The Thai Amulet (23 page)

It was a busy night in Bangkok, and after dinner we got stuck in traffic that barely crawled along. At some point we found ourselves in what I suppose might euphemistically be called an entertainment district, all flashing neon and crowded sidewalks.

“This is Pat Pong, as you’ve no doubt already surmised,” David said.

“Stop the car,” I said.

“That shouldn’t be difficult. We’re barely moving.”

“Pull over,” I said.

“Are you going to be sick or something?”

“We have to find a parking spot.”

“A parking spot!” he exclaimed. “Here? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I’m getting out,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

“Lara!” David exclaimed. “Where are you going?”

“I’m coming, too,” Jennifer said. “Wherever it is we’re going.”

“Hold it! You’re not going anywhere without me,” Ferguson said. “Just give me a minute to park. Now what is this all about?” he grumbled a few minutes later, as we abandoned the car in an alley. I pointed to a bright neon sign on top of one of the buildings and the arrow that pointed down the street.

“You have a sudden urge to go to something called the Pink Pussy Kat Klub?”

“PPKK,” I said. “We’re going to have a chat with Mr. Prasit, the assistant manager.”

“Okay, here we go.” Ferguson sighed. “Hold on to your wallets. There are pickpockets everywhere.”

The Pat Pong may be tame now, compared to its heyday, when American servicemen fighting in Vietnam went there for a little R and R. But it was still racy enough for me. Neon signs flash out Kiss Me Club, Dream Boys, and Super Pussy. VIP-service rooms to rent on a short-term basis are advertised everywhere. There’s a massage parlor every few yards. In the midst of all this, there’s a night market the locals disdain for its cheap merchandise and high prices, and for something of a contrast, a few well-known fast-food and coffee chains.

At night most people come for the alcohol and titillation, not for the burgers. From the
soi,
it is easy to see inside to the table dancers, young and not so young men and women scantily clad, gyrating to the loud and persistent music.

Outside are the hustlers, trying to lure you in. Sometimes these are men with suggestive photos of what is inside. In other cases there are women in long, formal gowns, with numbers pinned to their dresses, shouting at unaccompanied men to get their attention.

The Pink Pussy Kat Klub was, if anything, among the worst. Outside, very young Thai girls were dressed in school uniforms, of all things, with oxfords and kneesocks, navy pleated skirts and ties, white shirts, and blazers. In keeping with the theme, the kneesocks and blazers were pink. I felt a pang as they reminded me of Bent Rowland’s Parichat, and indeed maybe she’d been one of them until Rowland took her away, at least temporarily, from it all. Inside, the music was so loud I could feel it in my bones, and flashing strobes made me dizzy. The place smelled of stale booze, perspiration, and cheap perfume. Rather lithe young women in extremely brief bikinis, pink, it perhaps goes without saying, were contorting themselves into positions middle-aged women like me can’t even think about without hurting ourselves. I yelled my question about where to find the assistant manager to David, who in turn shouted in Thai to the bartender, who waved us in the direction of the back. We pushed our way through a throng of men, mostly white, overweight, and badly dressed, who were sweating from heat and excitement, as young Thai women pressed themselves against them. It was, in a word, revolting.

“Yuck,” Jennifer said.

Being in this place made me think of Rob, Rob the policeman, that is. He’d have had the place closed down in ten minutes. We passed a particularly young girl—she couldn’t possibly have been more than twelve—sitting on the lap of an overweight American in a Hawaiian shirt who was fondling her as she murmured, “You my darling,” or words to that effect.
Make that five minutes,
I thought. Rob would have been absolutely horrified.

Mr. Prasit’s office was at the top of the dark stairway. He shared it with another young man. The room had a small window on the inside, presumably so that he could keep an eye on the goings-on downstairs, a small desk, and a computer. His job, I could see, was to keep the accounts. Even up there, the noise was painful and the heat almost unbearable. He looked surprised to see us.

“My name is Lara McClintoch, and these are my friends Jennifer and David Ferguson,” I said. “I’m here at the request of Natalie Beauchamp, Mr. William’s wife. I am hoping you can spare a few minutes to talk to me, and perhaps have something for me to take back to Mrs. Natalie.”

“Not here,” he said, looking terribly embarrassed, which I would have been, too, if I’d been him, dressed in his bright pink shirt in such a place. “Please to follow me.” He spoke in Thai to the other resident of the office, who nodded. We made our way out the back—I was happy not to have to press my way through the throng in the bar again—and down an alley that I wouldn’t want to be in alone. A block or two away from the hubbub we mounted a staircase to a second-floor flat. Prasit’s apartment was tiny and smelled of cooking from the restaurant below. He shared it with his wife, Sarigarn, who was out at work at that time, he told us, his mother, and two children of about five and two. I found it hard to reconcile his home and his job, and apparently he did, too.

“You will please not to mention my children about my job, okay?” he had said just before we went in.

“Okay,” we agreed in unison.

“Please sit,” he said. “My mother bring tea. Cannot rest here so long. Must go to club very soon. I have for Mrs. Natalie package. Please wait here.”

He disappeared into another room as his mother poured tea into chipped cups—David had to stand because there weren’t enough seats—and reappeared a minute or two later with a large package wrapped in brown paper. “Sorry not send Mrs. Natalie. Very expensive for mailing. I am for saving money to send it.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll make sure she gets it.” But not without opening it first. “How do you know Mr. William?” I asked.

Prasit pondered the question. “I think one year,” he said.

“Why don’t I translate?” David said. “It’ll go faster.” The two spoke for a moment or two, while I smiled at Prasit’s mother and his two kids.

“Prasit’s wife works for a cleaning company that has the contract for the building Fairfield Antiques is in,” David said finally. “She works at night. During the time Will had the antique business, Mr. Prasit had a day job, and he would take his wife there so they could have a little more time together. Mr. William would talk to him while he waited for her to finish up. He says Mr. William was very kind and gave his wife extra money for special cleaning, and also helped to get him medicine for his mother, who has what I think is arthritis. Occasionally Will came to the Pink Pussy Kat Klub, but I gather from Prasit he was not a regular and only stopped by for a drink. He says he thinks Will was a bit lonely and wanted to talk. He also practiced his Thai on Prasit, and Prasit did the same with English.”

“Can you ask him when he saw Mr. William last?”

“I already did. He saw him early in July. Same time as just about everybody else. It was about that time that he got the night job, so he didn’t take his wife in anymore. She went in and cleaned for several weeks without seeing Will, but that was not necessarily unusual. She only saw him when he worked late. He had often left by the time she got there. Finally, of course, the landlord came, and the store was closed.”

“And how did he get this stuff of Will’s? The envelope with the clippings and this big package.”

Ferguson and Prasit spoke for a minute or two. “He says Will gave it to him shortly before the last time he saw him. He said Will just told him if he didn’t see him for awhile he was to send it to Natalie. He feels badly, I think, that he took so long to send it. He said that he didn’t realize at first that Will wasn’t coming back. His wife didn’t say much, and when the store was closed down, he realized he had to send the stuff. He knew where Will lived. I gather his wife made extra money from time to time doing some special cleaning there, and he knew there was a Mrs. Praneet next door with a key, and so he checked for Will there. He says he has to go back now, or he’ll lose his job. I think we should let him go. I’ll give him my card, and if he thinks of anything else, I’ll ask him to call me.”

Jennifer was rather silent the rest of the way back, especially as we sank into the back of the Chaiwong limousine. “You’re thinking about the conditions under which Mr. Prasit and his family live,” I said.

“I am,” she said. “It is quite a contrast to Ayutthaya, isn’t it? I suppose I have trouble reconciling the two, but I can see why Chat thinks things could be better for people here. What is it, do you think?” she said, changing the subject and pointing to my package.

“We’ll have to wait and see,” I said.

I knew what the package contained, but I didn’t open it until I was back in my room at the Chaiwongs. I didn’t want the driver to see it. After Yutai’s conversation with the security guard, I decided I didn’t trust any of them. It was the painting, of course, the one by Robert Fitzgerald that had hung in Will’s bedroom. I unwrapped it carefully and stood it up against the back of a chair.

A young woman stood there staring straight at me. She was in her mid- to late twenties, with dark hair and pale, flawless skin, dressed in a celery green suit and white blouse. She was standing behind a small table on which was placed, to her right, a stone head of Buddha. Her left hand seemed to be reaching for the Buddha, although she wasn’t looking at it; the right hand was at her side. She was very beautiful, but there was, indeed, a touch of defiance in her gray eyes, as Robert Fitzgerald had said. Behind her was a mirror in which could be seen, only faintly, a dark shadow.

“She’s lovely,” Jennifer said. “Who is she?”

“Her name is Helen Ford, and it’s a long story, not necessarily a lovely one. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll look forward to that. It’s late. I think I’ll just leave Chat to sleep. I won’t wake him. He’ll feel better in the morning. I’ll show you the you-know-what then, too,” she added, pointing at her ring finger. I watched her go down the hall, wondering whether I should tell her about Fatty. I decided I’d see how I felt in the morning.

Chapter 11

It is a solemn but also a joyous occasion when one is admitted to the monkhood. Once across the river, Yot Fa was carried on the shoulders of two courtiers to the Khok Phraya Monastery, to the sound of drums and gongs, and accompanied by his friends, including me. There the head abbot directed the young king to kneel, and after prayers, cut a lock of the young man’s hair. Then his head and eyebrows were shaved, he was undressed and wrapped in the simple robe of the monk, then water was poured over him to wash away the world. As I watched him rub his bare head and smile, I thought how both prince and poor man were alike, somehow, in the robe of the monk. Like the others, Yot Fa would go out at dawn to beg for food, would spend his days in contemplation and prayer. It was an unsettling experience for me. As I looked at him, I felt the world shift beneath my feet. “You can join me as a monk,” he said to me, but I could see nothing but my beloved’s face and turned back to the city. It was a terrible mistake.

One night, shortly after Yot Fa had entered the monastery, I awoke from a terrible dream. I heard footsteps running, and a courtier was soon shaking me. “Come,” he said. “Quickly. The young king asks for you.” The man was shaking so much he could hardly speak.

It was a long trip across the river in the dark, to Khbk Phraya. The courtier would tell me nothing. Part of me thought the young king was just being, well, kingly, and wanted his friend with him. The other trembled at the thought that something terrible had happened. By the time I had arrived, however, I had persuaded myself it was the former and was annoyed with the young man for not having the fortitude for the monastic life and for disturbing my sleep.

A monk met me at the gates of the temple. “I fear you are too late,” he said. I did not comprehend what he was saying, did not do so, until I entered the tiny cell where the Prince slept. He was dead, his face and body contorted, still, in agony. On the floor beside the humble cot a wooden cup lay empty. The monk who had greeted me picked it up and sniffed it. “Poison,” he said. I fled.

By morning, Chat was dead.

What I remember most is the wrenching cry of pain from Jennifer when she found him, not so much a scream as a primitive groan of grief. It will stay with me forever, even more than the sight of his body, curled up like a baby, except for the head that was thrown back in a horrible grimace of agony.

I also remember Wongvipa, standing over the body of her dead son, looking from him to Yutai, who stood in the doorway. On her face was an expression of what? Surprise? Complicity? I couldn’t tell. I tried to comfort Jennifer, but the words wouldn’t come.

“She’s asleep now,” Praneet said. She looked exhausted, but more than that, older, as if she’d aged overnight. Maybe she had. Maybe we all had. “I have given her something. She shouldn’t wake for at least eight or ten hours. I’m so sorry,” she said, touching my shoulder. “Try to remember she’s young, she’s resilient. She’ll get over this eventually. Have you called her father?”

I nodded.

“Would you like me to give you something to help you sleep as well?”

“No,” I said. “I want to feel every bit of this. I want it to hurt very much. This is my fault. It happened because I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No, please, Lara,” she said. “Don’t do this to yourself. As painful as it may be to realize this, Chat took street drugs. I know you liked him, Lara,” she said. “We all did. And you want to think the best of him. But he took recreational drugs. Crystal meth, ice. It is horribly addictive. If Jennifer didn’t notice, how could you?”

“He doesn’t do drugs,” I said. “Jennifer said so. I don’t care what you say, she would know. I’m sure he thought he was taking painkillers.” Inside my head a voice was screaming and screaming and wouldn’t stop. Somebody had killed Chat. I knew it was Yutai, maybe with the tacit approval of Chat’s mother. Yes, I was accusing Wongvipa of the worst crime a woman could commit, that of killing her child. Worse still, I knew I would never be able to prove it.