Salty (16 page)

I'm an addict. It's not my fault. It's a disease
.

Wasn't that just a cop-out?

…

Marybeth wanted a real Bangkok experience. She wanted to go to a seedy brothel and hire a sexy Thai prostitute—she wasn't a prude when it came to sex and sometimes enjoyed hooking up with a hot lesbian; besides, maybe she could entice Turk into a three-way and kill two birds, so to speak—and she wanted to see what all the fuss was about, why busloads of horny tourists from England, Sweden, and the U.S. came every year just to frolic in the sex clubs of Patpong. Most of all she wanted to see the girl do that trick with the Ping-Pong balls.

Marybeth, dressed somewhat provocatively in a light slip dress covered by a torn denim jacket, met Turk in the hotel lobby. He smiled when he saw her.

“Hungry?”

Marybeth nodded. “I got this.”

She handed Turk a business card. It was Clive's. Turk flipped it over and saw the words “The Winchester, 10pm” and an address on Soi Cowboy. Turk was impressed.

“That was fast. This guy doesn't mess around.”

Marybeth hooked her arm around Turk's.

“Let's eat. We can celebrate.”

…

At Turk's insistence, they took a
tuk tuk
to dinner. He was beginning to appreciate them. The overtaxed air conditioners of the cabs had a close, musty smell and Turk preferred to be out in the wind. Marybeth was annoyed at first; she had spent a good hour and a half removing and reapplying her makeup, and the last thing she wanted was for a layer of Bangkok grit and humidity to destroy those efforts, but Turk seemed to be in better spirits, less worried about Sheila and more his old rock star self, so Marybeth indulged him.

It was her job, of course, to indulge the boyish antics of her company's clients, and she did it very well. In fact she enjoyed it. There was just something kinda cool about watching a bunch of forty-year-old musicians trash a hotel room—break the lamps, turn the furniture into splinters, scrawl obscenities on the wall, and chuck the TV set into the pool. It was all the stuff you wanted to do in high school. Only now their celebrity and bank accounts allowed them to do stupid shit with impunity.

Turk didn't say much, just smiled into the breeze and seemed to enjoy the
tuk tuk
ride like it was a special treat at Disneyland. But for Marybeth it was a little more traumatic
as they jounced and swayed past the street life: the open-air restaurants, the markets, the mangy-looking dogs sniffing through piles of garbage, cars, motorcycles, apartments, shops, and everywhere thousands of people out and about, doing their thing. Marybeth saw children playing, old people shopping for food, young couples holding hands: people living their lives out on the street. She found herself feeling shocked, overwhelmed by it all. Bangkok was a whole other kind of animal than what she was used to.

But for Turk it was a completely different experience. He grooved on the humanity of the place. The city pulsed with life. It had the street energy of New York City, only multiplied to the hundredth power. Yet it wasn't frenetic. There was no mania, no anger or rage. Bangkok spun out in a kind of relaxed and vibrant swirl. It was beautiful.

Turk realized that normally he would've just sat in the hotel, ordered room service, and watched a video. That's how he'd seen the world on tour with Metal Assassin. He regretted that now. The cocoon of the tour bus, the luxury and isolation of the hotels, the handlers, managers, and assistants had all kept him from experiencing the world, from engaging with life. He'd never realized until this moment in the
tuk tuk
that he'd missed so much.

Marybeth watched Turk. She was worried about him. He seemed distant, kind of out of it; yet he was smiling. She wondered if he'd smoked a joint earlier.

“Hey! Let's try that.”

Marybeth turned to look where Turk was pointing. It was an outdoor restaurant—really just a table and a fire pit on the sidewalk—surrounded by dozens of people eating mysterious food off paper plates.

“You're joking.”

“C'mon. It must be good. Look at all the people.”

Marybeth shook her head.

“No fucking way. I've got an expense account.”

…

Marybeth had seen to the dinner arrangements. The concierge had recommended a funky but chic little place. It was very modern—simple and clean, almost minimalist—and at the same time very Thai. The effect was inviting and relaxing. She could see Turk take a deep breath and exhale as they entered.

“Smells great in here.”

It did smell great in the restaurant. A giant display of fresh orchids and gingers exploded out of the hostess station, perfuming the restaurant. After the gut-churning drive through streets fragrant with exhaust, rotting garbage, and the piquant tang of an antiquated sewage system, the restaurant was like an aromatherapy spa.

The hostess seated them and gave them English menus.

“This is the wine list.” She handed Turk a thick binder.

Marybeth wasted no time. “I'd like a double Stoli and tonic, please.”

Turk looked at her. “You don't want wine?”

“I do. I just want to start with a cocktail.”

Turk nodded and looked at the hostess. “Make it two.”

The hostess gave Turk a deep
wai
and went off to procure the cocktails. Marybeth turned and smiled at Turk.

“I'm gonna get fucking polluted tonight.”

Turk raised an eyebrow at that, but Marybeth wasn't about to be denied her fun.

“C'mon Turkey, we're in Bangkok. Let's get out of our skulls.”

Turk smiled at her. “I don't want to get
too
out of my skull. We're meeting the guy, remember?”

Marybeth nodded. “Yeah. But after the briefing, I'm getting wasted. Why not? You know what I mean? Why the fuck not? That's my motto.”

Turk looked at the menu.

“That's a good motto.”

…

Ben watched from the back of a
tuk tuk
as Turk and Marybeth entered the restaurant. He paid the driver and got out, going across the street to a little store for a bottle of water. Ben assumed that Turk and Marybeth were just going out to dinner, but he wanted to make sure. He wouldn't want to see them meeting someone, anyone, who might assist them.

Ben squirted some antibacterial hand cleaning gel onto his palm and rubbed his hands. Then he waited. He figured he'd give them half an hour and if they were still alone, he'd call it a night. He had to be in the office early and check with Washington to make sure they squashed Turk's rescue mission before it started.

…

Two hours later, wobbling from the cocktails, the bottle of wine, the intensely spicy food, and the subsequent beers, Turk and Marybeth climbed out of a
tuk tuk
in front of a nightclub
called The Winchester. A garish neon sign the size of a school bus flashed above a run-down two-story building in the middle of an alley that seemed to be lined with bars, brothels, and go-go clubs, crammed up against each other like sardines. Above the door a bright Winchester rifle cocked and shot over and over again in neon flipbook animation. Turk looked at Marybeth.

“Are you sure this is right?”

Marybeth nodded. Turk hesitated.

“I don't want to go in. Can you tell him I'm outside?”

Marybeth grabbed Turk's arm. “Don't worry. I'll protect you.”

Turk shook his head. “That's what I'm afraid of.”

…

If you could get pregnant from breathing, the air in the club would knock you up in no time; it was dense with cigarette smoke, human sweat, the yeasty aroma of beer, and the unmistakable salty perfume of spent semen and wet pussy. Turk had followed Marybeth and the hostess, an older
mamasan
type, past the bar to a booth near the rear of the club. Topless go-go dancers moved to the music—'80s rock classics from The Clash, Blondie, and The Smiths intermixed with new techno tracks from Brazil and Holland—as multicolored lights beamed down on them and a crowd of appreciative Caucasian men stood around white-knuckling their beers and grinning like boob-addled retards.

Marybeth was the only non-Thai woman in the club, and a number of the men exchanged nervous glances when
she entered. Turk ordered the drinks and looked around. He didn't see Clive. But he saw lots of men who looked like Clive cuddled up in various booths with Thai women dressed in what can only be called “pay to fuck me” clothes. Turk noticed that a couple of these men were getting special crotch massages while they drank their beers and watched the go-go dancers. Turk was slightly disconcerted by the fact that all of the men were his age or older. Apparently he was the target demographic for a Bangkok brothel.

A pair of British men, sporting shaggy layered haircuts and bushy mustaches, flashed Turk the devil horn salute. One was wearing a Manchester United jersey, the name “Rooney” and a giant number 8 printed on the back. Turk smiled at them and flashed back, which they took for an invitation to come over.

“I fuckin' love Metal Assassin!”

Turk smiled. “Thanks, man.”

“What're you doin' here, man? Gettin' a little R&R?”

Turk nodded. “Taking a break from it, you know.”

“You came to the right place, man. You can go all night, nonstop. They don't care, man. They just replace the girls.”

Turk smiled and nodded his head. “Cool.”

Although in all honesty he didn't think it sounded cool. It sounded kind of sweaty and gross to him. Manchester United leaned in, a coconspirator. “I've got some Cialis and some coke if you're interested.”

Before Turk could answer, the other guy playfully smacked Manchester United on the head.

“Don't be a prat. This is Turk-fuckin'-Henry. He don't need any help.” The friend held his hands about two feet apart to indicate the legendary size of Turk's penis.

Manchester United grinned.

“Be careful you don't hurt any of the girls.”

The two Brits burst out laughing. Turk smiled; Marybeth glared.

“Yeah, Tommy Lee came in here and left a trail of dead bodies.”

More laughter as beer arrived for Turk, another vodka tonic for Marybeth. The Manchester United fan wobbled unsteadily and handed the waitress a clammy wad of baht. “I got this round.”

“You don't have to.”

“How many times do I get to buy a rock star a drink? Eh?”

His friend clapped him on the back. “Fuckin' right.”

Turk lifted his beer in a toast. “Cheers. Thanks.”

Another song started and new dancers hopped up on the bar.

“Showtime.”

The men turned their backs on Turk and moved toward the bar, the sex-on-display suddenly more interesting than an old rock star.

Marybeth smiled at Turk. “What do you think?”

Turk watched a young Thai woman lead an inebriated old man up a flight of stairs toward a series of private rooms. He saw men groping and fondling women half their age in the booths as they laughed, their faces flushed with excitement, their eyes wild with drink and testosterone. He looked at the bar, where three young women undulated their smooth brown bodies to the music, their mouths open in seductive pouts, their eyes working the men in the room, promising sensual delight, a return to youth, release.

Turk hadn't really given the situation a whole lot of forethought. His penis had checked in, become tumescent the moment they walked into the bar. For a recovering sex addict, this was the worst place to be in the world. Perhaps, he mused, only a Roman orgy would be a more
catalytic environment
.

“I think we should leave.”

Marybeth looked at him, surprised, even disappointed. “Leave? We just got here.”

Before Turk could insist, Clive slipped into the booth. He smiled at them and put a warm hand on Marybeth's thigh. “Enjoying yourselves?”

Marybeth nodded and moved away from Clive. “This place is wild.”

“Sorry I'm late, but I wanted to make sure you weren't followed.”

Marybeth looked at Turk. “Has someone been following you?”

Turk shrugged. “The ICE man knew everything I was doing. I think he tapped my phone or something.”

Clive agreed. “That's what they usually do. But it doesn't matter. No one followed you here.”

Clive signaled the waitress. “Boodles and tonic.”

Then he turned to Turk. “I don't think we're dealing with terrorists.”

“How do you know?”

“I put a cell net over the whole western end of Phuket and didn't pick up anyone speaking Arabic, Bahasa Indonesian, or Tamil.”

If the dancers in see-through bikini tops and cowboy hats wiggling their asses on the bar didn't distract Turk enough, the alcohol in his brain wouldn't allow the information to
process. It was like trying to understand algebra after drinking a bottle of Stoli. Turk looked at Clive.

“I don't follow.”

“We tapped all the cell phones in Phuket and we haven't picked up anything out of the ordinary.”

“Maybe they didn't make a call.”

“Maybe. But it's unlikely that an organization in the middle of an operation would be silent.”

Turk nodded and looked at his beer. Marybeth turned to Clive.

“So who is it?”

Clive shrugged.

“Probably a local gang. Or someone with a grudge against the resort. It's usually something like that.”

Clive's cocktail arrived. He took the lime off the rim of the glass and squeezed the juice in, stirring with his finger.

“Once we get some daylight, I'll have our satellites scour the area around the resorts for anything unusual.”

He took a long slurp of his cocktail. “Don't worry. We'll find them.”

Turk looked over at Marybeth. She was no longer part of the conversation, the gyrations of the go-go dancers having captivated her.

“So what should I do?”