When she walked in, the place was jammed with the usual mix of young farang professionals — residents and tourists — and Thai girls on the make. This wasn’t a place for backpackers. It also wasn’t a place for bar girls from Soi Cowboy, Nana Plaza, or Patpong, the three most popular downmarket night spots in a city that advertised in-your-face sex clubs, night markets, lurid shows, and cheap by-the-hour hotel rooms for farangs who were squeamish about taking the bar girls back to their own hotel. The Thai girls at Spasso were amateurs, part-timers, teachers and students and the like, trying to make a few extra dollars and hoping, just hoping, to hit the jackpot — a farang boyfriend who would send monthly financial support when he got back home to North America or Europe, and who might give her the blue-eyed baby that had become a status symbol among these girls.
The foreigners in the club weren’t all from the West. Ava saw some Japanese, a few Koreans, and a cluster of what looked like wealthy, hip Arabs. None of them were a natural attraction for the girls; they homed in on the Westerners. The Japanese and Koreans wouldn’t get any action until the girls had explored all their Western options and found them wanting. The Arabs would have to wait as well, and they weren’t being patient about it. One of them had ordered a large tub filled with ice and about forty shooters in test tubes. He held a shooter in each hand and waved at the girls to come and take what they wanted. He was getting the odd nibble but was having trouble getting the girls to stay.
Ava found a small table at the back of the club as far as possible from the stage, which had a set of drums and two guitars on it. To one side, propped on an easel, was a sign that read MANILA MAGIC. She groaned. Filipino cover bands were an Asian cliche. There wasn’t a five-star hotel anywhere in Asia that didn’t have one playing. The noise level in the room was already deafening; she could hardly imagine what the band would add to it.
She ordered a glass of white wine and sat back, content to dissect the action, trying to figure out who was going to get lucky. She could feel eyes turn in her direction. She ignored them, discouraging attention.
The band came onstage — three guys on the instruments and two female singers — and broke into a pretty horrid rendition of “Proud Mary.” As she watched, a blonde crossed her line of sight. From the distance she looked about thirty. She wore black silk pants and a green silk blouse.
The blonde worked her way through the crowd towards Ava, and the closer she got the faster Ava’s interest waned. She was closer to forty than thirty, and she had heavy thighs and a big ass.
“Hi, I’m Deborah,” she said. “Can I join you?”
Ava hesitated and then realized she wouldn’t mind the companionship. “Sure, but I’ve got to tell you right off the top that you’re not my type.”
The woman looked flustered. “I’m sorry, I thought you were — ”
“I am, but you’re still not my type. Sit down anyway.”
“This is a tough place for girls like us,” Deborah said, holding her own glass of white wine.
“Where are you from?”
“Washington, D.C. You?”
“Toronto.”
“Here on business?”
“Yes, and you?”
“Same.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Here.”
“Me too. This is my first trip to Bangkok, and I can’t fucking believe how great these hotels are, how great the service is.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Another five days.”
“Well, Spasso is not where you should be. These girls are focused on farang cock. They’re all very entrepreneurial, and they know that’s where the money is.”
“So where should I go?”
“Over on Royal City Avenue — RCA — there are a couple of bars you might enjoy. One is called Nine Bar; the newest one is Zeta. I liked Zeta last time I was here. Most of the girls are young — you know, early twenties — and some of them are just figuring things out, still experimenting, enthusiastic and eager as hell but lacking technique. They would take to a woman like you.”
“Are they bar girls?”
“No, not really. They don’t expect to get paid. Mind you, if you slipped them twenty or thirty dollars they would appreciate it. But it isn’t necessary.”
“Would I have any problems if I went by myself? I mean, at home I’m quite circumspect. Dyke bars aren’t my thing.”
“No problems.”
“Is it close?”
“Ten minutes by taxi. But then in Bangkok everywhere is ten minutes by taxi, according to the drivers, unless of course there’s traffic,” Ava said and smiled.
“Thanks. I have to work early tomorrow morning, so I’m going to head out,” Deborah said.
“The girls will still be there tomorrow night,” Ava said.
“Can I buy you a drink before I go?”
Ava shook her head. “No, I think I’m finally getting tired enough to go to bed. And besides, if I have to listen to another Filipino cover band murder Shania Twain, I think I’ll go crazy.”
(11)
Ava popped a couple of melatonin tablets before going to bed and slept through until 6 a.m. It was too early to call Arthon, so she phoned her mother. She would be at home, since it was still too early for dinner and mah-jong. Ava told Jennie about having dim sum with her father. As always, Jennie overreacted. Nothing pleased her mother more than her daughters’ contact with their father. She pretended that she was happy for their sakes, but Ava knew it was just as much about reaffirmation of her status as wife number two.
Ava boiled some water and made a cup of VIA instant coffee. She turned on BBC World, but after five minutes she gave up and reached for her running gear and a rubber band to tie her hair back. She was always of two minds about running in Bangkok. There was the safety, security, and clean air of the hotel gym, while her other option was to run outside and fight the smog, the smothering humidity, and the carnival of people. But she knew that the Hyatt was only about a kilo metre from Lumpini Park, and she loved running there. When she stayed at the Mandarin Hotel, sometimes she would even take a taxi there and back. Lumpini it would be.
At six thirty the sun was visible but not yet oppressive. The streets were already lined with traffic but the smog hadn’t had time to build to its midday thickness. She turned left from the hotel and headed to the park, dodging dogs and sidewalk cracks and rises.
In a city with virtually no greenery and few public recreational facilities, the park was a magnet for all kinds of athletes. Thousands of people were there, nearly all of them Thais. She joined the throng circling the park on a three-kilometre track, which was thoughtfully marked every two hundred metres in white paint. It was a catholic group, with no apparently dominant gender or age. The only people who stood out in the running group were the businessmen, who held their shirts and jackets in their hands so as not to get them sweaty.
The track was on the outer perimeter of the park. In the interior it was just as busy, with pockets of activities that made the place so interesting to her. There were tai chi practitioners, several groups of them, silently performing their rituals. Old men and women waving swords and fans in precise slow-motion patterns. Bird-lovers with their cages. People playing badminton, tennis, and a Thai form of lawn bowling or bocce. All this took her mind off the running. In the gym she was usually good for five kilometres; at Lumpini she did three full laps before heading back to the hotel.
She showered, dressed in her business suit, put her slacks and shirts in a laundry bag and requested same-day service, and then went down to the lobby with the Antonelli file and her notebook. She reread the file as she sipped some ice water. How to approach him? How to get him to open the door to Seto? She had Antonelli’s cellphone number. If Arthon could patch into his phone and trace calls to and from it, that could save her some time. She called Arthon and told him what she wanted.