John Burdett - Bangkok Haunts

"See that whore from Nong Kai? Her name is Sonja-she works at Rawhide. I've been trying to persuade her to work for us, but she's happy where she is. You know how they are."

"Friends are everything. If she has plenty at Rawhide, she'll never come work for us. How can you blame her? They're as lost as farang in Bangkok-even more so, since they don't have any money."

"Well, she certainly seems to have her customer under control. She's giving him the marry-me treatment. Look, she's brought her family down from Isaan to meet him."

"Must be serious," I agree.

A big muscular Australian in walking shorts, long white socks, and sandals, in his fifties with a gigantic beer gut, is bringing his plate back to where the girl, her mother, and a few other relations, who are probably siblings or cousins, plus a boy about five years old, have occupied the table next to us.

"That's her son by a Thai lover," Nong explains in a whisper.

The Australian tries to make conversation with the family who are keen to adopt him, but his true love is enjoying speaking her native tongue, a dialect of Laotian, and cannot resist gossiping with her family. Every now and then she casts the Australian a warm, comforting smile, presses his thigh with one hand, and says a few words to him in English, then returns with renewed enthusiasm to the gossip. The Australian perhaps does not realize it, but his future in-laws are behaving exactly as if they were at home in their wood house on stilts and sitting barefoot on the floor nattering, probably with the TV on at full volume and a dozen kids beating one another up in the background. Nong understands Laotian better than I do and has started to grin. When the FBI comes back with a plate of oysters for Chanya, my mother enthusiastically explains in English for Kimberley's benefit:

"Her aunt just asked what color the farang's dick is, and her mother wants to know how they do it when he has that huge gut. The girl's explaining that his dick is white most of the time, but after sex it turns bright pink. She says she asks him to take her from behind except on special occasions, because when he gets on top his flab kind of splodges all over her stomach like a ton of Jell-O and she gets indigestion in the middle of boom-boom. Anyway, it's not usually an issue because most nights he's too drunk and falls asleep on the sofa while she watches TV in bed. It has the makings of a successful marriage."

While Nong is talking, the family bursts into raucous laughter. The FBI looks down at her oysters. "Is this, like, normal suppertime conversation?"

Chanya, Nong, and I share grins. "We are mostly peasants, children of the earth," I explain. We all keep our heads down when the Australian starts to speak.

"I wouldn't mind knowing what you and your family are talking about, Sonja," he says to his girlfriend with just a touch of chagrin. She has no idea about Western etiquette so decides to tell him straight, word for word, in good but somewhat wooden English. He turns pale for a moment, finishes his beer, and orders another. I admire his power of recuperation, though, when he says, "You're gonna do just great in Queensland, Sonja, just great. Ever seen a dwarf-throwing competition?" He explains the sport to Sonja, who has a bright gleam in her eye when she translates into Laotian. The family listen with big eyes, then bombard her with a dozen questions about dwarf-throwing, which she translates into English. Do the dwarfs get paid? How much? How short do you have to be? My aunt's older brother is only four feet ten, does that qualify? Can you gamble on it? Can throwing dwarfs get visas easily? Her family had been quite bored with him, but now they are warming. Delighted that he finally has a topic that interests them-he had tried income tax, the world economy, standard of living, his new Toyota four-by-four, his giant refrigerator, health care and life insurance, the Middle East, et cetera, without much response-he launches into plain tales of the outback, including 'roo-baiting and yarns about man-eating crocs and the lurid wounds inflicted by blue-ringed octopus and box jellyfish. Suddenly he's a hit, and they have decided to welcome him into their hearts. "You're half Isaan already," the girl tells him. Beaming, he downs his beer in one gulp and orders another. Thailand's not so different from Queensland after all.

I stand up to fetch more seafood. Oysters, prawns, and shrimp sit in trays under an ice sculpture of a seahorse. Elsewhere in the middle of the huge room Chinese, Thai, Italian, French, Middle Eastern, and Japanese cuisine is piled high around a vast circular island. Standing near me are delegates to some convention with large name tags clipped over their hearts and Best Behavior software controlling their facial expressions. In their hygienic anonymity they form a quite distinct tribe, prompting me to ponder that perhaps Bangkok is located on some cosmic intersection where visitors from different galaxies mingle but never communicate. As I reach our table with a plate piled high with sushi and prawns, the FBI returns with ice cream for Chanya. She is fascinated by her, almost like a lover. I cannot take my mind off the case for long, though, and by coincidence (of course it's not really coincidence, it's cosmic intervention), just as I'm thinking about Damrong, my cell phone rings.

"I can't say for sure, but I might have something," Lek says. "There might be more than one copy of the DVD."

I have to disguise my relief that the case might be moving again. "I'm so sorry," I say to the table at large, "I'm going to have to dash."

When I take out my wallet to pay in advance, Nong makes me put it away, saying she'll charge the bill to the Old Man's Club as business entertainment. I check the FBI's face to see how she likes benefiting from the profits of prostitution, but she's enjoying the food too much to make the connection.

Out in the street I use the Skytrain bridge to walk across the road, then take the escalator down to the new subway at Asok. It's been open only a couple of years and still has a brand-new feel about it. I get out at Klong Toey, where Lek is waiting.

"You'll never believe this," Lek says, excited and cautious at the same time, "and it may be a long shot, but there's a rumor going around the clubs about a snuff movie with a masked man and a Thai whore. I tracked the story down to a katoey who's famous all over Soi Four for having a HiSo lover."

The shantytown at Klong Toey is our biggest and in many ways our tidiest. Most of the huts are of similar size and height and the narrow walkways are kept riap roy, or spic and span, in true Thai style. There's plenty of extreme squalor, of course, if you want to look for it, but generally people are getting on with their lives in near rent-free accommodations, which can be handy if you want to do a course in higher education, are a professional girl nearing the end of her shelf life, prefer recreational drugs to reality, or just plain hate work. Lek has been here before and takes me down a path that follows the railway track, with the endless line of wooden huts on our right: scratching dogs, shy cats, naked kids getting bathed in oil drums, teens with orange and green hair, families eating together in the cool of evening. "He's an artist," Lek explains. "That's why the HiSo master likes him. I came to a party here once. Actually, he's totally ban-nok, worse than me, but he has this creative streak, so he gets these upmarket lovers." Ban-nok translates roughly as "country bumpkin" but is a lot more insulting. We stop at a front door that bears a magnificent dragon in scarlet on black. "See what I mean?" There's a playful element in the rampant posture, the feminized, elongated claws, the malicious grin.

"It's very well done," I say, which makes Lek beam with pride at katoey talent. He knocks on the door. "Pi-Oon, it's me, Lek." No answer, so Lek knocks harder. "He likes to smoke ganja, all artists do. Never touches anything else, not even alcohol most of the time, but he can go into a dope-trance for days." Embarrassed in front of me, he knocks more aggressively, then, muttering Fucking katoey bitch, fishes out his cell phone. He speaks into it using his Isaan dialect based on Khmer, sounding much like a whore in a temper. "I told him I was bringing you," he says, folding the phone and putting it away. "Now he's all shit-faced from the ganja." Then he offers me a pained smile. "He'll open up in a minute. He has to get back from the moon."