’t changing her mind. I was glad it wasn’t. It was not a case of masculine cold feet—well, not completely. I just had the sense, and the experience, to know that grown-up relationships fall prey to grown-up pressures. As did she.

Let’s not project on it to much, she replied. Stay with me, Ted, and if we’re still feeling this good in three weeks we’ll talk about realities. I know you have a life that you love. I’ll admit I’m going to go crazy with you lost up there in that Burmese war zone, she said gently. You nearly got killed up there that time. Let’s not put the cart before the horse, though. Let’s not—

I thought you liked to do it buggy style.

Now you’re talking. And what, may I ask, are you doing way the hell over there?

As a lover Terry was, well, strange sometimes. Not kinky, never sleazy, just strange. One night she shyly asked if I would indulge her in something. Anything, I said.

It turned out she wanted to listen to music when we made love.

Why even ask? Just turn on your stereo.

I want it loud.

They’re your neighbors, but I sure don’t care.

She laughed. Well that’s why—I mean—I want to use my music player…

To this day I can’t see a woman wearing headphones without getting a flashback.

After the first week it was clear to us both we had to talk. Not because things were bad, but because they were good. Terry sprang her surprise on me.

So now what? I said to her. It’s happened. We’re stuck.

I know, she replied.

So what are we going to do about it? That’s what I want to know.

She smiled. Why don’t I come live there?

To Bangkok? I said with surprise. I had been reluctantly contemplating a return to the States. You want to? I paused a minute. But what’ll you do? I mean, you can stay with me. But, Terry, won’t you get bored? After you shop and travel and stuff you’ll start to twitch. It’s a cool place, but it takes about two months before it starts to wear. And it’s hard to get work there. There are labor restrictions on foreigners. And you have a jillion friends here, meetings, a life you’ll miss.

Boy, are you optimistic, she said. Feet a little cold?

That’s not—

She smiled again. No, I’m kidding. I get you. And I agree. I’d go nuts without work.

So?

I have a job offer, she said smugly, drawing out the ‘I’ for effect. "To be honest, I doubt I would have gotten into the sack with you if I didn’t think I had a chance of making it stick. This has been cooking for