Vulture Peak (18 page)

“Really?”

“Would I lie? Want to see the blisters on my feet? I nearly died of heatstroke about five thousand times. My expenses for bottled water alone will tell you what I’ve been through.”

“Okay, okay, I get the picture. So, did you talk to any of the shareholders?”

“Depends what you mean by
talk
. There was only one actually living where he was supposed to live, and he was eighty-five years old, almost blind, and so deaf I got laryngitis from shouting at him.”

“But he’s the real thing, a shareholder in the Vulture Peak mansion?”

“Oh, yes, no doubt about it. He remembers signing his name and having his ID card photocopied—and that’s as far as it goes. He’s never been to Phuket in his life and has no idea he’s worth maybe thirty million baht. And of course I didn’t tell him, you know, just in case something goes wrong. I wouldn’t want to get his hopes up, an old man like that. I felt so
sorry
for him and jealous as hell at the same time. Imagine, a multimillionaire, and he’s living in a shack with no water or electricity.”

“But who put him up to it? He told you that?”

“All he knows is someone came to see him one day and said they were an agent for a rich man who wanted to buy a mansion and they would give him twenty thousand baht if he signed a contract first, then another sixty thousand once the formalities had been finalized, on condition he kept his mouth shut. And he didn’t have to do anything, not even leave his shack. So was he going to say
no
, a lonely old man starving to death? He couldn’t believe his luck. He still hasn’t spent all the money they gave him, says he can live on it for another year at least.”

“When did this happen?”

“Just before the last official sale of the property.”

“Can we trace the agent he’s talking about?”

“Of course not, darling. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

“Anonymity?”

“My, you’re quick today!”

“But the agent, was he Bangkok—did he speak to the old man in Isaan or in Standard Thai?” Lek scratches his chin. “You didn’t ask?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Lek?”

“Well, I didn’t need to. Like I say, the old guy is nearly deaf, lived in Isaan all his life. I wouldn’t expect he’d understand anything
except
Isaan.”

“One of the documents he signed must have been a power of attorney.”

“Right.”

“So why was no power of attorney attached to the entry in the registry?”

“Want me to go and see that little tart of a clerk?”

“All the way back to Phuket?”

Lek taps his nose. “Not necessarily.” I let a couple of beats pass and wait. When Lek is pleased with himself, he can’t hold out for long. He sighs. “Well, I couldn’t believe a little civil servant
ratlet
like that could afford the operation when I can’t.”

“You were jealous?”

“As hell, if you want to know. Anyway, I made inquiries.”

“On the
katoey
network? And?”

“Just as I thought—he has a sponsor. A
farang
who hangs out in Pattaya. The tart flies up to be with him every weekend.”

“You have the address?”

“How much do you love me?”

“For Buddha’s sake.”

“Well, you haven’t been at all affectionate ever since you went to Dubai.”

It’s my turn to sigh. “I’ll buy you lunch at Ma Ka’s.”

“Really? When?”

“Now. We’ll eat, then get a cab down to Pattaya, check out the
farang.
”

“But it’s not the weekend—the clerk will be in Phuket.”

“That might not matter.”

Lek raises his eyes. “Master, I’m so glad you’re fully recovered, and I do hope you won’t be abusing drugs again for a day or so. Please remember my career is inextricably bound up with yours.”

“Any more sarcasm, and I’m not buying you lunch.”

The difference between Bangkok and Pattaya, which is about an hour’s drive down the coast, is quite simple from the tourist perspective: Bangkok has many industries, Pattaya only one. As a consequence, the mayor has persuaded the authorities to bend the rules somewhat. Whereas in Bangkok some attempt is made to keep the sex industry under control and restricted to certain well-known areas, in Pattaya it proclaims itself from the rooftops—or, more accurately, the neon.

When we reach the coast road the blatant bars compete for lurid attention: the Cock and Pussy, the Quickie, and one with no name but a sign on which a balding
farang
with huge beer gut and tufts of ginger hair is having congress with a shapely Thai girl, doggy style. Nor is the entertainment restricted to the conservative end of the sexual spectrum who still, quaintly, do it nature’s way; the gay and the
katoey
market is so large, it occupies subdistricts in which an old-fashioned heterosexual lech may well feel unwelcome and out of date. Is it permissible for me to confess that boys for sale in underpants standing on stages fills me with a particular sadness that I don’t feel in the case of tough girls happy to be in the business of manipulating a force of nature? (Sorry, DFR, but IMHO political correctness is soft fascism, and I’ll have nothing to do with it.) I’m not in the best of moods when we stroll down the pedestrianized high street to a couple of lanes dedicated to transsexuals. I feel Lek’s excitement to be in a burg dedicated to his own kind.

“Oh my, look at the money on
that
job!” he says of a platinum
blonde with blouse-bursting breasts, silicone-enhanced buttocks, and cupid-bow lips leaning against a wall outside a bar named Love. “And to think he was just a humble farmhand humping rice up in Isaan only months ago.”

“How d’you know?”

“Statistics, darling, statistics. I wonder how much cocaine
his
sponsor sold to pay for
that.”

This is Lek’s moment, and I let him lead. He has counseled that rather than surprise the clerk’s
farang
sugar daddy in his lair immediately, we would do well to make preliminary inquiries. Although the
katoey
market occupies many streets, long-term players tend to hang out in this particular cul-de-sac, which in comparison to the rest of the town appears restrained, even discreet.

Lek is fascinated by the platinum blonde, whether out of sexual attraction or an interest in the surgical investment is hard to say. He leads to the Love bar and gives him/her a friendly
wai
as we enter. It is early in the evening, and only a few
katoeys
are lounging among the tables and chairs. One of them rouses himself to cross the floor in a Marilyn Monroe walk to slip behind the bar.

Lek already knows the stage name of the clerk at the land registry in Phuket.

“Sally-O?” the
katoey
behind the bar says, and makes an exaggerated pout that includes placing an index finger along one side of his cheek and inclining his head while furrowing his brow. “Well, I
do
happen to know
one
Sally-O.”

“Well, how many Sally-O’s are there, for Buddha’s sake?” Lek says.

“There’s no need to have a tantrum, darling. Names come and go with the fashion. About six months ago every
second girl
was calling herself Sally-O—now you hardly hear it at all. Postsurgery names these days tend to be more
international
. Mon Amour is top of the pops, but Japanese Monicas are all the rage too.”

“He’s a government clerk in Phuket in his day job,” Lek says, and describes the clerk. The
katoey
raises his eyes. I reach for my wallet and take out a five-hundred-baht note. The
katoey
sneers. I take out another five hundred but keep my finger on both notes after I place them on the bar. The
katoey
sighs. “I might be wrong, but the person
you describe could be the Sally-O who is a regular at the Spank Me bar three doors down.” He picks up the thousand baht and retreats to the far end of the bar, on which he leans in a way that showcases his implants.

Despite its name, the Spank Me bar is a no-frills place where the
katoeys
are dressed in jeans and T-shirts—enviably slim, with flat stomachs and breast sizes under control—and sport real smiles. The manager is also a
katoey
, but of the brisk business-minded kind. The bar is designed to make long-term players feel relaxed and part of a family. He guesses immediately that we are cops and sees the wisdom of cooperating.

“Sally-O? Sure, she comes in with her husband most weekends. When they’re not on his yacht, that is.”

“Yacht?”

“He keeps it at the Phuket Yacht Club. He used to be a keen sailor, but after his illness he sold the sailboat and bought some kind of floating champagne palace.”

He takes in our incomprehension. “You do know who he is, don’t you?” Lek and I shake our heads.

“Used to be quite famous, a third-division pop star, part of the wallpaper in the seventies, sold the fifties retro stuff, you know, Elvis-style glitter with silver pants that split and padded shoulders. Couldn’t sing to save his life, but kids went for the glitter.”

“Rich?”

The
katoey
thinks about it. “Hard to say. To me he’s rich, but he was never top of the league—or the pops. And he had a lot of trouble with his health. Booze, drugs, dirty needles—he had a problem when he first started coming in here. He would drink and drink until he fell over. Then he disappeared for a few months, and when he returned, he looked like death. Liver failing badly. Then he got himself a transplant. Now he doesn’t drink anything except fruit juice. You have to admire his dedication. It’s all fear, of course. He was about as close to death as you can get and still breathe. He looks rough most of the time, but at least he can walk and talk. Sally-O is his long-term companion. I think they stay on his boat together a lot of the time, but they still need the bright lights.”

“A transplant?” I say.

“Right. A transplant. All on the black market, of course, no questions asked—otherwise he would have gone back to England to have it done officially, wouldn’t he?”

I let the strange coincidence sink in. “You don’t happen to know who arranged the transplant for him?”

The
katoey
smiles. “All I can tell you is, it didn’t happen here.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know where the operation took place, but I know he paid a few visits to Hong Kong, and one night he came in here with some kind of Chinese princess—I mean the real thing, money all over her, HiSo manners. Nice woman, knew how to charm, but way out of our league—out of his league too. I guess even aristocracy have to make a living these days.”

“Was she tall, willowy, elegant with long hands?”

He laughs. “Exactly. All of those things.”

“Did she speak Thai, by any chance?”

“Intermediate Thai with a strong accent, perfect English, and I heard her on the phone talking in Chinese.”

“What is the name of the pop star?”

“Freddie Monroe. Named after that Hollywood woman, I suppose, the one who slept with John Kennedy—or was it the other one she slept with?”

“Would you happen to have his cell phone number?”

“Sure—so long as you don’t tell him you got it from me. We survive here by discretion.”

He takes out his own cell phone, presses some buttons and reads off the number while I plug it into my own. I think I’ve driven him as hard as I can, considering he is not a suspect and does not need to answer questions from a Bangkok cop when he surely pays protection to the local force. I chance just one more.

“This clerk, is he the usual run of
katoey
, d’you think?”

He frowns in contemplation. “There is no usual run of
katoey,
” the
katoey
says with a kind of sadness. “For thousands of years young men have been volunteering for castration as a way out. To discover what kind of
katoey
you’re dealing with, you have to find out what demon
they’re running from. Maybe they
do
want to be women, maybe they’re simply gays looking for a higher profile. Sometimes it’s pure money—modifying the body to please the customers. But most of the time it’s a case of building a fantasy life until it’s realer than the mundane. Taking control over your own identity right down to gender itself. Above all,
katoeys
are fantasists.”

“Did Sally-O nurse a particular fantasy that you know of?”

“Sure. She thought she was the reincarnation of a fifteenth-century Chinese eunuch. Apparently there was a famous one who went to sea, but I’m not strong on history.”

The mind tells you it has seen that mug a million times before, but it has to work at reconstructing it without the deep furrows, loose jowls, dreadful grayness of flesh, and yellow eyes that indicate a serious liver problem and remind one of death. Although he was no Beatle or Rolling Stone, nevertheless for a long fifteen minutes Freddie Monroe was once part of your internal wallpaper. In his younger form he leered and screamed at you from a billion TV sets; you have seen him on talk shows stoned and mumbling about his life and times; and once or twice you have seen him in police custody after a bust, although he always managed to avoid a prison sentence. He was never the serious artist, but he knew enough to forget to shave before every performance, grow his hair even longer than anyone else’s, and wiggle his loins in that unambiguous way that even girls in their early teens understand.

He agreed to see us at his midrange apartment in a gated community on a hill a mile or so outside of Pattaya; it’s not on the sea but gives a fair view of the Gulf of Thailand and the paragliders that crowd the air during most of the year. He walks with the aid of a walker, and there is a wheelchair in one corner of the room. There is nothing wrong with his legs, but any kind of physical exertion strains a fragile system and makes him breathless.

The flat is unexpectedly modest, with only a few memento pix of
yesteryear in silver frames on a side table: Freddie Monroe wowing crowds of drug-addled kids; Freddie Monroe marching from gig to gig, carrying his guitar like a battle-ax; Freddie Monroe at a garden party thrown by the queen of England. There is also a strange oil painting on a wall, which I want to ask about when I find the opportunity.