“Ah, Paradisio. One of the few revered institutions of Bangkok I have not had the privilege of setting foot in.”
“They would let you in even if you’re not gay. I’ll bet you could fake it.”
He laughed. “Could, and after a beer or two, have done.
Was Kawee otherwise helpful in our search for Mr. Gary?”
I told Pugh what little I had learned from Kawee. I said that since Griswold phoned Kawee from time to time, I had urged him to tell Griswold that friendly people were looking for him and wanted to help him out of whatever trouble he was in. I dictated Kawee’s multi-syllabic full name, which the young katoey had somewhat reluctantly provided me, so that Pugh 78 Richard Stevenson could check Kawee’s mobile phone records and try to ascertain which Internet cafe Griswold had been phoning from. This could help locate him in a particular Bangkok neighborhood, if he was in the city.
Pugh said he would do this, and he asked me to alert him if I was able to track down Mango. “I’m thinking,” Pugh said, “that we should stake out Paradisio and, if Mango appears, tail him. I have staff who can do this, and quite expertly.”
I said that sounded good. “If I meet Mango, I’ll follow him outside when he leaves and pass him off to your team. But how will your guys recognize me?”
“I have already seen to that.”
“You photographed me? I missed that, Rufus.”
“No, your photo appeared in the Albany Times Union on July twelfth, two years ago. This was after you got into what the newspaper said was a sarcastic back-and-forth with a gay-baiting judge while you were testifying at a client’s trial, and you were cited for contempt of court.”
“Yes, I did get my picture in the paper that time. That fine cost me, too. It was twice what my fee was with that putz of a client. Anyway, the guy never paid me.”
Pugh chuckled. “I wish I had been there to see it. Keep in mind, however, that in Thailand, the fine would have been even higher for causing a man of high office to lose face. You might have had to pay with your profession. Or an organ or two.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good. Here we have other ways of getting a job done. We don’t ride an elephant to catch a grasshopper.”
“As it relates to the current situation, that’s a bit cryptic for me,” I said. “But maybe it will all come clear a little later.”
Pugh said, “You bet it will.”
CHAPTER NINE
“Yes, I will talk to you,” Mango said, glancing quickly around the pool area. “But not here. Private. We go to cubicle.”
Kawee had spotted Mango by the swimming pool soon after we had arrived at Paradisio. Most of the men lying on sun-splashed chaises trying to darken themselves were farangs. Most of the Thais sat on chairs in the palmy shade, trying to keep from getting any darker. Mango was among the Thais.
Kawee had approached Mango first and showed him my letter of introduction from Ellen Griswold and my PI license, which I had tucked into the towel I was wearing. Even as I wielded this paraphernalia of farang kreng jai, Mango looked skeptical, even a bit anxious. But I came over and assured him that I had been sent to help Griswold if he needed any help.
Mango should have been further reassured by our meeting under circumstances where he had to know he could maintain masterly control.
I saw why Mango made some gay hearts skip a beat. Lean and fit in a graceful and seemingly effortless way, and taller than most Thais, Mango was luminously caramel colored, like some flavorsome Thai street-stall sweet, with aristocratic Asian cheekbones under big dark peasant eyes and eyelashes the length and elegance of the architectural details on a pagoda.
You could imagine how happy a tiny songbird might be perched on one of Mango’s overhangs. His black hair was cut short, almost monklike, though the tranquil confidence he projected was outwardinstead of inward-looking. When he said “we can go to cubicle,” he gave a flash of smile with a hint of humor in it, despite the apprehension he had to be feeling.
We climbed a winding, Busby Berkeley-style staircase from the pool and cafe area to the second-floor locker and cubicle area, all of it decorated more like a Hyatt or Marriott than like the illegal-immigrant detention-center trappings commonly found in gay saunas in the US. The message seemed to be that 80 Richard Stevenson clients were here for pleasure, not punishment. The music flowing out of the ceiling and through the mutely lighted spaces was not dance-club-throb but Fats Waller sweet-and-easy.
Along a long corridor, men lingered, conversed quietly with one another, greeted friends and acquaintances, and cruised unhurriedly. There was no rush, for it appeared there was sure to be plenty of sanuk to go around. Most of the men were Thais, their average age 28.3, I guessed. There were some young farangs, too, but the foreigners’ average age I estimated at 58.3, a number that also described many of their waist sizes. I heard British and German accents as we passed several dozen men, some of them Americans, and what I guessed were Swedish voices. Here was famed Southeast Asian sexual tourism, that quaint term.
Mango led me into a raised cubicle, slid the door shut, and latched it. Again, it was less like a flophouse cell than like a Thai countryside hut, with dark walls and a floor cushioned with vinyl padding and penlight-sized illumination down low on one end. There was no cot or bed, just as in Thai village houses, where people generally ate, slept and socialized on the floor.
The top of the cubicle was open, and the ambient noise included both low voices and the odd moan or happy yelp from nearby cubicles.
Mango and I each flopped down and sat facing each other with our backs against opposite walls, our towels unremoved in a businesslike way. I told Mango how worried Gary Griswold’s family and friends were, and I thanked him for agreeing to talk to me, despite the falling-out that he and Griswold apparently had had.
“Gary treat me very bad,” Mango said. “But I don’t want him get hurt. I don’t want to get hurt, too,” he said, “and some men want me say where Gary. I tell them, I don’t know where Gary. They think I lying but I not. So I hide at my friend house.
But my friend go back to Germany. So I bored. Maybe I find other friend. You have condo in Bangkok?”
“No, I live in Albany, New York.”
“America.”
“Yes.”
“I had American friend. Five. No, six.”
“Six years ago?”
“No, six American friend. California. Tennessee. Boston.
Harrisburg, P-A. Ohio. And…Mr. Mike come from Alaska.”
“You lived with each of these men? They were boyfriends?”
“I like foreign men. Yes. I don’t like Thai so much. No money, ha-ha.”
“Aren’t there Thai gay men with money?”
“Yes. But they just like other Thai gay men with money.”
“What about hooking up with a Thai gay man with no money? Just for friendship and for love?”
“Oh, I have Thai boyfriend. Donnutt. I love Donnutt. We build house in Chonburi. Live Chonburi later. Now Donnutt in Oslo with Knute.”
I said, “Did your falling out with Gary have anything to do with your many boyfriends, by chance? Donnutt, Mike, Tennessee, and so on? Were any of these fellows in your life during your time with Gary? If so, did he know about them?”
Mango looked down at his lap. I noticed for the first time that a few lines of age were beginning to show around his neck.
Was he pushing thirty? Would he accumulate enough of a nest egg for him and Donnutt to finish their house in Chonburi before all the foreign “friends” moved on to fresher pickings?
Mango said quietly, “Gary not understand Thai man.”
“He thought your relationship would be monogamous? No sex or relationships with other men?”
“I thought he know. He like Thai, so I thought he know Thai. He don’t know. He find out about Werner and ask me if other ones. I tell him. Big argument. I leave.”