“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market is so large, it occupies subdistricts in which an old-fashioned heterosexual lech may well feel unwelcome and out of date.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.”