Final Answers (24 page)

“When?” Kate asks impatiently.

“Within the hour.”

Kate and I exchange exasperated looks.

The clerk gives the bellman the key and instructs him to retrieve our bags from the double room. He fetches a cart and heads off toward the elevators.

We head back toward the bar.

We’ve gone a few steps when the vulnerable feelings intensify and another chill goes through me. I’m flashing back again. Back to the Nam. Back to where you never knew who the enemy was. Where the gentle village girl who did your wash one day, sent it back booby-trapped the next. I haven’t felt like this in twenty years. I can’t get it out of my head. It’s really bothering me.

“What is it?” Kate prompts, sensing my uneasiness.

“I don’t know. Something isn’t right.”

“
Mai pen rai,”
she says.

“What?”

“It’s an old Thai expression. Loosely translated it means, ‘These things happen.’ Look at the bright side of it, at least they still have a couple of singles.”

“That’s not what I meant. I’ve got this really strange feeling. I used to get it when I was on patrol in Vietnam. It’s sort of like a sixth sense. A lot of us developed it after a while. Especially the guys who made it back. It was as if you could almost smell danger.”

“Danger?”

“Yes, danger,” I reply sharply, suddenly caught up in the throes of a vivid, frightening flashback about booby traps. About the laundry girl. About climbing fences instead of going through gates.
About going through windows instead of doors. I make a one-eighty and hurry back to the check-in desk.

Kate hurries after me baffled.

“Where’s the bellman?” I ask the clerk.

“The bellman?” he echoes, as if I’m speaking Swahili.

“Yes, the guy who went to get our bags.”

“Ah, I imagine you’re referring to the porter. He’s on his way to the room, sir.”

“The wrong room?”

He misunderstands and stiffens indignantly. “Yes, sir. Again, I’m very sorry for the inconvenience. Is there something you require from your luggage?”

“No. No, you have to stop him.”

“Stop him, sir?”

“Yes, now. You have to stop him now.”

“Really, sir,” he says, put off by my attitude.

“Can’t you beep him or something?”

“No, I’m afraid not, sir.”

I whirl and run to the elevators. One of the floor indicators is on 16. The other is moving slowly toward 3, where it stops.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Kate asks, bewildered, as she catches up.

“What room did he say?”

“Five twenty-seven, I think. Why?”

I run to the staircase that’s off to one side of the elevators and start climbing. It winds upward around the shaft. I’m taking the steps two, three at a time. I can hear Kate behind me trying to keep up. Then I hear the click of the motor as the elevator starts. It ascends slowly to four, and stops. Now, I can hear the doors rolling open, then voices, and the sounds of people exiting. There’s a long pause before it closes and starts ascending again toward five. The motor’s whirring. I’m climbing like crazy, humping up the stairs.

I finally stumble onto the fifth floor landing and push through the fire door into the corridor. The elevator doors are rumbling open. I come around the comer. It’s gone. They weren’t opening. They were closing. I dash past it, rounding the next corner.

The bellman is already down the end of a long corridor with his cart. He’s reached the room and is putting the key into the lock.

“Wait! Wait, come here,” I call out.

He waves at me genially. “Yes, sir. One moment. I’ll be right with you.”

“No! Wait!” I start running down the corridor as he opens the door and pushes the empty baggage cart into the room. “Wait!!”

“What is it? What’s the matter,” Kate asks, hurrying after me.

“No, Kate! No, stay back!” I shout over my shoulder without breaking stride. “Stay back!”

A thunderous explosion erupts inside the room.

It blows the door to bits and sends a shock wave and blast of heat down the corridor, followed by a roaring fireball.

I instinctively wrap my arms around Kate, shielding her as we tumble to the floor.

Flaming pieces of luggage and clothing, neckties, brassieres, a sports jacket, a can of deodorant, a hair dryer, computer parts, and body parts are all blown out the doorway into the corridor. They sail through the air, landing on the floor around us in incendiary heaps.

Kate is staring in horror at a blood-spattered wall. Thick black smoke comes billowing down the corridor. We get to our feet and make our way back to the staircase. I pull a fire alarm as we hurry through the door and begin clambering down the stairs with other guests. We reach the landing adjacent to the lobby. The place is in a frenzy. Guests and staff are hurrying in every direction, spurred on by the clanging alarm. We avoid the lobby and continue to the basement, past the hotel kitchen and laundry toward an illuminated exit sign at the far end of the corridor. A set of double doors opens onto an exterior staircase, which we climb to street level.

Dusk has fallen.

The wail of sirens rises in the distance.

We hurry down a darkened alley behind the hotel, past dozens of overflowing trash pails, into the street. Suddenly bursts of yellow and red light begin strobing across the buildings up ahead. A Metropolitan Police minibus, emergency flasher whirling atop its roof, takes a corner at high speed and roars past us. A fire engine is close behind.

“Where are we going?” Kate asks, gasping for breath.

“I don’t know. Someplace where we can hide out for a while.”

“I used to stay in this little hotel over on—”

“I’d rather pick one at random.”

“There’s a lot of small hotels and guest houses over by the train station. I used to live near there.”

“That sounds more like it.”

We’ve gone several blocks before I pause and look back at the Oriental. Smoke is spiraling high into the night sky from a window that is engulfed in flames.

“Bastard,” I say under my breath.

“What?”

“That clerk. He gave us a room that faced the back.”

A
crooked neon sign flickers
SOI
12
HOTEL.

It floats in the darkness deep in this knot of narrow alleys, one of the few areas in the city where the
sois
are numbered, not named.

“How about that one?” Kate wonders.

“Sold,” I say numbly.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” she says as we approach the entrance, “Maybe a double’s not such a bad idea.”

“Sure,” I say knowingly. “I think I’d feel more secure that way too.”

For almost an hour, we’ve been walking through back alleys where light comes in thin shafts from an occasional window. Now, miles from the teeming tourist and business centers, we’re in the Hua Lamphong district, an area adjacent to the main railway station just off Charu Muang Road where Kate used to live.

We enter the Soi 12’s tiny lobby to find a lone clerk behind the desk reading a newspaper. He looks up and smiles, revealing blackened teeth. When Kate addresses him in Thai, he bows slightly, offers her a pen, and gestures to his register.

“Let’s talk about this,” I whisper, smiling at the clerk as I direct Kate aside. “Maybe you should tell him we’ll pay extra if we don’t have to do that.”

She shakes her head no emphatically.

“Why not?”

“He’ll know something’s going on and sell the information to
the police,” she whispers tensely. “He will. Take my word for it. I know this city.”

“Okay, make up some names.”

“What if he asks to see our passports?”

She’s right. They always ask for them; and, sure enough, when she returns to the desk to fill in the data, that’s exactly what he does.

We pay cash for one night and climb a narrow staircase to the third floor. The room is immaculate and neat. It has twin beds, a small window that overlooks the alleys and rooftops, and not much else. There’s no phone. The bathroom is down the hall.

I’m exhausted. I could sleep for a week. I fall onto one of the beds.

Kate sits on the edge of the other. The impact of what happened seems to have just hit her and hit her hard. All of a sudden, she’s actually aware of just how close we came to being blown to bits. That’s how it always was in-country. The realization came after a fire fight, not during it. Men who’d fought bravely, with no concern for their own safety, were often traumatized afterward when they realized how close they’d come to death, or what they’d done to their fellow man to avoid it.

“Better if you don’t think about it,” I counsel.

Kate’s lips tighten into a thin line as she nods.

“Besides, you have a decision to make.”

Her eyes widen curiously.

“I mean, you should be thinking about whether or not you want to continue this partnership.”

She shrugs and splays her hands ambivalently.

“I’m the one involved in this drug thing. I’m the target. They have no reason to hurt you.”

“Do they know that?” she asks in a fragile voice.

“Maybe not, now that you mention it.”

A long silence follows.

Kate is staring off thoughtfully, a question forming in her eyes. “I’m confused about something.”

“What’s that?”

“Why did we run?”

“Why?”

She nods.

“I didn’t think it would be wise to get involved with the police.”

“Why not? We didn’t do anything.”

“For one thing, after Vegas and L.A., I’ve had my fill of cops. For another, I’m concerned about what the clerk might’ve told them. I mean, it was pretty obvious I thought something was about to happen. From his point of view, I’d say I knew something was about to happen. I’d rather not have to deal with that right now.”

“You could explain.”

“No. Even assuming the cops believe it, assuming they’re not corrupt and up to their asses in this, they could still declare us undesirables and put us on the next flight home.”

She nods resignedly, then glances at her watch and goes down the hall to the bathroom.

I’m propped up against the headboard, watching the pink and green neon flicker across the ceiling and listening to the sounds coming from the street: the din of traffic, rock music, bursts of tonal conversation and laughter. I keep seeing Carla’s blank expression, and wondering about Surigao. Is he dead too? Is it over? Maybe I should be on the next flight out of here. It’d probably be the best thing for Kate. But I’ll never know why Nancy died if I leave. Even if Surigao is dead, there’s still Ajacier. I’ve no doubt he’s the one who’s behind it all. He has the answers. He knows I why Nancy died. And I know where to find him. My mind drifts. I I’m thinking about Nancy. She’s playing the piano for me when Kate returns.

“I have to go,” she announces, her voice a little stronger now.

I can’t blame her. I’m a definite liability. A shortcut to a severely shortened lifespan. I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “I think you made the right decision.”

Her eyes soften with friendly affection. “That’s not what I meant. I have to meet Vann Nath.”

“Oh! I forgot all about that.”

“I want to ask you something. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“After all this, I’m feeling a little—well, I mean, you think maybe I could borrow your pistol? You know, take it with me?”

The fear in her eyes stops me for a moment. “I’m sorry Kate, it’s gone.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yeah, I lost it at the street market. As they say, we’re traveling light.”

She nods glumly. “Tell me about it.” She pulls at her blouse, reminding me that our luggage, along with our toiletries, personal items, clothing, laptop, and statistics were all destroyed. We have nothing but the clothes on our backs and our wits; and I’m not so sure about the latter.

“I wouldn’t mind a shave and change of underwear myself. But we’ve got to get our hands on some firepower, first. And I’m not talking .25-caliber toys. I wonder if that guy downstairs has a phone book?”

“What for?”

“To look up the nearest gun shop or sporting goods store.”

Kate shakes her head and smiles indulgently. “There’s something you have to understand about Bangkok. You can buy everything here from knockoffs of Gucci bags to teenage sex slaves. But not guns.”

“You mean, legally.”

“Of course.”

“Well, you lived here. You must know somebody in the black market, or a connection who could put us onto someone who has a friend who has another friend who knows someone who—”

“Vann Nath might.” She pauses briefly, working up to something. “I was sort of hoping you’d offer to come with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with asking, you know?”

“I think I just did.”

“Where is this nightclub?”

“Patpong Road. Where else?” she replies brightly, clearly relieved she won’t be going alone.

“Never heard of the place.”

“Come on! It’s where a half-million GIs went to get laid. You’re not going to tell me you went sight-seeing.”

“I went to Saigon and Manila,” I explain, getting to my feet with an exhausted groan. You have an international driver’s license?”

She shakes her head no.

“Damn. Me neither.”

“Why?”

“Can’t rent a car in this town without one.”

“‘Yes, I know. But there’s no need to. We can—”

“I don’t like depending on taxis. I’d rather have a car. Come and go as I please.”

“Who said anything about taxis?”

“Then what?”

“Are you finished, Morgan?”

“I have a feeling I’d better be.”

Kate leads the way downstairs, taking us on a brisk walk though local streets to a gas station where dozens of motor scooters are neatly aligned.

“I would imagine,” I say sheepishly, “One doesn’t need an international driver’s license to—”

“Nope. I used to rent them here all the time,” she interrupts, heading toward the rental office. “The only way to travel in Bangkok.”

A few minutes later, she emerges and crosses to one of the scooters. It’s a top-of-the-line maroon Honda, with a curved windscreen and elongated seat that extends atop the rear tire housing. She swings a leg over the scooter, rocks it off the kickstand, and stabs the key into the ignition, starting the engine.

“Put your feet on those pegs, grab the handles on either side of your butt, and hang on,” Kate orders as I climb on behind her.

As soon as I’m settled she pops the clutch, and the scooter zips down the alley into the darkness. The harsh chatter of the engine echoes loudly off the buildings as she accelerates and snakes through the maze of
sois.
The sound, the movement, the cool air blowing in my face combine to give me a second wind. I’m twisting around to make sure we’re not being followed when Kate takes a turn and catches me leaning the wrong way.

“Hey?! Lean into it,” she shouts over her shoulder, fighting to keep the scooter on line. She stops at the next corner, reaches back and pulls my arms around her waist. “Lean into it with me.”

We make our way south along Rama IV Road toward the nightclub district. In the distance, the glow of neon turns the mist hovering above the Patpong rooftops into an ethereal rainbow. This is the heart of Bangkok’s legendary nightlife, where the pleasures are carnal and the promises written in light:
Massage, Massage, Massage, Fire Cat Disco, Soul Kiss A-Go-Go, The Flesh Pot, Massage, Massage, Massage.
The signs shout in a montage of flashing, chasing, and blinking graphics that turn night into day with acerbic brilliance.

Kate skillfully maneuvers the scooter between the tourists and businessmen who meander through the streets and pulls up to a nightclub.

Above the entrance, in sync with the throbbing disco beat blaring
from within, the word
Lolita
pulsates in blue-green neon, while a pair of lush, brilliant red lips part sensuously, revealing a fuchsia tongue that licks a heart-shaped lollipop.

Inside, in the center of a massive room, young Thai women, very young as the sign promises, dance in mirrored cages surrounded by patrons gyrating to the driving music. Laser beams and blinding strobes pierce the infinite blackness overhead. Windows circle the room. These are really one-way mirrors through which more young women, with numbers affixed to their skimpy bikinis, can be seen posing seductively. Hostesses snake through the crowd, deftly balancing their trays and taking orders for drinks and “dates.” We spot Vann Nath at a table away from the center of the action.

“Is he here yet?” Kate wonders anxiously as we join him.

Vann Nath nods. “He lives upstairs. His name is Pha Thi.” He waves over a hostess, wraps a twenty-baht note around one of his business cards, and whispers some instructions before sending her off with it. Moments later she reappears and gestures we follow her. She leads the way through the club and up a flight of stairs. As we approach the landing, I detect a chemical odor, but I can’t place it.

She ushers us into a loft that serves as Pha Thi’s apartment and studio. The walls are papered with photo blowups of Asian girls in provocative poses. At the moment, his camera and attention are focused on a nude model who vanishes in a blinding explosion of light as we enter. By the time the spots are gone from my eyes, she’s slipped into a robe and is hurrying off to a dressing room.

Pha Thi is a diminutive man with spiky jet black hair, faded jeans, T-shirt, and clogs. He sets his camera aside, presses his palms together, and bows slightly, then introduces his wife and children, who appear from their living quarters. The oldest, a girl in her teens, possesses striking beauty.

Kate says something to him in Thai.

Pha Thi responds with a puzzled smile.

Vann Nath explains he’s a Meo. Though indigenous to Laos, this mountain tribe has its own language. It’s akin to Tibetan, not Lao or Thai, which are dialects of the same language and mutually intelligible. “I told him you said he has a lovely family. He thanks you. He said he is very proud his daughter will soon be old enough to dance in the nightclub.”

“How nice,” Kate says, forcing a smile.

Formalities dispensed with, Vann Nath gets down to business. The two men converse briefly in Meo. Money changes hands. Finally Vann Nath turns to Kate and says, “He claims your husband was captured alive.”

Kate’s eyes brighten with hope. “Is he sure?”

Another brief exchange follows. “He says he was present at the time. He has proof.”

Pha Thi nods several times in confirmation and smiles expectantly.

Vann Nath produces more cash, but holds on to it this time. Payment is contingent on whether or not the alleged proof is forthcoming.

Pha Thi goes to a row of battered file cabinets, rifles through a stuffed drawer, and returns with a black and white photograph. Stripped to the waist, hands tied behind his back, face unshaven and drawn from exhaustion, eyes pained and defiant, Captain John Ackerman stands in a jungle clearing, towering over his gloating Pathet Lao captors.

Kate gasps and looks away.

Vann Nath nods solemnly and deposits the cash in Pha Thi’s palm.

I squeeze Kate’s arm supportively. “Does he know what happened to Captain Ackerman after that?”

Pha Thi shakes his head no when he hears the translation, but his eyes seem to suggest otherwise.

“He knows, doesn’t he?” Kate observes.

“He’s probably holding out for more money.”

Vann Nath nods and takes Pha Thi to task over the matter. But it’s obvious from the tiny photographer’s reaction that his reluctance isn’t born of greed, but of compassion. When he finally gives in, what he says upsets Vann Nath, who turns to us and says, “He claims the officer in charge of the patrol that captured Captain Ackerman sold him to a farm collective.”

“Sold him?” Kate echoes in an anguished wail.

Vann Nath nods grimly.

“To a bunch of farmers?” I exclaim, incensed. “Why would they do that?”

“He isn’t sure. But he thinks it was because so many of the oxen and water buffalo they used to plough their fields and pull their wagons were killed in the bombing raids. Considering the circumstances at the time, I wouldn’t put it past them to have bought
POWs to replace their animals. Especially American pilots, whom they held responsible.”