Salty (30 page)

“It's cool.”

“I should explain. I want to.”

Turk nodded. It looked like he couldn't stop her.

“I should never have married you. I'm sorry. This was a mistake.”

Turk was sarcastic; he couldn't help himself. “That's your explanation?”

Sheila shook her head. “No. There's more to it. I just don't know if you want to hear it.”

“You want to split, I'm not going to make you stay. Anyway, I'm not sure I want you to stay.”

Turk felt a bile-filled burp crawl up his throat, a sign that his liver was beginning to fight back. He washed the bitter acid taste down with a gulp of water. Sheila watched him.

“You rescued me.”

He had rescued her; it was true.

“Why'd you do that?”

Turk shrugged. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”

Sheila couldn't bring herself to look at him. She stared off at the ocean. Turk reached over and touched her hand.

“We had some fun. I can't ask for anything more than that.”

Sheila turned and smiled at him. “Yeah. We did have fun.”

…

Heidegger stood on a wooden box in the middle of his room. Marybeth sat on the bed, drinking a cup of coffee. Takako Mitsuzake sat on the edge of the sofa, her laptop balanced on her knees. A tailor, an older Thai man, his mouth filled with pins as if he'd just swallowed a porcupine, busied himself around Heidegger, fitting a rough-cut suit pattern around his lanky frame.

Heidegger was holding a book filled with fabric swatches. He flipped through the cottons, silks, and linens, looking for the perfect texture.

“Can you do one in seersucker?”

The tailor nodded. Marybeth snorted out a laugh.

“Seersucker? That'll look great at the Spider Club.”

Heidegger cranked his head around and shot her an impatient look. “Don't underestimate the power of a good seersucker suit.”

Takako dropped her head into her hands and moaned. “We're screwed.”

That got Heidegger's attention. “What's happening?”

“It looks like the
Post
is going to run something about Sheila's abduction.”

“How'd they find out?”

Takako shrugged. “They have sources. They're like the CIA.”

“I don't see how it hurts us.”

“Have you spoken to Turk yet?”

Marybeth saw Takako and Heidegger exchange a look. “What's going on?”

Heidegger looked at her. “We need them to stay together for a little while.”

“Why?”

Takako turned to her. “First we need to sell the story of the kidnapping and rescue. Let that sink in.”

Heidegger chimed in, “And sell a few million CDs.”

“Then we release the sad news that Sheila has post-traumatic stress syndrome related to her abduction and is being treated for it in a private facility somewhere.”

“Selling another five hundred thousand, easy.”

“Until the sad day when Turk tearfully announces that they have irreconcilable differences caused by her captivity and he wishes her well.”

“And we go double platinum.”

Marybeth stared at the two of them. “God, you guys are evil.”

Heidegger smiled.

“Evil geniuses, I like to think.”

The tailor stretched his measuring tape along the inside of Heidegger's leg, measuring the inseam. He looked up at Heidegger. “Dress left or right?”

Heidegger smiled. “Like my politics. Long and to the left.”

…

Wendy was sitting at a table on the terrace, enjoying the beautiful view, nibbling on a mango, and drinking a cappuccino
while she waited for Marybeth. She was dressed like the other guests, wearing flip-flops, khaki Capri pants, and one of Marybeth's rock and roll T-shirts, and she had a room key that she'd showed to the hostess before she was granted a table. Yet she wasn't like the people eating bacon and eggs and oversized waffles at the other tables. The other guests in the dining room were all Caucasian, people from Europe, Canada, Australia, and the United States. Wendy was the only Thai who wasn't working, although most of the employees of the resort assumed she was working in a way.

It was a strange kind of disconnect for Wendy. She had come to Phuket at Marybeth's request, fully expecting to have everything paid for in exchange for sex, secretly hoping she would secure some kind of offer to come to the United States. But now, everything had been turned on its head. Marybeth hadn't mentioned anything about coming to Los Angeles, and Wendy was struck with the dreadful euphoria of infatuation, maybe love. It was the worst thing that could happen to a prostitute. A voice in the back of Wendy's brain, the voice that gave her advice on survival and self-preservation, had told her to leave. To go directly to the airport and back to Bangkok. But Wendy couldn't do it. She had it bad.

A seasoned sex industry professional, Wendy could see the faces of the men as they ate their breakfast. They were glancing her way, calculating her price; the retail cost of quenching their desire. It was the first time in her life that this unspoken appraisal made her feel uncomfortable. She didn't invite the looks; she didn't return them. She was off the market, out of stock indefinitely. She didn't want to be for sale anymore.

It scared her, to be honest. She had never fallen in love before. In fact she had purposefully kept that dreaded, dangerous
emotion in check, never once allowing herself to feel anything more than a passing affection toward another person, the kind of fondness you might have for a puppy. She was a Buddhist, so the practice of compassion and kindness were always present, but romantic love was something she avoided like a bad virus. Marybeth had somehow slipped through her defenses in a stealth attack, blindsiding her. Maybe it was because she was a woman, maybe it was just because she was who she was. There was probably some karmic connection binding them together in this life. Whatever it was, she'd never expected to be swept off her feet, to fall head-over-heels. But that's what had happened.

As she sat on the terrace and felt the sun warm her skin, a cold shiver of fear crept into her heart. What happens next? Where do we go from here?

She turned her attention to watch a thin blond woman attack the buffet line like she was a refugee from a famine, stacking her plate high with cold cuts, salami, and chunks of cheese. Wendy shuddered. Could she live in the West? Could she live anywhere people ate whole pigs for breakfast?

She was relieved to see Marybeth enter the dining room and walk out onto the terrace.

The two women couldn't help themselves; they couldn't contain their feelings. They reached for each other, their cool skin touching, zapping each other with sensual static, and embraced. Marybeth gave Wendy a sweet kiss on the lips and then sat down to eat some breakfast. Wendy recommended Marybeth try something traditionally Thai for breakfast. Even though it wasn't on the menu, Wendy convinced the waiter to have the kitchen whip up a couple bowls of
khao tom
, a soup of boiled rice topped with dried chilis and crispy squid.

…

Heidegger and Takako had spent the better part of the morning trying to convince Sheila and Turk that they should “stay together for the kids.”

The photographer had come and taken a couple of shots of Turk and Sheila—the parasol caused some lighting problems, as did Sheila's steadfast refusal to stand in the sunlight or have it bounced into her face with one of those shiny reflectors—for the press release that Takako was crafting. The pictures didn't do anyone any favors, Turk looking haggard and hungover, Sheila appearing underlit and distracted. The background didn't help either—the palm trees and ocean making it look more like a vacation travelogue than a story of abduction and rescue—but the colors would reproduce well in the glossy magazines.

Sheila and Turk listened respectfully to Heidegger's take on the situation. There were, according to him, millions of dollars to be made and a musical career to resurrect. Sheila wasn't interested in the money or, for that matter, Turk's musical ambitions. She had things she wanted to do. Things she didn't want to talk about.

Turk was ready to take her side and just forget about it when she said something that pissed him off. She turned to him with an almost accusatory expression and said, “It's your fault I don't love you anymore. If you'd paid the ransom on time, I wouldn't have discovered myself.”

Turk held his hands up in the air. “My fault? I paid it as fast as I fucking could.”

Sheila turned away from him. “Whatever. It's too late now.”

“And what do you mean you ‘discovered' yourself?”

“I had a lot of time to think. That's all.”

Heidegger intervened. “You don't have to sleep together. Just cohabitate for a little while. Until we get the record finished.”

Sheila was silent for a moment, as if she were actually considering it. Then she turned to Heidegger.

“I'm sorry.”

“Sheila. Please. You don't have to decide now. Think about it.”

Sheila looked off at the ocean; she thought about Somporn.

“I want to do some traveling.”

Heidegger nodded. “That's fine. No problem. You can come on tour with the band.”

Sheila shook her head. “I want to travel by myself.”

Turk could see that she was crying, the tears streaming down her face as she tried not to break down. He couldn't stand to see her like that.

“Fuck it.”

Heidegger and Takako turned to look at him.

“What?”

“Fuck it. We're not going to do it. We're not going to pretend anything.”

“You need to think this through. As your manager, please listen to me and sleep on it. We don't have to decide anything right now.”

Takako didn't like the sound of that. “However, sooner would be better.”

Turk pointed to Sheila. “She can't do it, and I'm not going to make her.”

Heidegger heaved a sigh. “Think about it, Turk. You're throwing away a great deal. It's everything you told me you wanted. You'd get to play music again, but on your own terms with your own band. Do you really want to give that up?”

They were all staring at him: Sheila, Heidegger, and Takako. They all wanted something from him. Each with their own agenda. But what did Turk want? What was his agenda?

What Turk wanted was a beer. In fact, he needed a beer now more than he could ever remember. He raised his hand to signal the waiter to order one; and yet, when the waiter came over and Turk opened his mouth to ask for a beer, the words “iced tea” came out instead, surprising everyone at the table, Turk more than anyone.

…

Roy stood in the taxi line and watched with growing irritation as the nice, air-conditioned cars took all the Western tourists. Eventually he signaled to a
tuk tuk
driver and climbed in. It was annoying, but he didn't take it personally; he hadn't planned on tipping anyway.

The
tuk tuk
took him to Ben's hotel. Roy had already called the hotel manager and told him to seal off Ben's room. If there was any evidence, say a loose hand grenade under the pillow, Roy wanted to find it before the housekeeper did.

He knew that Ben was dead; he just did. Not that he and Ben were on the same wavelength. Ben had never been the nicest boss—he was demanding, pushy, and always worried about germs. If Ben were alive he'd have been on the
phone, yelling at him, telling him to do stuff, admonishing him to wash his hands with sanitizing gel.

Roy arrived at the hotel and showed his identification—and a thousand baht—to the hotel manager. That got him the room key. Roy also made arrangements to keep the room for an extra day. Why not take a little time and see the sights. He'd never been to Phuket.

Roy slipped the electronic card into the slot and the little light turned green. He withdrew the card and turned the handle. He opened the door slowly, half expecting to find a dead Ben moldering in the bathtub. But the room was empty. No body, no tactical kit. Just Ben's clothes hanging in the closet, his toothbrush and electric shaver sitting by the bathroom sink.

Roy didn't know what to do exactly, but he'd seen enough movies to know that he should make a thorough search of the room and Ben's effects. He began by rifling through the pockets of Ben's jacket and pants. He found receipts from various restaurants. He found about two hundred baht worth of loose change in the pants. He found four small bottles of hand sanitizing gel, and he found a slip of paper with a strange list written on it. Roy studied the list, but couldn't make sense of what it might mean. It read:
Maui (golf all year), Nassau (banking), Vermont or Alaska (maybe)
.

Roy decided he needed to be systematic. He pulled Ben's small suitcase out of the closet, went through every pouch, and then placed it on the bed and began filling it with clothes once he'd searched them. He'd stick his hands in every pocket, feel the lining and lapels of every shirt and jacket, the cuffs and waistband of every pair of pants that Ben owned. Even
the socks got turned inside out. The underwear—those tight white briefs that American men wore—he tossed on the floor.

When he had exhausted all the clothing and gone through every drawer, even looking in the minibar—taking a beer—and behind the television, he sat down on the overstuffed chair. That's when it occurred to him that he needed to search the chair, the mattress, and the little area behind the toilet where people always hid things in the movies.

He rifled the chair, flipping it upside down and poking a hole in the netting underneath. He discovered nothing but kapok. He started to lift the mattress up, then got on his hands and knees and looked under the bed. There, he found a suitcase.

Roy pulled the suitcase out and kneeled in front of it. As he pulled the zipper down, he had the nauseating thought that he might find Ben, sliced and diced and packaged in little plastic bags, in the suitcase. To his relief—in every possible way a person can be relieved—he found a million dollars in cash.