Confessions of a Bangkok Private Eye: True Stories From the Case Files of Warren Olson (16 page)

I spoke in English. One of the girls asked the other ‘
Mem you kup Ning chai mai
?’ which let me know that she was staying with someone called Ning.

I put on my helpful face and suggested that Mem had mentioned that she might be staying with her good friend Miss Ning but that I didn’t have her address. Two minutes later I had the name of the apartment block Mem was staying at, in Thai and English, with a hand-drawn map thrown in for good measure.

According to the shop girls, Mem was staying with her friend Ning, who’d just had a baby. The apartment building was a fifteen-minute walk from the opticians. It was a tidy, middle-class type of block and I figured a small apartment there would probably cost 4,000 baht or so a month, about what Miss Mem would earn as a salesgirl.

I found the office and asked the middle-aged Thai Chinese manageress if Ning or Mem were in. She wanted to know what room so I played the idiot tourist and said that my friend Gary had left Thailand suddenly with some money to give Mem. Mentioning money to landlords is a sure-fire way of getting their help. If their tenants have got money, the rent is going to be paid, and the one thing that keeps a landlord sweet is rent money paid on time. She picked up a phone, buzzed a room, then handed me the receiver. It was Ning, and I heard a baby crying in the background. The manageress was out of earshot so I switched back into embassy official mode and told Ning that I had some papers for Mem to sign. Ning said that Mem had gone back to her home in Khon Kaen for a week but that she would come down and see me.

She was a plain girl and looked worn out, and the baby she had cradled in her arm wouldn’t stop crying. I asked Ning if she knew whether or not Mem still wanted to go to the US and Ning shrugged and said that she didn’t think she did. I decided to change my story and said that I didn’t actually work for the embassy, but for a visa service that handled visa applications for various countries.

‘Like Switzerland?’ asked Ning. ‘I want to go to Switzerland.’

It turned out that the father of Ning’s baby was Swiss and he had told her it was next to impossible to get a visa for Switzerland. That’s not true, which made me think that perhaps Mr Swiss had a wife back in the land of cuckoo clocks and chocolate, but I put on my happy face and promised her that I’d send around the necessary Swiss forms. Ning said that Mem would probably want the Swiss forms too, as she was seeing a friend of Mr Swiss and that he was paying for her to go to school and was planning to marry her. ‘Mem finish Mr Gary,’ said Ning. ‘He butterfly too much.’

‘So she won’t want to see Mr Gary again?’

Ning shook her head. ‘She happy now,’ she said. ‘Her boyfriend good guy. Good heart.’ Good heart generally means generous with money. Over-generous.

I wondered if Gary knew that he’d been kicked into touch in favour of a more reliable sponsor. I guessed that he didn’t, but that his wife would take great pleasure in telling him, probably at the exact moment she served him with divorce papers.

So that was that. I went to an Internet café and sent off three emails. Mission accomplished. Three cases, three fees, three sets of expenses, all in one day. A private eye can’t ask for much more. And I had the rest of the evening to enjoy myself at the expense of my clients. All three of them.

THE CASE OF THE MAGIC FINGERS

The Thais, it has to be said, are not great inventors. There are no Thai-designed cars or planes, or electronics, or computer programs. They are famous for two things, really. A spicy soup called tom yam gung, and the body massage. And, truth be told, they didn’t actually invent either. Until the Chinese moved into Thailand, all Thai cuisine was dry. Meat, seafood, vegetables, rice, all of the above, but no soup. And massage, well that came from India. But the Thais are great at taking someone else’s invention and putting a Thai spin on it. There’s no soup in Chinese cuisine that comes close to tom yam gung. And the Thai body massage is the closest thing you can get to sexual nirvana.

There are massage parlours all over Thailand. Most of them cater to a Thai clientele, but there are many, especially in Bangkok and Pattaya, that are geared for Westerners. I’ve never understood why any self-respecting man would fall for a massage parlour girl. They’re really only one step up from the girls who work in the blowjob bars. A go-go dancer can choose who she sleeps with. She always has the option of saying no. And I’ve known two go-go dancers who never went with customers. They were both married and had kids, and earned enough money from dancing and lady drinks, to support themselves and their families. They didn’t go with customers, period. But massage parlour girls don’t get to choose their customers. They sit in ranks with numbered badges and customers look at them through a window. Literally, a goldfish bowl. The guys decide who they want, their numbers are called, and the girls take them along to a room for a soapy massage and sex. The girls don’t have a choice. And they have sex at least once a day, often as many as three or four times, whereas go-go dancers might only go with a customer a few times a week.

I’ve always understood the attraction of go-go dancers. Over the years I’ve probably sampled the delights of several hundred pole-dancers, and every now and again I’d even think about settling down with one. But I’ve never even entertained the idea of settling down with a massage parlour girl. A massage girl who’s been in the business for a year has probably had sex with more than a thousand guys. A thousand random guys. Fat guys. Thin guys. Good-looking guys. Ugly guys. Black guys. White guys. Healthy guys. Sick guys. I wouldn’t be able to look at her in the morning without thinking of all the guys who’d been there before me.

Not all massage girls are prostitutes, of course. All over Thailand there are places offering therapeutic massage, and the girls who work there wouldn’t dream of doing anything in the least bit naughty. Derek, an Australian based in Dubai, who had built up an import–export company and was a frequent visitor to the Land of Smiles, had fallen for the charms of a foot massage girl. He’d met Wanna at a ‘Reflex’ massage outlet, a fairly reputable chain around Thailand, where the girls are all well trained, and as far as I know, stick to the basic straight massage. And at Wanna’s salon, foot massages took place on the ground floor by the window so there was no chance of anything naughty going on.

Wanna hadn’t been an easy conquest. He’d courted her for six months before she agreed to go back with him to his hotel, and even then she didn’t have sex with him. They’d since become lovers, and now he was preparing to take the next step—marriage. When he was back in Dubai she sent him text messages every day and he was sure that she was a ‘good’ girl, he just wanted me to make sure. He emailed me a photograph and she seemed like a good sort. Mid-twenties, long hair, cute button nose, sexy smile. I could see the attraction. Derek had asked her to stop work but she said that she preferred to support herself, which was a good sign. But he sent her a monthly allowance and showered her with expensive gifts, which was a bad sign.

I told him I’d need a three-day retainer. For that I’d check that she went straight home after work and that she didn’t have a boyfriend or husband waiting for her, I’d check that she arrived at work on her own, and then I’d get a massage from her and check that ‘extras’ weren’t on the menu. Derek sent the money through to my bank and I was on the case. Early indications were that Derek had got a decent girl. She left work at ten o’clock each night, ate some Thai food on the street with her workmates, then caught a bus to her studio flat in Sukhumvit 71. She lived there alone, and every morning caught the bus to her place of work. After three days of following her to and from work, I went in and asked for a massage from Miss Wanna. I told the cashier that Wanna had been recommended by a friend, and that I wanted a full body massage. I was shown upstairs to a small cubicle where I swapped my T-shirt and jeans for white wraparound baggy pants and jacket. Miss Wanna came in, looking professional in black trousers and a green polo shirt with the name of the company on the pocket. Up close she didn’t look as attractive as her photo. That’s par for the course in Thailand. Most photographic studios run their portraits through Photoshop, lightening skin, wiping out wrinkles and reducing fat, and they had certainly done the business with Wanna’s photograph. She was a bit better looking than the average therapeutic massage girl, though, and had a fair enough figure.

I lay down on the massage table while she went to work on me. She had strong fingers and knew what she was doing. In between grunts and groans I chatted away in Thai. I started by telling her that I had a sore back because I’d been driving my wife and daughter to Nong Khai and back, and it was easy to go from there to asking her about her family.

She told me that she had a four-year-old son—something that Derek wasn’t aware of—and that he was being cared for by her parents in Sisaket. Her Thai husband had run off when the baby was born and hadn’t been heard of since. She had to work to support her son and her parents and she made a reasonably good living doing massage. The boss of the shop gave her half of the fee, plus she got to keep all the tips. Most of the customers were farangs, and generally farangs are better tippers than Thais, she said.

It was easy to start chatting about farangs, and I suggested that she wouldn’t have a problem finding a Westerner to take care of her. She laughed. I asked her if she had any special farang friends and she said that there was an American that she liked but there was no mention of an Australian and certainly no mention of Derek. As we got towards the end of the massage I asked her if there were any extras on the menu and she just laughed and suggested I try one of the soapy massage parlours. ‘They have girls there that can take care of you,’ she said, ‘I am sorry but I cannot.’ Fair enough, I thought.

After an hour of pinching and pummelling I tipped her handsomely and went home. I emailed a report to Derek, saying that she wasn’t going with customers, and was doing nothing more than regular therapeutic massages. I pointed out that she had a son, and that she hadn’t mentioned him.

He emailed me back within minutes so he must have been online. He asked me if I was sure. He phoned her every day and she always said that she loved him. She sent him several texts a day proclaiming her love. Derek suggested that perhaps I’d got the wrong girl so he wanted me to go back and get another massage and for me to tape the conversation. He offered to pay me another day’s retainer. I figured he was throwing good money after bad, and I was aching so much after the first massage that I was tempted to pass, but my rent was due so I told him to transfer the money and I’d go back the following day.

A good night’s sleep had actually made my muscles ache even more but a promise was a promise so that afternoon I turned up at the massage place and asked for another rub down from Miss Wanna. She was surprised to see me lying on the table in my baggy jacket and pants, but I told her that she’d done such a good job on my back that I’d come back for round two. What she didn’t know was that I’d put a tape recorder in the pocket of my jeans that were hanging on a peg by the end of the table.

I had arranged with Derek to send her a text while she was working on me. I chatted away, wincing as her fingers bit into my aching muscles. After twenty minutes of torture, her mobile phone beeped. She seemed happy enough to ignore it, but I said that she should see who it was as it might be a ‘special’ farang. She laughed and checked her phone.

She read the text and I asked her again if it was from her ‘special’ farang. She shook her head and said that she was still waiting to meet someone special.

‘So who was that from?’ I asked.

‘An Australian guy,’ she said. ‘He texts me all the time.’

‘What does he say?’ I asked. ‘Does he say he loves you?’

‘Sure,’ she said.

‘And what about you?’ I asked. ‘Do you say you love him?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘He is a nice man. I don’t want to make him sad and he bought me this gold bracelet.’ She held up her right arm and showed me an expensive bracelet on her wrist. ‘He gives me money, too. All the time. I say “I love you” very loudly, but then I add very quietly “the same as I love my father”. Which is the truth.’

I felt a bit sorry for Derek then, because no guy wants to hear the love of his life saying that she loves him the same as a father. He hadn’t told me how old he was but I figured he was probably in his fifties. To be honest, that’s one of the major reasons that Thai–farang relationships end in tears. The guys are generally much older than the girls they fall for, and in a way it serves them right. Does any fifty year old guy really believe that a twenty-five-year old is going to think that he is God’s gift to women? It’s about money and security, which is what ninety per cent of Thai women want. They want someone to take care of them and their families. And if they have to tell the odd white lie to get that money and security, then they will.

Anyway, I had what I wanted on tape. Wanna went back to kneading my back and by the end of the hour I was in agony. I showered and dressed and limped home. I sent the cassette tape to Derek in Dubai and never heard from him again.

Wanna was a nice enough girl, and genuine in her way. She wanted enough money to build a house for herself and her boy in Sisaket, and maybe one day she would find a man that she would love. But Derek wasn’t that man, and he’d just have to accept that. The beauty of Thailand is that there are plenty more fish in the sea. The drawback, of course, is that there are a fair amount of sharks, too.

The next day, I got another email from a guy in Canada who’d also fallen for the charms of a massage girl. Rick had met Vee in a traditional Thai massage place of Sukhumvit Road while he was on holiday six months earlier. He’d fallen for her hard and had been back twice since. Miss Vee was twenty-nine and had never been married and from the picture he sent me she had the most amazing pair of breasts. I could see the attraction. On his last trip he’d offered to support Vee and told her that she could stop work. He’d started to send her money, but wanted me to check that she was keeping to her end of the deal. I thought he was crazy. In fact, I think anyone who offers to support a girl that he’s met on holiday needs his head examining. I reckon there must be something in the water in Thailand that makes farangs act irrationally. Would a Canadian go to America on holiday and pay a waitress to stop work? Would he hell. Anyway, I wasn’t being paid to tell Rick that he was crazy. He wanted to pay me to check up on the lovely Miss Vee and I was more than happy to take his money. Normally I’d be right on the case, but the problem was that the last two massages courtesy of Miss Wanna had left me aching all over and I really couldn’t face another.

I phoned the parlour where Miss Vee worked and confirmed that they did hotel visits, which is usually a sign that there’s more than just regular massages going on. I asked if Miss Vee was available and was told she was. I said I’d call back to confirm a booking. I headed for Gulliver’s in Soi 5, one of my regular watering holes. The barmaid pulled my bottle of Jack Daniels off the shelf as soon as she saw me walk in. It was early afternoon but I needed something to kill the pain. I looked around and smiled when I saw that my timing was perfect. Sitting on the far side of the bar was ‘Aussie’ Andy, a former helicopter pilot from Brisbane. I asked him if he had a couple of hours to kill which was a pointless question because he was retired and did little more than hang around bars and pick up attractive women. I said I’d pay for the hotel room and the massage. He wanted the Oriental but I told him he’d have to settle for the Miami Hotel in Soi 13 which would only cost 500 baht and which was just around the corner from Miss Vee’s place of work.

I took Aussie Andy around to the hotel, booked him in, then called the parlour and arranged for Miss Vee. The fee would be 300 baht for a one-hour massage, I was told, payable in advance. Then I headed back to Gulliver’s. I wished I was as sure of the next Grand National winner as I was of Miss Vee asking for more money for ‘extras’.

I’d had four JDs and my aches and pains were starting to go when Aussie Andy came back, smelling of soap and looking like the cat that had got the cream. Miss Vee wasn’t a bad sort, he said, considering she was thirty-eight. He’d checked her ID while she was in the toilet, which I thought was using his initiative. It showed that she’d been lying about her age and from my experience if a girl lies about one thing then you can’t believe a word she says. Anyway, Miss Vee hadn’t been in the room for two minutes before she was offering him a ‘special’ massage for an extra 2,000 baht.

Andy played it straight and handed over the 300 baht that he said was the agreed fee. She phoned the agency and said that she’d been paid, then she started giving him the massage. A lot of baby oil was used, and she spent most of her time concentrating on his nether regions before telling him that he could have a ‘special’ massage for 1,500 baht.

Andy gritted his teeth and said that he was happy with a regular massage. She poured on more oil, then asked him to roll onto his back. The price of a ‘special’ massage dropped to 1,000 baht. Andy declined, but then her top came off and more oil got poured and Andy said he’d be willing to go an extra 500. They agreed to split the difference and settled for 800 baht. I handed him the money and he bought me a drink. Miss Vee had performed admirably, he said, and her magnificent breasts were most definitely the real thing.