They left the money in the safe, though. And I kept smiling.
The police woman looked into everything, opened everything, and pulled everything inside out. She did the bedroom last. I held my breath when she took hold of my overnight bag—that was where I'd put the methadone. Still smiling, I watched her Lift everything out, piece by piece. Johnson's Baby Shampoo. Birth control pills. She laid them on the bedside table. Her hand closed on the unlabeled bottle of methadone. She placed it on the table next to the shampoo. It stared at me from across the room. But she didn't notice it.
Hadn't they come specifically for heroin or methadone? Didn't they know what methadone looked like? The yellow liquid seemed the brightest thing in the room. To me, it glowed like a slice of sun, and everything seemed to point in its direction. But she didn't see it.
They found nothing illegal.
Three hours after the police arrived, they left, taking my letter with them but leaving the money. Glaring at me murderously, the woman was the last one out the door.
Ecstatic from the Speed and heady with the satisfaction of eluding the police, I felt like Master of the Universe. I knew they'd be back as soon as they drew up the necessary papers to get at the Australian cash we had no way of legitimating. I immediately moved us to a different hotel, and by the next afternoon Aunt Sathe and I were out of Australia.
Successful in the face of adversity! I had no doubt foresight and good sense would protect me forever.
Ever since she'd seen The King and I, Aunt Sathe had dreamed of visiting Siam. I wanted to give her a treat she'd always remember, and since I'd heard that Siam (now called Thailand) was the heroin capital of the world, we flew to Bangkok.
The month long co-existence had strained our relationship. Aunt Sathe had been unnerved by the Sydney affair, and, though we looked forward to touring Bangkok together, we agreed it would be best to five separately. I had the secondary motive of needing to find a connection. I took Aunt Sathe to the Sheraton, then went to a place I'd heard about, the Malaysia Hotel.
The Freaks were international and mobile, so Freak enclaves existed around the world. These havens provided access to the local scene. Among fellow Freaks, friendship was instantaneous and resources were readily shared. The Malaysia Hotel was a major Freak place in Bangkok. It turned out to be everything I'd heard and more. The hotel overflowed with Freaks and hippie travellers. Entering the Lobby, I had the feeling everyone knew each other. In a corner hung a bulletin board with notices, messages (some obviously coded), and warnings to beware of particular undercover narcotics agents. The warnings described the agents, noted which countries they worked, and provided the names they were currently using. I felt connected to a brethren and part of something.
Two guys stepped in the elevator as I went up to my room. "Just arriving in Thailand?" asked one.
"Yeah, hey, this is a great hotel."
"Damn right. Find anything you want at the Malaysia."
"Know where I can get smack?" I asked.
"Drop your bags in your room and come to ours. Two-oh-two."
Within minutes, I had a bhong in my mouth, as I sat with them and three others. "Oh, boy. You've no idea how much I missed this sniff," I said, savouring a lungful of heroin. "I've been eating Opium and drinking methadone for weeks. Ahh. Now, this is the real thing."
Daytime was spent with Aunt Sathe. We visited the Reclining Buddha and the Emerald Buddha. We explored the floating market, the weekend market, and the snake garden.
"Aunt Sathe, a man's ogling you."
"Where?" she asked, speaking like a ventriloquist, with her lips hardly moving. "Not that shmuck with the Hawaiian shirt?"
"No. Over there by the Buddha bell."
"Oy vey, look at that pot belly. That fat tush. You can find me better than that, tatala."
Aunt Sathe loved Bangkok. I loved Bangkok. I adored the Malaysia Hotel.
At night my new friends and I would go to the movies. The Thai dope was potent, though, and I slept through most of them. We all did. When the movie ended we'd go back to the hotel, smoke more smack, and try to decipher the plot from the Bits we'd managed to catch.
"I remember him entering the factory, and then I nodded out," someone would say.
"I saw the factory scene," another would offer, "They started fighting, and a dude bashed Bruce Lee over the head with a barrel and then . . . I don't know. I guess I fell asleep again."
"That part I remember. I woke up as the barrel . . ."
One morning, my Malaysia Hotel friends and I took a boat ride down a canal. We slept through that too.
After three weeks Aunt Sathe returned to Wilkes-Barre. "Bye, Aunt Sathe," I said, hugging her tightly before she left. "I'm so glad you visited your Siam."
"It’s been heaven, tatala. I'll be waiting to hear about the next scheme."
"Scam."
"Scam. Oy, never get that right. Don't forget, if you see my doctor friend, tell him how much I liked the bracelet he sent."
Walking down the street a few days later, I heard a voice call my name—"Yo, Cleo, it's the sheriff. Wait up."
"Jimmy! You've been in Bangkok all this time? How's it going?"
"A real bummer, man. I'm broke."
Black Jimmy and I went to smoke bhongs, and he told me his woes. He was having a hard time maintaining his habit. I gave him some stash. He needed money. I gave him a few baht (the local currency). Goa Freaks were supposed to help each other.
"Bummer, man. The sheriff's on a bummer."
Over the next ten days I gave him more—both money and dope then I got fed up with supporting him. Fellow Goa Freak or no, his bummers ended up costing me money. Enough was enough.
I made a quick trip to Laos, partly to escape him. I returned with a Laotian marriage canopy to hang over my bed in Goa, a suitcase of Laotian wall hangings, and a toothpaste tube crammed with Laotian smack.
Then it was time for India. One last thing to do before leaving for Bombay—I wanted a porno movie. I'd bought a projector to show the movies I'd taken of the Goa Freaks in Bali. I thought a porno film would be an extra novelty to entertain the gang in Anjuna Beach.
A few hours before my flight, I went to Patpong Road and searched the streets of the red-light district for the right type of person. Finally I found someone in a bar who promised to deliver the film before I left.
"Soon, okay? My plane to Bombay leaves at 3:55."
When he didn't show at the hotel, I was disappointed.
I never expected him to deliver the film to the airport and was horrified when I was paged out of the departure lounge and confronted with the sleaze holding a brown paper bag.
"Oh, it's you. That greasy bag is for me? Uh, thanks, I guess." I looked around to see if anybody was watching. Everybody was watching. I didn't open the bag to check its contents in front of the dozen seated passengers, two security guards, three courtesy personnel, and a whole Cathay Pacific check-in counter. I paid him his twenty dollars in good faith.
Going back through Immigration and the weapons check carrying the bag, I felt conspicuous. I didn't peek inside until I reached the plane's toilet. Hey, it did contain a canister of film; and when I held it to the light I glimpsed tiny naked figures. In colour even.
Now I had the problem of sneaking it into Bombay, where such things were prohibited. The projector was another problem. India was strict about allowing certain products into the country. Cameras, tape players, and electrical equipment were heavily taxed, and the government tried to prevent their being sold on the black market. They had to be recorded on one's passport and taken out of India at the time of departure. Since I wanted to leave the projector in Goa and not take it with me whenever I left the country, it was important that it not be marked in my passport.