The Asian Mantrap

Eleven

Thailand is not the storybook country travel brochures and old National Geographic magazines might lead one to think it is. While it still has superb rice lands and vast stands of teak, both of which thrive from a guaranteed rainfall that insures agricultural abundance, the ancient city of Bangkok has become just another overcrowded metropolis jammed with pitiful humanity. A few islands of modern civilization built from commerce based on exports of silk, ceramics, and silver are surrounded by a sea of ghettos filled with peasants coaxed into the city by the flood of U.S. dollars.

In the wake of American soldiers that once poured themselves and their paychecks into a profusion of nightclubs and bars, whole streets remain crowded with garish neon signs and Thai village girls. Outwardly, Bangkok is one of the world’s liveliest cities. Of the two million people who attempt to survive in the capital city on the Gulf of Siam, few were as fortunate as Lak Bu Chen.

In less than an hour after arriving in Bangkok, Willow had gotten a line on the transplanted Vietnamese. The information came from an unlikely source: a grubby street vendor hawking brass ashtrays and candlesticks fashioned from U.S. Army 105mm howitzer shell casings. She conversed with the wizened, squatting man in at least two Lao dialects while a trio of persistent pedicabs hovered around sensing a fare. We chose one. The thin sinewy driver bell-clanged his way through crowded streets, bearing us further into a squalid part of the town. We were close to the docks when the toothless, perspiring pedaller drew over to the curb. We were in front of what looked like an abandoned warehouse. “Is this the place?”

“Nippon-Kishiwa Trading Company is what the sign says,” Willow translated. “Rue Chiang Mai, Number eighty-five.”

It looked like a fire trap to me. Maybe just a trap. I eased open the only door. Loose hinges let its bottom rasp on dusty concrete. The place was empty except for a littering of empty cartons and rat droppings. The interior of the building was dim. Unwashed windows further reduced the waning light of day. In a glassed-in office against the far wall a bare light bulb, shaded by a cone-shaped metal reflector, concentrated it’s beam on a desk where a man sat using a telephone. He hung up and peered in our direction as Willow and I approached. Willow had her right hand buried in her shoulder bag. I was alert as well.

The black-haired individual rose and moved to the open office doorway. He was a short, stocky Vietnamese with the flat, broad face more common to Koreans. His business suit was rumpled. A frayed-collared shirt was open at the throat; he wore no tie. Since I’d been in the company of Willow, he was the first man I’d seen who ignored her. His eyes were wary and locked on me. “It’s me, Chen, Wee Low Kiang,” Willow called out.

His straight-line of a mouth wreathed itself into a big-toothed smile of recognition. He answered her in some mountain dialect of lilting Vietnamese syllables, leaving me out entirely. It was only after we had crowded into the small office that Willow introduced me to Lak Bu Chen. His slightly protruding eyes measured me critically. The hand that he offered in greeting was woman-soft but muscular. He spoke English with an American accent picked up from watching old John Wayne and Clint Eastwood movies. As an English-speaking sergeant in a Vietnamese paratrooper regiment, he had found a niche and spent the last years of the war at a U.S. air depot, becoming an expert in logistics. He became proficient at moving supplies, especially the diversion of post exchange stocks to the Saigon black market. He had developed a profitable arrangement with U.S. sergeants in charge of military service clubs. For a while after the evacuation of U.S. forces from South Vietnam he had what he thought were deeply-anchored ties with black market operators in Hanoi. He had visions of building what would become a worldwide consortium in surplus war materials in the post-war period. Instead, he was lucky to get out of Vietnam alive. He’d lost everything but a few valuable contacts, an indomitable spirit, a crafty mind, and an insufferable, arrogant ego. Lak Bu Chen had an outgoing personality. You knew he was a crook, and that he’d sacrifice anyone to save his own hide, but you still couldn’t help but like him. He seemed disappointed in me, though, when he found out I’d never visited Boot Hill in Dodge City, Kansas or made a pilgrimage to the O.K. Corral in Tombstone, Arizona.

In his heyday, Chen was a fast dealer in hardware and selected soft goods. For a price he could obtain and deliver anything from an M-74 tank to a jeepload of uncut Scotch whiskey. With the jeep thrown in as a bonus if you wanted it. From his looks now, he couldn’t scrounge a pair of discarded sneakers from a trash heap.

“Sorry about the looks of this place,” Bu Chen grinned. “I’m working on a deal. Need a warehouse if it goes through. This is the best I could find on short notice.”

I thought he was putting up a front. The way governments were handing out front-line weapons, markets for war surplus had just about dried up for private entrepreneurs. He saw the doubt on my face and changed the subject before I could challenge him. “What sort of service are you looking for?”

“We’d like you to put us in touch with Keith Martin.”

“Martin? Martin. Yeah, I know him from when he was a wild-assed major back in ’Nam. You want to know what he’s been up to here in Bangkok.”

I nodded.

“You’re willing to pay, of course,” It was a demand rather than a question.

I felt like giving the son-of-a-bitch a fist in his grinning chops. Here he was, plainly living off fish heads and noodles, yet brazen enough to push his weight around. Sure, I was willing to buy his information. Willow had told me that Bu Chen had leads to privately-cultivated sources unduplicated anywhere else in Southeast Asia. It was worth a lot. It was just that the mercenary bastard had us and was getting too much pleasure watching me squirm under the milking process.

Willow interpreted my reaction correctly. She stepped in flailing Bu Chen with a torrent of spitting, sharp words. She quickly overrode his protests. She turned to me smiling and quoted to me in English the haggled-down price. I accepted it after she explained further that Bu Chen would forego payment until I was completely satisfied.

Willow had spent most of the two and a half hour Air India flight convincing me that only through contacts similar to Bu Chen could any American hope to succeed in infiltrating any of the war-torn Southeast Asian countries. Caucasians like Martin and myself stood out like cockroaches in a bowl of cooked white rice among the brown and yellow races. White men were highly visible.

It was no wonder that Bu Chen had had little difficulty in learning through the street grapevine that Martin was in Bangkok. It sounded even more reasonable when Bu Chen told us that he had tight connections with most of the bordello operators who kept him posted on foreign visitors. Whorehouse patrons were screened. Ordinary sailors from ships anchored in the harbor were ignored. Well-dressed white men who might be business executives or the occasional diplomat were horses of a different wheelbase. The underground telegraph sounded loud and clear whenever a well-heeled stranger ventured into the Alley of a Thousand Pleasures.

“Have you got a better fix than that?” I asked.

Bu Chen replied promptly. “Yep,” he drawled. “Madame Peacock’s the place where a man who sounds pretty much like Martin was seen.”

Two thoughts crossed my mind. Keith Martin seemed to be uniquely attracted to the haunts of harlots — first the posh apartment of Melissa Stephens, the high-priced pro, then the run-down cottage of Gloria Grimes, the free-bee nympho. Now it was a bagnio in Bangkok. That sounded like Martin, all right. On the other hand, I figured that all white men looked pretty much alike to most Thais, so I asked: “What makes you sure it was Martin?”

“Ya gotta understand that I haven’t run across Martin personally. I got the word from an outlaw flat-backer working the street. She tells how this big Yankee comes around to Madame Peacock’s place looking for a whore from Saigon. Some snatch from a dive on Penchu Street that was closed the day after the Commies moved in. Like the rest of us with the smarts, the B-girls faded. The top talent who had a hard mack with money enough go out pronto. Some were shipped to Macao. Others as far as Rangoon, but with the Americans still here and comin’ down from Udorn and Utaphao, the best bottom women were set up here in Bangkok. The minute I heard what this stateside Romeo looked like and what he wanted, I knew this Yank had to be Martin wanting to get back together with his special girl. He really had the hots for her.”

“You got to be kidding,” escaped me.

“Yeah... real flakey, isn’t it. I never could figure the action even back in ’Nam. Just like Madame Butterfly.”

“That’s beautiful,” sighed Willow.

“That’s crap,” I countered.

“Wait a minute!” said Bu Chen, sounding like a pitchman about to lose a mark. “Check it out. Half the GIs who were around Saigon back then knew about it. Laughed at first, but you didn’t laugh at a guy like Major Martin very long. Who knows? Maybe he did fall in love and wanted to take her away from her sordid life... Word was that she was gung-ho on him. There’s gals around still using the refugee dodge to get to the land of the big PX and find their rich American soldier boy. It can work in reverse, too, though it isn’t likely. Which is what makes this such a noticeable thing.” It was a long speech for Bu Chen.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said, trying to reconcile what I knew to be substantiated reports from Hawk with a romantic street story that was in ridiculous contrast to a succession of three murders in Hanoi. “Finding Martin shacked up in a brothel with an old flame—” I was confused.

“What else would you think?” asked Bu Chen. “It takes time for your legation here to shuffle the necessary paperwork to get anyone out of the country... legally, that is. He should have come to me.”

I refused to swallow the story. It was a good one, a carefully worked out cover plan that would account for Martin going underground in Bangkok where he could put his paid assassins into motion. The extra bit about waiting around for the local State Department clerks to process exit papers for a girl was a neat, added touch. Checking out that lead could be a waste of time. Staff personnel in the consulate sections of American embassies were a bunch of closemouthed incompetents who seldom knew the answer to a question if they were allowed to discuss immigrant cases. “When did this touching story start circulating?” I shot at Bu Chen.

“Let’s see. It was yesterday... night before last.”

I figured back. I’d been on the move so much, the past two days and nights were all run together. I’d crossed the International Date Line which made yesterday tomorrow or some such nonsense. The supersonic trip across most of the Pacific had made the sun back up for Willow and myself. According to the clock, we had arrived in Hong Kong earlier than we had taken off from Honolulu. The minimum-stop trip from San Francisco to Bangkok had permitted us to catch up with Martin so that he was now little more than twenty-four hours ahead of us.

It was hard to believe that Martin’s first known deadly move, the assassination of Minister Ban Lok Huong, had occurred such a short time ago. If we moved fast, we could curb the effort quickly if Martin would listen to reason. My big worry was that the kill campaign had been released as a headless, pre-planned monster over which Martin no longer had control. He could have turned loose a bunch of mindless kamikazes who would continue the slaughter without stopping until the job was done.

“That could be,” I mused, aloud. “Martin had to anchor himself in this part of the world to get the job done. This is as close as he could reasonably come and tie in with whoever he’s running. I never thought of his using a woman as a go-between. If there was a girl in Saigon, she doesn’t matter. If we want Martin, we’ll have to make a call on Madame Peacock.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Bu Chen asked Willow.

Her answer told him nothing. “Take us to Madame Peacock,” she replied.

“Then we’ll need a taxi.”

The driver of the cab called by Bu Chen studied me with interest. This neighborhood wasn’t the kind to have honest white men circulating in it. He started the taxi with a jerk as he shifted gears and called in on the mobile radio at the same time. I guessed that the dash-mounted CB transmitter was originally U.S. Government property. He seemed to enjoy having it aboard. He used it a number of times.

After one call, Bu Chen began questioning the driver. The exchange became argumentative. Willow translated. “Bu Chen thinks the driver is going a roundabout way to load up the meter. I think we’ve doubled back at least once.”

Bu Chen sat back, still muttering under his breath. He paid close attention to our progress. At one unmarked intersection, we slowed before crossing. A cruising police car approaching the intersecting streets slowed and halted at the corner to let us pass. The cabbie drew over to the curb in the middle of the block. I looked behind. The hood of the police car stuck out beyond the front of the corner building. The two uniformed occupants in the cruiser were in no hurry to cross the intersection.

The taxi made a tight U-turn. The driver was taking a chance; the two Thai policemen had their faces turned toward us.

Madame Peacock’s establishment on Lamtubok Street was nothing like the Stardust in Las Vegas. It was a run-down nightclub that had an odor of bad plumbing, persistent dampness, and stale beer. We were too early for the main action. In the main room, tables and chairs surrounded a pint-size dance floor. A raised platform against a curtained wall held music stands, a piano, a drum set and empty chairs waiting for the absent musicians. Along the opposite wall was a long bar. A half dozen heavily madeup Asian girls lounged against it, some sitting on stools. The bartender behind the counter looked like an Oriental Jackie Gleason with a Prussian-style crew cut topping his balloon face. His girth and build was similar to a Japanese sumo wrestler.

Silence followed the entrance of Willow. Bu Chen rattled off something. The girls at the bar giggled. The eyebrows of the fat bartender moved upward. I looked at Willow. Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. “What’d he say?” I asked.

“He said you and I were looking for a girl to share.”

The tittering and whispers at the bar ceased when a tall, thin woman brushed aside and walked through a curtain of beads at the far end of the bar. “That’s Madame Peacock,” Bu Chen muttered needlessly.

One look at her and I could tell that she was hard as tempered steel. Tall and dignified-looking, she walked toward us with a smooth, gliding motion. She had delicate hands ending in inch-long fingernails. High-piled black hair crested a narrow face graced with a long, sensitive nose with flared nostrils. The way the bar girls looked at her with awe, I expected to see Madame Peacock draw a bull whip out from the folds of her long, capelike garment and start cracking it over their heads.

Her eyes were set well apart above high cheekbones. They riveted on me briefly before darting to fix on Bu Chen. She either recognized him or found his company unsuitable. She strode toward us, brushing by the hushed bevy of girls who watched the conductor. The floor-length flared skirt hid her legs as she walked, giving her movement a reptilian quality. Everyone in the room was as still as if they were props in a tableaux.

My attention was locked to the unusual woman as she approached. Her eyes began shifting back and forth between myself and Willow. She ignored Chen completely. Some five feet away, she stopped abruptly. I heard the solid clump of heavy footsteps behind me. I looked over my shoulder, then turned around.

Two Thai policemen in dark blue uniforms, white gauntlets, white leather Sam Brown belts with attached holsters, and white canvas ankle gaiters stood on the step just inside the street door. Their white-topped caps with shining visors topped nearly seven feet of burly human beings. They were big all over. And unsmiling.

For a moment, I had the fleeting thought that Bu Chen had betrayed us. That idea was dispelled quickly.

One of the grim-faced cops stepped down and towered over Bu Chen. With a sweep of his gloved hand, he sent the surprised Vietnamese to one side. Bu Chen crashed into two bar stools and went down. His head struck the foot rail in front of the bar. Blood from a gash on his forehead spewed down over his face like a crimson curtain.

Neither policeman turned his head toward the noise Bu Chen’s fall had made.

Madame Peacock’s lofty cool disintegrated. She began an excited chattering in her native tongue. Her words came out in pleading, piercing tones. Willow crowded closer to me, half-turning to see what the second policeman was going to do. “What’s going on” I shot to Willow. “What’s she saying?”

The cop mounted on the step behind us was arguing over our heads. “She keeps saying she’ll pay them off. The fuzz says Madame Peacock has broken the law by letting you in here. This is an Off Limits place to Americans. She says that’s not so any more. All of the American GIs have been thrown out of the country. She doesn’t want any trouble.” The harangue went on and the big cop started poking in our direction with his nightstick. Willow kept up with the exchange. “Now the cop says she’s harboring a foreign agent, meaning you, Nick. Well, I’ll be damned,” gasped Willow. “Now the cop’s trying to—”

Willow didn’t get a chance to finish. The big cop behind us, overhearing her whispered commentary in English, wrapped a huge hand around Willow’s upper arm and lifted her out of the way to separate us. He wasn’t gentle. Willow’s natural balance and keen coordination were all that kept her from stumbling over a nearby chair and table.

I really didn’t need Willow’s explanation. It was clear to me that the two police were in league with the taxi driver. He had used the cab radio to summon them to Madame Peacock’s. It was one of the oldest dodges in the world. I knew the drill. American tourists are victimized wherever they travel. It ranges from simple gouging by Paris cabdrivers to dark-alley muggings by gangs of street urchins in Karachi. Americans abroad are given the shaft by everyone. These Thai bullies were using their badges and muscle to pull a scam — a ripoff.

I wasn’t going to have any of it. I couldn’t. The payoff would be a self-help cleaning out of my wallet. I’d first be rammed up against the wall and frisked — American style — and that would bring on real trouble. Group Captain Harrington had arranged for me to circumnavigate the metal detection barrier before getting on the Air India plane. I was decked out of my complete stock of concealed weapons.

The cops didn’t expect any resistance. My opening came when one motioned for me to step over and place my outstretched hands on the edge of the bar. Madame Peacock backed away.

I looked over to where Willow had gotten herself erect again. From the way her shoulderbag dangled from one hand, I knew her defense mechanism was in gear. “This play is known as sack the quarterback,” I signalled.

“Got cha,” Willow called back, and got a firmer grip on the straps of her purse.

I acted dumb. I gave the cop the impression I was unfamiliar with the spread-legged stance he wanted me to take. He was patient, but also careless through overconfidence. I leaned forward against the bar, but kept my weight on both feet. The policeman moved in behind me. I watched his feet and legs from under my arm. When he was close enough, I brought one leg up between his in a fast backswing. It came up stiff-kneed and heel first. My foot arched upward like the head of a hard-swung sledge hammer. My aim wasn’t quite on target, but his forked legs guided my driving heel. He bellowed as my surprise kick drove at least one of his balls up into his rib cage. He dropped like a fighting bull taking a matador’s sword in the heart. He groveled on the dirty floor, gasping and drawing his knees up into a fetal position.

I snapped around to face the other cop. He was momentarily stunned. His hand started for his sidearm. He shreiked with pain as Willow’s wide swinging, gun-carrying shoulder bag struck him squarely in the elbow. The blur of motion that followed was Willow throwing a jarring, knee-buckling block that toppled the giant of a man backward. With only one useful hand to break his fall, he didn’t. His head struck the floor with the sound of a ripe melon being hit with a plank. He lay still. Blood trickled out of one nostril. His chest no longer moved.

Willow got up and stared down at her victim. She looked toward me, but her eyes were diverted. I turned around again to look at the man I had incapacited. Bu Chen was cradling the cop’s head in his lap. It took a second look to see that Bu Chen had taken a large handkerchief from his pocket and was in the last stages of garroting the man.

Madame Peacock was the first to move. She came directly to me. She spoke passable English. “I’m not yet sure whether you did me a favor. Nevertheless, these two won’t bother me any more... and good riddance. There are other proprietors of businesses along here who will be thankful for what you did for them. You, Bu Chen, get on the phone and have someone come to get rid of this trash. You know what to do with the police car out front too. Come, you two,” she beckoned with a long finger, “I must show my gratitude which you have truly earned.”

As we passed the line of ashen-faced bar girls, Madame Peacock gave instructions which Willow later told me were for them to forget what they had seen.