I went back to Gradai’s Cabaret and Beer as the sun was going down. There was a young guy doing some half-hearted tidying up so I spun him a story about wanting to arrange a birthday party for my Thai wife and he gave me Miss Gradai’s mobile number. She lived in a posh apartment in nearby Jomtien with her partner, he said. A Thai policeman. It wasn’t looking good for Ronnie.
I phoned the number and Miss Gradai answered. I used bad Thai and it soon became apparent that Miss Gradai spoke perfect English so we switched to that. I stuck to my party story. I told her that I was in Jomtien and she agreed to meet me in a hotel lobby. I drove there as quickly as I could and was in the lobby when she arrived. She was in her late thirties and had obviously spent some of her husband’s hard-earned money on a nose job and bigger breasts and she was well dressed in a Versace shirt and Gucci jeans with Raybans propped up on her head. She shook my hand with a hand that was festooned with glittering rings. She was chatty and within a few minutes had told me that she was married to an Englishman, but that he was always busy and that he didn’t understand her. She was a singer, she said, and had just opened the cabaret and bar. Business was slow, she told me, but she expected it to pick up soon. Her band, the Isaan Allstars, would soon be household names, she said. As we started talking about my fictitious girlfriend’s party, her top-of-the-range Nokia mobile rang. She put her hand over the phone but I could hear enough to work out that she was talking to her Thai boyfriend.
‘Your husband?’ I said, when she’d finished the call.
‘My boyfriend,’ she said.
‘Oh, is he in the band?’
She shook her head. ‘No, he’s a policeman here in Jomtien. But he likes to sing.’
I made a provisional booking for the Cabaret and gave her a pay-as-you-go mobile number that I was planning to dump in a few days. I promised that I’d drop by the place that night and drove back to the Penthouse. I parked, then popped into an internet cafe and emailed photographs of the Cabaret and the unfinished house to Ronnie, along with an initial report. I didn’t like breaking bad news, but that was what I was paid for. And it was better that he learnt the truth sooner rather than later. Gradai was bleeding him dry, with a Thai boyfriend to boot. I knew that Ronnie’s options were limited: the Thai legal system isn’t farang-friendly and the fact that the guy she was sleeping with was a Pattaya cop meant that Ronnie would have to tread carefully if he didn’t want to end up with a plastic bag over his head or at the bottom of a local high-rise.
I showered and shaved and changed into clean clothes, feeling pretty damn pleased with myself. I’d nailed both jobs in record time. I switched on the television and flicked through the channels. Inane game shows, boring chat shows, soap operas with giggling girls and foppish boys, the usual Thai fare. I stopped at the closed circuit view of the Kitten Club. Alan was sitting at the bar, his head in his hands. His mate was standing next to him, patting him on the back. I figured that Cindee had obviously been on him and given him an earful. I suddenly didn’t feel so happy about what I’d done. I’d done what I’d been paid to do, no question of that. And I’d been professional. But Alan was just doing what guys the whole world did and I felt bad for him. I just hoped that Cindee would make do with making him feel like shit for a few weeks and that she didn’t set Singaporean lawyers on him. I thought about going downstairs and buying him a few beers but there was an outside chance that he might figure out who’d sent the photographs to his wife so I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and I sneaked out for a few JD and Cokes at a bar overlooking the cesspool that passes for a sea. Having my thighs stroked by a long-haired beauty and being told that I’m a ‘hansum man’ always does wonders for my self-esteem.
At just after ten I wandered down to Gradai’s Cabaret. I already had all the information I needed, but Ronnie had paid me for three days so I figured that the least I could do was to see what the Isaan Allstars were like in full swing. The place was half-empty, or half-full depending on your point of view. The clientele seemed to be solely working class Thais drinking Chang beer or cheap whiskey. The cabaret was a couple of old comedians doing a slapstick routine that wasn’t funny in any language, and there seemed to be more waitresses and bar staff than there were paying customers. I doubted it would stay in business for more than a few months. It was only Ronnie’s money that was keeping it going.
Gradai and the Allstars came on stage just before midnight. She was wearing a too-tight red sequinned dress that showed off her silicon breasts, and far too much make-up. The Allstars were in denim and wore cowboy hats and were actually quite good. Gradai was terrible, though, and any dreams she had of making it to the big time were just that: dreams. At one point she said she’d take requests from the audience. I thought of asking her if she could play ‘Over The Hills And Far Away’ but figured she wouldn’t get the joke. I asked if they’d sing my favourite country tune, ‘Hua Jai Kradart’ about a man who complains that Thai women treat his heart like paper, screw it up and toss it out when they have used it.
It got a huge round of applause from the staff, but I don’t think that Gradai got the significance of the song. That was pretty much how she’d used Ronnie. Taken his money, lied to him, all but abandoned her kid. That’s no way for a woman to behave. I understand it when bargirls lie and steal and cheat. That’s their job. And their instinct. But Gradai was Ronnie’s wife and the mother of their child. There was no need for her to lie and steal. If she’d wanted out of the marriage the honourable thing would have been to have told him, sorted out their financial affairs and left him. I raised my glass to Gradai as the Allstars finished their song and she smiled and waved with her ring-encrusted hand. Rings paid for by Ronnie, I was sure.
I got an en email from Ronnie a few days later. He was divorcing Gradai, and she’d told him he could have sole custody of the boy. She, of course, was keeping sole custody of the cabaret and the half-built house. I got an email from Cindee, too. She was divorcing Alan, and thanked me for my help. I emailed her back, explaining that Alan was only blowing off steam, that the girls meant nothing to him, that she might think about giving him another chance, but I never heard back from her.
I don’t know what happened to the cabaret, but I’m still waiting to see Gradai and the Isaan Allstars in the Top Ten. I’m not exactly holding my breath.
THE CASE OF THE BARGIRL WHO TRIED
Like I said before, the bread and butter work of a Thai private eye is checking up on bargirls. The typical client is a middle-aged guy who’s come to Thailand, met the love of his life dancing around a silver pole, and then got back home. Back in the real world he phones his new-found love every day, starts to send her money so that she won’t have to sell her body, and starts to dream about bringing her back to his country and living happily ever after. The typical bargirl is from Isarn, dark-skinned and snub nosed, probably has a tattoo or two, a few scars from a motorcycle accident, and stretch marks from the kid she’s left in the care of her parents upcountry. Oh yeah, and a Thai boyfriend or husband hidden away and helping her to spend her ill-gotten gains.
Usually what happens is that something starts to nag at the guy. Maybe the girl keeps asking for money, maybe her phone gets switched off late at night, maybe he hears a man’s voice in the background. Or maybe he just visits one of the many websites that details all the pitfalls in a bargirl-farang relationship. That’s when the guy gets in touch with me. The email or phone call follows a standard pattern. The guy met the girl in a bar, she hated the work and was just waiting for a white knight to rescue her. ‘She’s not a regular bargirl,’ is something I always hear. ‘She’s different.’