Salty (31 page)

Roy sat back on the chair and helped himself to another beer. He stared at the pile of cash. He didn't know where it had come from or what Ben had been up to down here, but he knew one thing for sure. He wasn't going back to Bangkok.

…

Heidegger sat on a chaise longue, drinking a cocktail and talking on his cell phone. He was in full damage control mode, trying to convince the record company that despite the complications, Turk's record was going to be a megahit. He felt slightly out of place. All around him people were relaxing,
unwinding, forgetting their troubles. And here he was, yelling into his cell phone to some sleepy A&R guy in Los Angeles. It made him realize that he needed a vacation. Turk and Sheila had made up their minds and that was that, there wasn't anything he could do but try and salvage something for Turk. He had made his pitch to the record company. But without the media glare and the extensive coverage, they weren't interested in the solo effort of an aging heavy metal bass player. Heidegger hung up, flipping his phone shut with a distinct snap; he had done what he could do. A manager has only so much control.

He leaned back in his chair and heaved a sigh. He looked at the beach, at the clear, perfect water, and at the topless women lying in the sun, and thought,
Maybe I should stay on a few extra days
.

…

Takako was back in her room, listening to the diabolical sounds of a molasses-slow dial-up connection and wondering what she was going to say to people. She was annoyed to the point of rage. What was wrong with these people? Didn't they understand that she wasn't just a publicist? She was a fucking publicist-as-artist. The scenario she had concocted was a masterpiece, probably her greatest work ever. She felt like Michelangelo learning that the Pope had suddenly decided to put in a drop ceiling with acoustical tiles after he'd painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
Philistines
. Especially Sheila. What was that woman's problem?

Takako searched through her luggage for one of the vitamin drinks she'd packed. Maybe it was a placebo effect,
maybe it was the B vitamins, the ginkgo, or the royal jelly, but the sour-tasting drinks always left her feeling energized and clear-headed. And right now, she needed the boost. She had a long day ahead of her.

…

Turk had been lying there for at least an hour. Letting the masseuse massage away his aches and pains, the knots that had gripped his neck and shoulders like a vise, the stress and tension that gave him a migraine. Sheila was safe; he could let go of that. She would move on and live her life the way she wanted. Who was he to tell her anything different? He had nothing to offer her but a prenuptially arranged cash bonus. The kidnappers and government agent were, with any luck, in the past. Without the press coverage of a happy couple reunited, the record deal was off, and Turk didn't care. It wasn't about a media circus, it was about the music, and if the record company didn't think that way, Turk didn't want to be with them anyway. No wife, no band, no record deal. You'd think he'd be depressed, but in fact he was feeling happy, pounds lighter and years younger. He was even letting go of the resentment he felt toward Steve and Bruno for disbanding Metal Assassin.

His schedule was cleared; there was nothing on his plate. He was free to do whatever he wanted with his life. Turk realized he was in an enviable position; not many people could afford to do nothing if they wanted. But he wasn't going to do nothing. He knew, deep in his heart, what he wanted to do. He wanted to rock. That's who he was.

Turk realized that it was time for him to step forward, to live life his way. It's what his shrink had told him in rehab. It's what they try to get you to do in group therapy. They always say, “Be true to yourself.” But then they never want you to embrace your inner slut. They never want you to be a headbanger, to crank the volume up to eleven on your Marshall backline and blow out the windows with a heavy-metal hurricane. What they mean is “Be like everyone else.” But Turk finally understood who he was, he knew how to honor his true self, and he knew what to say to the shrinks who had convinced him he was a sex addict.

Fuck you
.

That's what he'd say.

Turk let out a moan of pleasure. He liked the Thai style of massage, the loose cotton pajamas they made you wear, the fact that they stretched you out like in a yoga class but you didn't have to do any of the work. Even though he was relaxed, deeply relaxed, he could feel his cock stiffening. He was excited. Anticipating the happy finish to come.

…

Wendy and Marybeth lay together, naked, on top of the bed in their hotel room. Although it was hot out and they'd just made love, neither one of them drifted off to sleep. Instead there was a kind of quiet anxiety buzzing in the air, like some kind of mosquito who'd suck the infatuation right out of your blood if he bit you.

They lay there, arms and legs and bodies intertwined, just holding each other, breathing, neither one of them willing
to speak, to break the spell, to say the wrong thing or the right thing or anything that could fuck everything up.

But finally, someone had to say something.

“There's really good Thai food in Los Angeles. You'd feel right at home.”

Wendy looked at Marybeth.

“You want me to come with you?”

Marybeth nodded. That should've been enough, but she couldn't stop herself, she couldn't believe what came out of her mouth. It violated all the rules she'd lived by, all the expectations she'd had for her entire life.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“How do you say that in Thai?”

Captain Somporn sat at a table in front of the Café Tenerife looking out at a bustling open-air market. Kiosks sold fruits and vegetables, honey, clothes, all kinds of things. Several street musicians, bearded young men in jeans, played acoustic guitars and sang in English as locals passed by, ignoring their protest songs and the guitar cases gaping on the ground, hungry for spare change.

Somporn was glad he was here. Everyone was handsome, tall and blond with pale white skin. He hadn't planned to come to Norway; for some reason Sweden had seemed like the place to go. Perhaps it had been seeing Ursula Andress in those old movies that made him think of Sweden. But he had found a brochure about Norway in a Bangalore travel agency office and decided to come here instead.

This plaza, called the Youngstorget, was perfect for his plans. There was a convergence of streets, a large fountain dominating the center of the square, and a crowd of tourists to disappear into if he had to make a dash.

He was surprised he'd contacted her. He thought he'd never see her again.

When he'd left Turk and Sheila with his men, he had planned to go to Hong Kong and invest the money. But as he returned to the cove, retraced his steps, and began to dig up the buried treasure, he decided that he couldn't go back to the pirate life. It was too dangerous. He just wasn't bloodthirsty anymore. To be a successful pirate—and he had been successful by any standards—you needed to be cutthroat, fearless, and strategically smart. Although he was confident enough in his planning abilities, he didn't feel particularly ruthless. Sheila had changed that. Her presence in the camp had exposed his weakness. She had made him soft, sentimental. One thing he knew for sure: a sentimental pirate wouldn't last long on the South China Sea. Any weakness would be exploited—if not by his men, then by the authorities. He'd end up dead or in jail waiting to die, and he wasn't about to let that happen.

Instead of going to Hong Kong, he'd diverted his trip and taken a cargo ship to Singapore. There he bribed a sympathetic banker and converted his cash into a sizable bank account with a firm headquartered in Geneva. With the money in the bank, he took his time. He laid low. He watched movies to try and improve his English. He quit smoking.

One day he picked up an Australian magazine and saw the photographs of Turk and Sheila in Phuket, along with an announcement that their divorce had been finalized. It had been six months since he'd seen Sheila, but he thought about her every day. Maybe now would be the time to take a risk and contact her. So he flew to Oslo from India—he had moved there because he liked the food—and began scouting for a safe location to meet.

Once he had determined that the Youngstorget was ideal for this kind of thing, he found an Internet café and wrote
Sheila a quick e-mail. It said simply:
Youngstorget, Oslo, Norway. Fourteen hundred hours. Forty-eight hours from today
. He didn't sign it.

Now he waited, eating some fresh grilled shrimp and drinking a very tasty Norwegian lager in front of the Café Tenerife.

Sheila had to scramble to get a ticket. She had managed to get on a flight to Gatwick from LAX with about two minutes to spare and then had a six-hour layover before getting on a connecting flight to Oslo. If her calculations were correct, she had an hour and a half to get from the Oslo airport to some place called Youngstorget.

For months she'd been waiting to hear from the Captain. Compulsively checking her e-mail almost hourly for any word. But as the months passed and the search for a new home—she moved into a nice apartment in Santa Monica—and the divorce negotiations began to take up more and more of her time, she began to check only once a day. Not hearing from him, opening her e-mail in-box and finding nothing each time, became too depressing to bear—each time, it was like a little stab in the heart. She'd begun to believe that something bad had happened to him, that he was shipwrecked somewhere, or being held in a Thai prison.

Then the e-mail arrived and now here she was, in the back of a cab, heading toward downtown Oslo.

…

Somporn saw her first and broke out in a big grin. She was hard to miss with the bright Thai parasol raised above her head. He watched as Sheila sat on a bench by the fountain,
checking her watch. He scanned the area around her, looking for signs of a trap, of law enforcement lurking. It might be the biggest risk of his life, but he couldn't help it. He had to see her beautiful skin again.

Somporn finished his beer and paid his check. He didn't want her to be in the sun too long.

Turk stopped and leaned against the wall of the Viper Room. His amp—tiny compared to the size of the gear he used to use—stood on a dolly next to him. Turk lifted his sunglasses and wiped the sweat that was dripping off his forehead, rolling down his neck. Now he understood why Metal Assassin had employed a dozen roadies and guitar techs. Who wants to lug this heavy shit around? Even with the dolly, pulling the equipment up a hill was serious work.

Dani, the drummer, walked past him carrying one of her drum cases.

“You okay?”

Turk nodded. “I need a lighter amp.”

Dani smiled at him. “When we get a deal, we'll hire some roadies.”

Her belief in the music, the concept of making it as a band, was so pure and optimistic that Turk grinned. “Right on.”

Dani laughed. The idea that someone might actually use the expression
“Right on”
struck her as comically old-fashioned.

“You want a hand?”

“Nah. I got it.”

Dani nodded and let out a whoop.

“For those about to rock!”

She carried her gear toward the club's door. Turk followed, dragging his amp behind him.

…

Marybeth leaned in close to the mirror, concentrating as she drew a black line along the lower lid of her eye. Recently she'd stopped wearing such dramatic makeup, but tonight she was going to see Turk's new band play at the Viper Room and she wanted to look the part. She was wearing knee-high leather boots, fishnets, a leather miniskirt, and a silver leather bomber jacket over a see-through black bra. She put her hair up in a high ponytail, cinching it with a studded leather bracelet. She looked at herself in the mirror and laughed. It was like playing dress-up. She hoped it wouldn't freak Wendy out.

Marybeth had gotten Wendy a green card through an immigration official she had worked with before—all those British bands needed work permits—and it had only cost her a Stratocaster autographed by Metal Assassin. In turn, Wendy had introduced Marybeth to Thai Buddhism. They now spent every Sunday morning at the
Wat Thai
in North Hollywood, Marybeth learning about Buddhism and the Thai language, Wendy playing a vicious fast game of badminton.

Marybeth had been amazed at how quickly Wendy—and her own new sexual orientation—had been accepted by her friends and family. Her college roommate even told her that she wasn't surprised; she'd always thought she was gay. Even her mother approved, calling Wendy a “real keeper.” It
felt a little strange. The idea that people might know more about you than you know about yourself.

Wendy burst out laughing when she saw Marybeth; she thought her girlfriend looked adorable. But then she worried that she herself wasn't dressed for the occasion. Somehow the slinky silk dress and simple flat shoes that she wore working as a hostess at a fancy Thai restaurant just weren't appropriate for the mosh pit at the Viper Room. Marybeth thought the same thing, and pulled a black leather jacket—a Metal Assassin logo crudely splattered on the back—and a pair of black boots from the backseat of her car. Wendy laughed, put on the jacket, and then, using some of Marybeth's makeup, added deep purple streaks to her eyelids and a smear of bright red to her lips.

The effect took Marybeth's breath away. She wanted to park the car and fuck Wendy in the backseat right then and there. But she didn't; she could wait. Anticipating it was half the fun.

…

The band was blisteringly loud; Heidegger was glad he'd remembered his earplugs. He stood in the back and scanned the room, noting the reaction of the crowd. L.A. audiences are notoriously hard to impress, often giving even the best bands the cold shoulder. But tonight they seemed to be into it.