Salty (11 page)

Sheila poured some shampoo into the palm of her hand and began to wash her hair. She turned her back to the shower, letting the water rinse the soap out of her hair, giving the Captain a full frontal view of her body.

She looked over at him, hoping to see a sign, some clue of what he was thinking. A lick of the lips, a twitch of the eye, a boner maybe. But the Captain was stoic, unreadable. He would calmly take a drag on his cigarette and watch.

When she was finished washing and drying herself off, he asked a question.

“What do they eat in Sweden?”

Sheila had never been to Sweden but she had been to IKEA, the Swedish furniture megastore.

“Meatballs, mostly. Salmon. And lingonberries.”

Somporn finished his beer and reached for another one in the cooler near the wall.

“Lingonberries?”

“They love 'em in Sweden.”

Somporn opened a Singha for her and held it up. Sheila didn't bother to cover her breasts with the towel as she bent over and gratefully took the beer. She noticed that Somporn inhaled sharply as her breasts dangled close to his face, but he made no move to touch them.

“What do they look like?”

“Lingonberries?”

Somporn nodded. Sheila tried to remember the lumpy red smear of sauce that came with the meatballs in the IKEA cafeteria.

“Little. Round. Red. They make a sauce with them.”

Sheila sat down on the edge of Somporn's small bed. She let the towel drop and picked up the jar of coconut oil. She slowly began to cover her body with the sweet-smelling emollient.

“Have you tasted them?”

Sheila nodded.

“They're sweet and sour. Kind of like the fruit here.”

“Like a mangosteen?”

Sheila didn't respond; she was watching as her body began to glisten from the oil. It felt good on her skin. Better than any mud bath or herbal wrap she'd ever experienced.

It suddenly occurred to her that she and Somporn were lounging around like lovers, relaxed and warm in the afterglow of sex. This was normally the time Sheila enjoyed the most, the sex being either fun or not so fun; it was during the aftermath that she actually felt close to someone.

Somporn lit another cigarette.

“Those things aren't good for you.”

The Captain nodded and waved his hand in agreement.

“The smoke keeps the mosquitoes away. I would hate for them to bite you and ruin your beautiful skin.”

Sheila calmly rubbed the coconut oil onto her breasts, neck, and shoulders. Then she looked at Somporn, their eyes meeting.

“Would you do my back?”

He nodded and took the jar. Sheila turned around and waited. Captain Somporn sat on the cot and began, very slowly and gently—she could feel his hands trembling—to rub the coconut oil into her skin. She tried to relax but, alarmingly, she found herself getting aroused.

With her back to him, facing a dark corner of the hut, she couldn't see anything, just their shadows projected on the wall by the lantern, like a Balinese puppet show. But Sheila felt the touch of Somporn's hand, the sweet oil nourishing her skin; smelled the earthy odor of the tobacco mixing with the strong scent of coconut and the malty tang of beer; heard the hiss of the lantern, and the wet sounds of the oil he was lathering onto her body.

Sheila realized, with diamondlike clarity, that this was what it felt like to be intimate with someone. It had nothing to do with sex.

…

Uncharacteristically, Turk had asked the front desk for a wake-up call. Under normal circumstances he let his circadian rhythms wake him up when his body was rested and his
dreams were done, but today he wanted to get up bright and early. He wanted to be at the bank when the doors opened.

The phone rang in his room. Loud and jangly and annoying as hell. Wake-up calls, Turk realized, totally suck.

He climbed out of bed and rumbled into the bathroom. He figured he'd better shave, clean up, and look presentable. No one was going to give a million dollars in cash to a guy looking like a bum.

Dressed in a clean white shirt and tight black jeans—his gut extending out over his belt like some kind of rogue ocean wave, a spare tire, a flab tsunami—Turk emptied his suitcase, dumping all his clothes on the sofa, and headed out the door.

Several bellmen offered to carry the suitcase but Turk shook his head; it was light and he was in a hurry.

There were no taxis at the hotel entrance, and a thoughtful doorman offered to telephone for one. Turk noticed a dirty
tuk tuk
parked in the drive and asked about that. The doorman tried to convince him to wait for a cab, the
tuk tuk
being loud and smelly, but Turk didn't care. He was a man on a mission.

Turk climbed into the backseat of the
tuk tuk
and told the driver to take him to the Bank of Phuket on Phuket Road in Phuket Town. The driver flipped a switch and the
tuk tuk
gave a violent shudder, backfired loudly, and roared to life in a cloud of noxious fumes. As the three-wheeled transport lurched into gear and sped out of the hotel's driveway, Turk got the distinct feeling that he was using a broken lawn mower as a getaway car.

The driver smiled at Turk as he performed a blind merge onto the main road. A tour bus honked and then blasted past. Turk couldn't help himself.

“Holy shit! What the fuck're you doin', man?”

The driver nodded his head and smiled.

“Bus. Big bus.”

Turk had to agree.

“Yeah. Big bus. Dead bass player.”

Turk noticed that the
tuk tuk
had been custom-painted. The seats were upholstered in bright fabric with geometric designs and a little crescent moon dangled from the rearview mirror. Arabic writing covered the inside of the roof and above the windshield someone had written in English:
All Praise Allah! The Highest Honor Is Death in His Service!

Turk clung to the frame of the
tuk tuk
as it went screaming down a long hill, the engine revving faster than it had been designed to do, the suspension—if there was one—shaking and rattling like a Japanese Zero on a kamikaze mission.

Turk realized he was scared. What if the ICE agent was right? What if this part of Thailand really was crawling with terrorists?

The highest honor is death in his service. What the fuck?

Turk held on to the side of the
tuk tuk
with all his strength.

As they got into town, Turk felt a little better. The traffic served to naturally slow down the
tuk tuk
as it careened along the roads, dodging the squat metal trash cans—at least Turk thought they were trash cans—set in front of houses, and jockeying with motorcycles, scooters, cars, and other three-wheel jalopies for some invisible advantage in a phantom race.

When the driver finally skidded to a stop in front of the Bank of Phuket, Turk felt a sense of relief. He shakily climbed out and paid the driver, giving him a ridiculously inflated tip—as if in gratitude for not getting him killed—and carried his suitcase toward the bank.

He was pleased to see that it actually looked like a modern bank. Like one you'd find in your neighborhood in Wichita or Albany.

Turk walked through the door and stopped. The air-conditioning was on and the cold, clean air felt so good he just stood there, taking a moment to feel the sweat evaporate from his skin. There was definitely something to be said for air-conditioning.

The bank manager, a guy with a name overstuffed with vowels and so long that Turk couldn't remember or repeat it even though it was written down on a business card in his hand, jumped up to meet him. He enthusiastically
waied
several times—bowed quickly with his hands clasped in front of him—then shook Turk's hand “Western style,” with a grip so hard that it actually caused Turk's knuckles to pop and crackle.

After offering him a cup of tea—Turk declined—the manager checked his passport, had him sign a couple of documents, and then led him past several guards with submachine guns slung over their shoulders into the vault.

Turk watched as the manager fussed with a set of keys, opening a door about the size of a bathroom cabinet, pulling out a big metal drawer on wheels, flipping the lid open, and then unlocking a second box. It was like one of those Russian dolls: a locked metal box within a locked metal box within a locked metal locker within a locked metal vault within a locked concrete bank.

All the security made Turk feel a little weird about dragging the money out of the bank in an unlocked suitcase. It wasn't even leather.

The manager, Mr. Incredibly Long Name, took Turk's suitcase and placed it on a table. Then he began handing bundles of U.S. currency to Turk.

“Mr. Henry. You count, please.”

Turk held a couple of the bound bricks of greenbacks in his hand and looked at the manager.

“I trust you.”

The manager shook a finger at Turk.

“No. No. Please assure yourself that everything is in order.”

Turk realized that he'd never counted to a million before. He wasn't even sure what a million was. A hundred hundred thousands? A thousand ten thousands? When was the last time Turk had been confronted with a math problem? He didn't even remember taking math in high school, and he hadn't bothered to go to college. The last math problem he ever solved had involved trying to figure out how many joints he could roll from a dime bag of weed he got off Zoë Levine's little brother at the video arcade. Turk tried to think of mathematic facts. A kilometer is 1.6 of a mile. Is that right? Or is a mile 2.2 kilometers? Or is a kilogram 2.2 pounds? A liter of soda is bigger than a normal bottle. The big plastic ones at the store were all liters. Weren't they?

Turk stood there, trying to make sense of it all as the manager kept handing him money. When he realized that his arms were full, he dumped the load into the suitcase, working quickly to stack them tightly into some kind of order. As he did this he pretended to count.

It took about fifteen minutes. When the suitcase was full, Turk turned to the manager.

“That looks good.”

The manager smiled at Turk.

“Very funny, Mr. Henry.”

Turk laughed. He didn't know why.

“Twenty-five thousand more.”

Turk shrugged, embarrassed.

“You got me.”

Turk unzipped some of the side pockets on the suitcase and stuffed the cash in. The manager handed him a form and indicated where Turk should sign.

“This money is your responsibility now.”

Turk nodded.

“Thank you, Mr … um, sir.”

The manager bent in another deep
wai
. Turk attempted to return the gesture, bowing forward from his hips and almost pulling a hamstring. He stood and opted to shake hands vigorously with the bank manager. Turk zipped the suitcase closed and hoisted it off the table. He let out a surprised grunt: a million bucks in cash was heavy lifting. He plopped the suitcase down on the floor, pulled out the telescoping handle, and wheeled it out of the bank.

…

Turk popped his sunglasses on as he walked out of the bank. Several
tuk tuk
drivers waved to him, offering their services. Turk shook his head—this time he was taking a taxi. He wheeled his suitcase—it followed him like a dog on a leash—to the corner and scanned the road for a cab. He realized he should've had the bank manager call him one, but he hadn't thought of it and now that he was outside, he didn't want to
go back in. Turk saw something called a “Resortel” a couple of blocks down the street and figured he could find a taxi there. He'd started to walk down the road when a familiar voice came up behind him.

“Need a lift?”

Turk turned and saw Ben Harding, the man from ICE, standing there.

“I'm fine, thanks.”

Turk tried to continue on, but felt the suitcase suddenly stop rolling.

“I can't let you do it.”

Ben had grabbed the end of the suitcase. Turk played innocent. It had sometimes worked with police officers; he'd avoided arrest for possession of marijuana several times in his career.

“I'm sorry?”

Ben heaved a sigh. He took off his sunglasses and gave Turk his serious, protect-and-serve stare.

“Remember nine-eleven? The attack on the World Trade Center?”

How could Turk forget? Metal Assassin's entire North American tour had been canceled.

“Of course.”

“How do you think that happened?”

“Some pissed-off guys flew planes into buildings.”

Ben nodded. “Guys who went to flight school.”

Turk squinted his eyes, trying to see what Ben was talking about. “Can't say they graduated.”

“What did you say?”

“Can't say they graduated. You know, from flight school.”

Turk could see that Ben was getting angry, and he tried to explain. “Because they crashed. Which is, in my opinion, what flight school should teach you how
not
to do.”

Ben shook his head, slowly, conveying his disappointment. “You're making a joke.”

“No. I'm just saying—”

“You're mocking America.”

“I'm not.”

“Sounds to me like you are.”

Turk looked at Ben. It was ridiculous, two grown men in a playground argument.

“What's your point?
You
brought up nine-eleven.”

Ben pointed to the suitcase. “Somebody gave money to those terrorists.”

“It wasn't me.”

“Not that time. But I know what you're up to, and I'll give you a chance to do the right thing. Why don't you turn around, take that suitcase back into the bank, and go home.”

Turk felt a surge of anger rise in his throat. Who the fuck was this guy to tell him what to do? Turk wanted to punch Ben in the face, maybe a couple of times, hit him hard, bust his lip, break his nose, knock him down. And then kick him in the ribs while he lay there. Maybe stomp on his face, too. And piss on him.
Yeah. Motherfucker
.