Confessions of a Bangkok Private Eye: True Stories From the Case Files of Warren Olson (11 page)

There was a large hand-painted banner stretched across the soi proclaiming that the ‘Isaan Allstars’ were in residence at ‘Gradai’s Cabaret and Beer Bar.’ There was an impressive frontage with a wrought-iron gate that led through to a gravelled area with twenty wooden tables facing a small stage. I figured that didn’t open on rainy nights because there was no roof. There were posters advertising Chang Beer, the tipple of choice for workers on the minimum wage, and a big hoarding with a photograph of a middle-aged lady holding a bulbous microphone with a raggedy bunch of Isaan musicians behind. It was obviously Gradai and the Isaan Allstars. There was nobody around so I went back to the Penthouse and had a few Jack Daniels and games of pool with Alan. He was in fine form so Cindee clearly hadn’t been in touch. He and his buddy had their fan club in tow though none of them would so much as smile at me.

I went back to Gradai’s Cabaret and Beer as the sun was going down. There was a young guy doing some half-hearted tidying up so I spun him a story about wanting to arrange a birthday party for my Thai wife and he gave me Miss Gradai’s mobile number. She lived in a posh apartment in nearby Jomtien with her partner, he said. A Thai policeman. It wasn’t looking good for Ronnie.

I phoned the number and Miss Gradai answered. I used bad Thai and it soon became apparent that Miss Gradai spoke perfect English so we switched to that. I stuck to my party story. I told her that I was in Jomtien and she agreed to meet me in a hotel lobby. I drove there as quickly as I could and was in the lobby when she arrived. She was in her late thirties and had obviously spent some of her husband’s hard-earned money on a nose job and bigger breasts and she was well dressed in a Versace shirt and Gucci jeans with Raybans propped up on her head. She shook my hand with a hand that was festooned with glittering rings. She was chatty and within a few minutes had told me that she was married to an Englishman, but that he was always busy and that he didn’t understand her. She was a singer, she said, and had just opened the cabaret and bar. Business was slow, she told me, but she expected it to pick up soon. Her band, the Isaan Allstars, would soon be household names, she said. As we started talking about my fictitious girlfriend’s party, her top-of-the-range Nokia mobile rang. She put her hand over the phone but I could hear enough to work out that she was talking to her Thai boyfriend.

‘Your husband?’ I said, when she’d finished the call.

‘My boyfriend,’ she said.

‘Oh, is he in the band?’

She shook her head. ‘No, he’s a policeman here in Jomtien. But he likes to sing.’

I made a provisional booking for the Cabaret and gave her a pay-as-you-go mobile number that I was planning to dump in a few days. I promised that I’d drop by the place that night and drove back to the Penthouse. I parked, then popped into an internet cafe and emailed photographs of the Cabaret and the unfinished house to Ronnie, along with an initial report. I didn’t like breaking bad news, but that was what I was paid for. And it was better that he learnt the truth sooner rather than later. Gradai was bleeding him dry, with a Thai boyfriend to boot. I knew that Ronnie’s options were limited: the Thai legal system isn’t farang-friendly and the fact that the guy she was sleeping with was a Pattaya cop meant that Ronnie would have to tread carefully if he didn’t want to end up with a plastic bag over his head or at the bottom of a local high-rise.

I showered and shaved and changed into clean clothes, feeling pretty damn pleased with myself. I’d nailed both jobs in record time. I switched on the television and flicked through the channels. Inane game shows, boring chat shows, soap operas with giggling girls and foppish boys, the usual Thai fare. I stopped at the closed circuit view of the Kitten Club. Alan was sitting at the bar, his head in his hands. His mate was standing next to him, patting him on the back. I figured that Cindee had obviously been on him and given him an earful. I suddenly didn’t feel so happy about what I’d done. I’d done what I’d been paid to do, no question of that. And I’d been professional. But Alan was just doing what guys the whole world did and I felt bad for him. I just hoped that Cindee would make do with making him feel like shit for a few weeks and that she didn’t set Singaporean lawyers on him. I thought about going downstairs and buying him a few beers but there was an outside chance that he might figure out who’d sent the photographs to his wife so I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and I sneaked out for a few JD and Cokes at a bar overlooking the cesspool that passes for a sea. Having my thighs stroked by a long-haired beauty and being told that I’m a ‘hansum man’ always does wonders for my self-esteem.

At just after ten I wandered down to Gradai’s Cabaret. I already had all the information I needed, but Ronnie had paid me for three days so I figured that the least I could do was to see what the Isaan Allstars were like in full swing. The place was half-empty, or half-full depending on your point of view. The clientele seemed to be solely working class Thais drinking Chang beer or cheap whiskey. The cabaret was a couple of old comedians doing a slapstick routine that wasn’t funny in any language, and there seemed to be more waitresses and bar staff than there were paying customers. I doubted it would stay in business for more than a few months. It was only Ronnie’s money that was keeping it going.

Gradai and the Allstars came on stage just before midnight. She was wearing a too-tight red sequinned dress that showed off her silicon breasts, and far too much make-up. The Allstars were in denim and wore cowboy hats and were actually quite good. Gradai was terrible, though, and any dreams she had of making it to the big time were just that: dreams. At one point she said she’d take requests from the audience. I thought of asking her if she could play ‘Over The Hills And Far Away’ but figured she wouldn’t get the joke. I asked if they’d sing my favourite country tune, ‘Hua Jai Kradart’ about a man who complains that Thai women treat his heart like paper, screw it up and toss it out when they have used it.

It got a huge round of applause from the staff, but I don’t think that Gradai got the significance of the song. That was pretty much how she’d used Ronnie. Taken his money, lied to him, all but abandoned her kid. That’s no way for a woman to behave. I understand it when bargirls lie and steal and cheat. That’s their job. And their instinct. But Gradai was Ronnie’s wife and the mother of their child. There was no need for her to lie and steal. If she’d wanted out of the marriage the honourable thing would have been to have told him, sorted out their financial affairs and left him. I raised my glass to Gradai as the Allstars finished their song and she smiled and waved with her ring-encrusted hand. Rings paid for by Ronnie, I was sure.

I got an en email from Ronnie a few days later. He was divorcing Gradai, and she’d told him he could have sole custody of the boy. She, of course, was keeping sole custody of the cabaret and the half-built house. I got an email from Cindee, too. She was divorcing Alan, and thanked me for my help. I emailed her back, explaining that Alan was only blowing off steam, that the girls meant nothing to him, that she might think about giving him another chance, but I never heard back from her.

I don’t know what happened to the cabaret, but I’m still waiting to see Gradai and the Isaan Allstars in the Top Ten. I’m not exactly holding my breath.

THE CASE OF THE BARGIRL WHO TRIED

Like I said before, the bread and butter work of a Thai private eye is checking up on bargirls. The typical client is a middle-aged guy who’s come to Thailand, met the love of his life dancing around a silver pole, and then got back home. Back in the real world he phones his new-found love every day, starts to send her money so that she won’t have to sell her body, and starts to dream about bringing her back to his country and living happily ever after. The typical bargirl is from Isarn, dark-skinned and snub nosed, probably has a tattoo or two, a few scars from a motorcycle accident, and stretch marks from the kid she’s left in the care of her parents upcountry. Oh yeah, and a Thai boyfriend or husband hidden away and helping her to spend her ill-gotten gains.

Usually what happens is that something starts to nag at the guy. Maybe the girl keeps asking for money, maybe her phone gets switched off late at night, maybe he hears a man’s voice in the background. Or maybe he just visits one of the many websites that details all the pitfalls in a bargirl–farang relationship. That’s when the guy gets in touch with me. The email or phone call follows a standard pattern. The guy met the girl in a bar, she hated the work and was just waiting for a white knight to rescue her. ‘She’s not a regular bargirl,’ is something I always hear. ‘She’s different.’

At that point part of me wants to say that they’re all the same, that they are all just hookers hooking, and that the best way to see if a bargirl is lying is to check if her lips are moving. Rule number one in the private-eye game: If a bargirl’s lips are moving, she’s lying. Rule number two: If a bargirl’s lips aren’t moving, she’s preparing her next lie. But I don’t tell the client that, of course. I tell them how much I charge and I give them the number of my bank account and then once the money’s been transferred I go through the motions.

Do marriages between bargirls and expats ever work? I’ve known of a few, but success stories are as rare as hen’s teeth. I don’t understand why anyone thinks they are going to meet the love of their life in what is effectively a brothel. The girls are selling sex, not love. They rarely, if ever, confuse the two, but lots of guys don’t seem to understand that there is a difference. Still, if everyone knew the score there’d be a lot less work for the likes of me, so I’m not complaining.

Anyway, when Damien called me from Australia, there was nothing he told me that I hadn’t heard before. He’d just got back to Melbourne from yet another holiday in the Land of Smiles and he needed help on two fronts. He had a regular Thai girlfriend, a former pole dancer of course, and he wanted help getting her a visa so that she could visit him in Australia, and he wanted to check that she was on the straight and narrow. In my experience, the only thing straight and narrow about a bargirl is the pole they dance around, but I bit my tongue and had a long chat with him.

First thing I told him was that I couldn’t do anything to speed up his visa application. I’m not saying there aren’t ways and means of greasing things at the Australian Embassy, but I don’t have those sort of contacts and even if I did I’d use them very sparingly because bribing embassy officials is a quick way to end up behind bars.

The Australian Embassy, and the British and United States embassies for that matter, take their time issuing visas, especially to young girls with no steady job, no pay slips, no land or money in the bank. A visa could take as much as six months before it was approved, and that was always good for business because during those six months the boyfriend would be fretting in his country while the girl was sitting in Thailand having to ask him for more and more to support herself, and her family. A lot of bargirls are simply rejected for visas. Hardly surprising when a lot of them turn up for their embassy interview wearing a low cut top, tight jeans, and sporting a tattoo of a scorpion on their shoulder.

Damien didn’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. He was in his mid forties and Ann was twenty-two. That always sets alarm bells ringing for me. A twenty-year age gap is huge even when you’re dealing with a couple from the same culture. But when the guy is effectively a sex tourist and the girl is a hooker half his age, well, it’s hardly a match made in heaven, is it? Anyway, he told me that Ann had been a star dancer at Hollywood Strip but that he had helped set her up with her own business, selling clothes on the street around the corner from Nana Plaza. He’d gone upcountry and met her family in Saraburi and had agreed to pay a small sin sot. Ann had been to the embassy for a preliminary interview but they hadn’t been satisfied with the evidence she’d provided. According to Damien she was finding the hours long and the work hard and that she wasn’t making much of a return on the business. She’d told Damien that he’d have to start sending her money or she’d go back to the Hollywood Strip. It was the usual scenario for a farang far from Thailand, caught between a rock and a hard place. If he didn’t send money, the girl would doubt his intentions. If he did send her cash, he’d start to wonder if she was just after his money.

I told Damien that I could definitely run a check on her, and that would at least put his mind at rest. Plus, if I didn’t find anything, that boded well for her visa eventually coming through. He wired me a retainer and emailed me her details and a couple of photographs and I got down to business. Ann was a looker, long hair, long legs, curvy figure, very kissable lips. I was sure she’d have made a small fortune dancing and hooking in Nana Plaza.

I ran the basic checks. She’d never been married and she didn’t have any children. She was living alone in a small studio flat in Soi 22, the same place she’d had when she was dancing. Ann’s stall was on the corner of Sukhumvit and Soi 7. She only had her pitch from 9pm onwards and had to wait for the daytime vendors to pack up and go before she could set up shop. Thai laws says that you cannot sell on the public footpath, and to make that point Wednesdays are generally declared ‘no sell’ days but during the rest of the week the day vendors basically pay the local cops for the right to set up shop. Once the day vendor leaves, another vendor can take his place, providing a small fee is paid. That’s the arrangement Ann had, and I reckoned she had a good spot with lots of passing traffic. She was selling cheap T-shirts and sundresses and I found myself a seat in an airconditioned bar in Soi 7 from where I could keep an eye on her.

Sales were slow on the three nights I watched her. She worked from 9pm until 3am and I reckoned she was doing well if she took in 1,000 baht a night, which would be less than she’d have been paid for an hour’s short-time when she was hooking. The 1,000 baht was turnover, of course. Her profit would be between 300 and 400 baht. Fairly decent money for a Thai, about the same as a schoolteacher or office worker would get, but a fraction of what a pole-dancer would pull in. I saw her chatting to a couple of Thai guys who were selling an assortment of flick knives, samurai swords and knuckle-dusters but there didn’t seem to be anything untoward going on and she always went home alone. On the first day I put on a baseball cap and sunglasses and walked by her pitch, bought a T-shirt from her and flirted with her in my very best Thai. I made her laugh but she wouldn’t give me her phone number and wouldn’t agree to see me for a drink.

I phoned Damien and told him that Ann was being a good girl and that he had nothing to worry about on that score. He asked me to approach her and tell her that I was a friend of his and that I would help her with her visa application. We agreed a fee and the next day I went to see her. I read through all the correspondence from the embassy and it was clear that they weren’t convinced that she had gone legit, so I decided to beef up her application. I took her to Bo-Bey market where she bought her stock and I collected some receipts and took photographs of her at work. I went with her to her bank and got copies of her statements showing that Damien was sending her money and that she was putting cash in herself. I got her to give me photographs that had been taken when Damien had met her family. I figured we had a pretty good package, and we sent that in to the embassy. A month later Damien phoned me to say that the embassy had turned her down and that Ann had taken it badly.

I went around to her place in Soi 22 and found her in tears. She’d ‘forgotten’ to tell Damien that she’d made a previous application for a tourist visa with another Australian guy acting as a sponsor. That’s a definite red flag so far as the embassy is concerned. It suggests that the girl isn’t particular about who gets her into the country.

Ann wasn’t just upset, she was as mad as hell. In true Thai style she said that Australia and everyone in it could go screw themselves. Frankly, as a New Zealander myself, I could sympathise with the sentiment. Anyway, she’d go back to work in Hollywood Strip and find herself a man from a country that would allow her to visit. And that was that. She finished with Damien, sold her business and went back to hooking, and over the next few months I saw her several times leaving Nana Plaza on the arm of one overweight German or another. I gather that Damien flew back to beg her to reconsider but that she refused point blank. He’d had his chance and he’d blown it. He kept calling me asking if I could help, but there was nothing I could do. I felt sorry for him, and for her. I think he loved her, and she was certainly prepared to give up the bar scene and work hard at a real job so that she could be with him. If it hadn’t been for the embassy playing hardball, I really think they might have made it work.

Anyway, from then on she wouldn’t even look at a guy from Australia, no matter how much money he had. I heard that she hooked a rich German and she now lives with him in Bonn in a huge house and is pregnant with her second child. All’s well that ends well, I suppose. Except for Damien, of course. But hey, even a Thai private eye can’t win them all.