Salty (21 page)

But it looked like Turk Henry had other ideas. He just wouldn't give up. You'd think threats of rendition and getting up close and personal with a rotting carcass would be enough to put someone off. But Turk didn't seem fazed by it. He was stubborn. Ben adjusted his baseball cap and watched as Turk talked animatedly with Clive and Marybeth. Perhaps he'd underestimated him.

Ben realized he'd need a plan. The simplest one is usually the best. That's what Ben had learned repairing helicopters, that's what they taught him at the Land Rover customer
service seminar, and that's what ICE had preached as well. The simplest plan was to get Turk Henry dead.

As Ben watched Clive shifting into his rescue and recovery expert mode, he realized something. If the terrorists were in touch with Turk, they'd still expect a ransom, and Turk wouldn't be able to get his money back from Ben without exposing himself to arrest. That meant Turk would have to go to the bank and get another million dollars. Ben rubbed his hands together. If he could somehow get Turk parted from that, he'd have two million dollars. And as everyone knows, two million dollars is twice as good as one million dollars.

…

Jon Heidegger sipped his glass of wine and looked across the table at his lunch companion, a young A&R guy from Planetary Records. The kid was hip, decked out in baggy pants and a pink Ramones T-shirt under a retro-plaid shirt from Penguin that he left unbuttoned and hanging open. It was the look: sloppy but cool, the features of his face hidden by manicured muttonchops and thick black eyeglass frames peeking out from under a swoop of brown bangs. The kid went by the name Jethro—no last name—and was a real rising star in the business.

The waiter, a handsome and gregarious Italian named Gino, came over and asked Jethro if he'd like a glass of wine.

“Uh. Arnold Palmer? Do you have that here?”

Gino nodded. Heidegger shook his head sadly. That was it, wasn't it? The end of civilization personified by a half-iced tea, half-lemonade monstrosity that everyone in Los Angeles drank for lunch. Heidegger remembered—and he wasn't even
that old—when lunches began with a cocktail—a cold martini, a gimlet, a tangy margarita—before giving way to a bottle of wine. If you felt a little drowsy after lunch you'd just open your desk drawer, pull out your little mirror and razor blade, and hoover up a couple lines before your next meeting. Nowadays if you had a glass of wine—a single glass—people looked at you like you had a drinking problem.

That was the trouble with the music business. The film business, too. It wasn't about the lifestyle anymore, it was about sales. Creativity didn't matter; mediocrity was what sold, and mediocrity was easy to market, so mediocrity was what they pumped out. The world was no longer controlled by content providers—the musicians and songwriters—but by marketing teams and focus groups. If you asked a dozen random people plucked out of a shopping mall in Tarzana what kind of music they liked, well, you'd get Britney Spears, 'N Sync, Menudo, or some other lip-synching variation wearing Daisy Dukes and a see-through halter top.

Heidegger hoped it was just a cycle—like a moon wobble—just a phase the world was going through. At the end of the day, shit is shit no matter how pretty the packaging.

You can't polish a turd
.

Heidegger knew this to be true, and he was banking on it. He and his team had been snapping up as many of the most outrageous, idiosyncratic, and just plain weird acts as they could find. Heidegger was banking on rebellion, stockpiling bands for the backlash against corporate sludge and vacuous sex doll pop. He remembered the Sex Pistols. It was only a matter of time before people fought back, dumped vodka in their Arnold Palmers and started breaking furniture, if for no other reason than they were bored stiff.

Jethro dipped some bread into a little saucer of olive oil. “So what's this about Metal Assassin? They getting back together?”

“They're still exploring their solo projects. That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Who?”

“Turk.”

Jethro rolled his eyes. “Sweet Jesus. The bass player? Are you kidding me?”

“He's got a lot of songs.”

Jethro shook his head. “A solo album from a bass player. That's such a loser move, man.”

Heidegger sipped his wine and looked at Jethro. “Sting is a bass player, as I recall.”

Jethro looked skeptical. “I don't know, man.”

Heidegger pressed him. “You got the bass player from the biggest heavy metal group in history. Right? That's going to guarantee you go gold.”

“Yeah. Some metal heads might buy it. But what about John Q. Public? Do people even know who he is?”

A plate of figs stuffed with Gorgonzola arrived. Heidegger leaned forward.

“When people hear about his wife's kidnapping and his desperate attempt to rescue her from the hands of terrorists in Thailand, everyone will know who he is.”

Jethro's expression changed. “You're fucking kidding me.”

Heidegger shook his head. “It's happening right now.”

…

Roy guided his scooter through the morning rush hour and arrived at the U.S. Embassy on Wireless Road only fifteen minutes late for work. He didn't think it would matter; his boss hadn't been in the office for days, and no one else would notice. What was it with these Americans and their mania for punctuality? Roy was running late because he'd been out drinking with some friends the night before and had stopped on his way to work at a little Chinese restaurant for some pork congee to cure his hangover. The soupy rice porridge with shreds of roast pig and dollops of red-hot chili sauce had, temporarily, done the trick. While he didn't exactly have a spring in his step, he was upright, and the pounding headache and queasy churning in his stomach had subsided.

Roy clipped his ID badge onto his shirt and walked up to the security checkpoint. He emptied his keys, his belt, his wristwatch, and a gold ring into a little dish and then crossed through the metal detectors. He went to the staff room and swiped his ID badge through a digital reader. An LED readout announced the time.
Computerized time cards—very un-Thai
.

He entered his office and flicked on the lights. The air-conditioning was already cranking at maximum; he felt like he worked in a giant refrigerator. Roy checked his messages and was alarmed to discover there were already three from his boss.

He immediately picked up the phone and dialed Ben's cell phone number.

“Where have you been?”

“I had an errand to perform.”

Ben paused. Maybe Roy had been running an errand for someone on staff. Better not to make a big deal of it.

“Well, I've got another one for you. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“This is all black, understand? Don't tell anyone anything. Just do it.”

“Okay.”

“I need a tactical kit, a light one, sent down here ASAP.”

“Shall I liaise with the
Thahan Prahan?
”

Ben shook his head in dismay.
Thahan Prahan
translated roughly as “Hunter Soldiers,” and the last thing he wanted was a squad of Thailand's elite trigger-happy special ops commandos running amok in Phuket.

“No. Don't liaise anything through anybody. Just send it to me.”

“That's against the protocols.”

“I know it is. That's why it's black.”

There was a pause on the line.

“Should I check with the Defense Attaché Office?”

“Roy. This isn't a Defense Department operation. Black means black, and this is totally black, understand?”

There was another pause on the line, then Roy spoke.

“Is now a good time to talk to you about getting a higher grade of pay?”

Ben sighed. “Would you like a vacation to go with it?”

“I have always wanted to go to San Francisco.”

Sarcasm never worked on the Thais. They just didn't get it. Ben took a breath, tried to control his temper.

“Okay. I'll get you a raise. Now send me the fucking pack.”

…

The plan, so far, was pretty simple. Clive had brought a secure satellite phone with him and Marybeth used it to call
Heidegger in Los Angeles. Heidegger was expecting something like this and had the million bucks ready to go. He agreed to wire it to the bank in Phuket, but not before telling her to tell Turk that a deal had been struck with Planetary Records for a solo album and that Turk needed to call him as soon as he could to work out the particulars.

The record deal took Turk by surprise. On the one hand it was good, because he had a new song, but on the other hand he was right in the middle of a hostage negotiation. Couldn't it wait?

With the cash on the way, Marybeth needed to go into town and buy a wheelie suitcase large enough to hold the money. Clive decided he would accompany her as some kind of security guard just in case something happened; it was a lot of money to be dragging around unprotected. Clive tried to reassure Turk and Marybeth by showing them the .9mm handgun that he had stuck in a belt holster underneath his garish Hawaiian shirt, but the reality of the gun just made Turk nauseous.

All of this was discussed as they strolled on the beach, Turk and Clive walking their hangovers off. Clive told them that from now on they would operate on what he called “radio silence”: no phones, not even cell phones; no conversations in any of the rooms. In fact, the less they talked about it the better. They should assume someone—either the kidnappers or ICE—was watching them at all times.

Turk was happy to see that Clive was taking charge, organizing and strategizing, and that Marybeth was taking it seriously, and not fucking around.

…

Marybeth walked down the main street of Hat Patong, the tourist-packed beach town a short drive from the pricier resort where they were staying. Clive hurried to keep up, trying to match her determined stride. They were looking for a luggage store, or at least a shop that sold luggage. But Marybeth couldn't help herself, she was distracted by the scene. There were hundreds of tourists, mostly middle-aged Caucasian men wearing cargo shorts and polo shirts, sporting sunburned noses and clutching beers, milling around the street. Marybeth saw that most of the storefronts were bordellos masquerading as beer halls, with dozens of bar girls hanging around—some dancing languidly to disco music in the afternoon heat, others sitting with customers in booths. Only the occasional T-shirt shop, and a surf store selling condoms from Japan, interrupted the wall-to-wall emporiums of beer and sex.

Marybeth saw Clive's eyes lingering on a young bar girl in a white bikini top. The girl shifted on her bar stool, crossing one leg over another, and stared back at Clive with a frank, mercantile gaze. Marybeth tugged on Clive's arm. “You can come back later.”

Clive grinned at her. “Believe me, I will.”

Seeing the bar girls, Marybeth realized that she missed Wendy. She'd taken Wendy's cell phone number but hadn't called her. She wanted to, but she had been afraid.
What was there to be afraid of?
Marybeth didn't know why she was hesitant. What was so scary? Wendy was a whore. Big deal. Did that make her a bad person? Not at all. In fact, Marybeth had never met a nicer, sweeter, more generous person in her life. And she was easily the best lover Marybeth had ever had. When she compared her slow, sensual tumble between the
sheets with Wendy to her experiences with all those longhaired rocker dudes whose leather pants she'd yanked down and whose cocks she'd sucked; when she thought about all the times she'd taken it doggie style on a tour bus; when she recalled all those sweat-drenched quickies backstage before an encore … well, there wasn't really a comparison. Marybeth realized she'd had sex with at least two hundred men and that never once had it been about her pleasure. She was always working to get the men off—it was a one-way street, a sexual cul-de-sac. But with Wendy it was different; it was a two-way street. Or, more accurately, it was like one of those roundabouts they have in Europe, where traffic enters from dozens of directions and mixes and blends as it circles.

Marybeth hadn't experienced many epiphanies in her life, but now, out of the blue, she realized what she was afraid of. She was afraid she was falling in love with Wendy. If she was in love with Wendy, didn't that mean she was gay? How could she explain this to her friends? Was she really a lesbian? Or was it just Wendy? Or was it the fact that Wendy was a prostitute? Was that the appeal? A kind of rock and roll bad boy danger thing? What was she afraid of? Didn't they make movies about guys who fall in love with whores? Wasn't that like a standard Hollywood thing?

They stopped in front of a sundries store, the kind that had clothes and hats, sunscreen and sandals, backpacks and a few suitcases.

“Here we are. You go ahead and pick it out. I'll be right back.”

Marybeth watched as Clive turned and headed back toward the girl in the white bikini top. She shook her head. “Thanks for watching my back, asshole.”

Neither of them noticed Ben, dressed as a tourist, window-shopping in the street behind them.

…

The bar girl in the white bikini knew what she was doing. She'd seen Clive ogling her as he walked by and had made eye contact with him. Although she was only sixteen, she'd been a bar girl for three years and was well practiced—like an expert fisherman—in the art of baiting a hook. She knew he'd taken the bait, but she didn't make a move, just sat there patiently. The worst thing was to appear overeager. She didn't want to spook her prey; she'd wait for Clive to take enough line, to look back at her as he walked down the street, then she'd set the hook and he'd reel himself in. The bar girl in the white bikini understood that men, like fish, were not particularly complicated animals.

For Clive it was a different experience altogether. It was like she saw into his soul and found his weakness, his craving. Somehow she'd managed to touch something inside him, to flick a switch that kicked his desire into action. Clive couldn't resist her—he had to have her or be had by her; it was an unstoppable urge.