The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (29 page)

There were no chopsticks to be seen and the Thais eating at the other tables were using just a spoon and fork. The fork was used to load up the spoon which was then transferred to the mouth. The Americans followed their example.

“God, this is good food, all right,” said Carmody, his mouth full. He gestured at Lewis with his fork. “Come on, Bart. Eat up.”

Lewis was disconsolately pushing a prawn around his plate with his fork. “I’m not really hungry,” he said.

“More for the rest of us,” said Carmody.

“Are you okay?” Lehman asked.

Lewis raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, I’m fine. Honest. I just haven’t much of an appetite, that’s all. I think maybe I picked up a bug in Nam.”

“Yeah, standards of hygiene there aren’t what they should be, that’s for sure,” agreed Carmody, grains of cooked rice spilling from between his lips as he spoke.

When the bill came, Tyler picked it up before any of them could reach for it and he dumped a wad of notes on to the tray. “My treat,” he said, waving away their protests. The Mercedes had the engine running and the aircon was on full blast. When they’d all climbed in Tyler twisted around in his seat and grinned. “Well, gentlemen, are we ready for Pat Pong?”

Carmody whooped and Lewis slapped the back of the driver’s seat. Even Horvitz was smiling.

The Mercedes threaded its way through the parked tuk-tuks and motorcycles which were waiting outside the restaurant. Even though it was well past the rush hour the roads were still packed with cars and it took almost an hour to reach the red light area.

Pat Pong was actually two roads – Pat Pong One and Pat Pong Two – both lined with garish bars and massage parlours. Tyler asked the driver to stop at the head of Pat Pong One and not to bother waiting for them.

“I reckon we’ll be here for a fair while,” he said to Lehman. “And there are always taxis waiting. Besides, we might not all be going home at the same time.” He winked at Carmody. “Or to the same place.”

The five Americans stood on the sidewalk looking around as the Mercedes pulled away. The air was filled with raunchy music and high-pitched shouts and yells, blended together with the omnipresent rumble of traffic and buzz of motorcycles and scooters. Young Thai boys were calling out to tourists as they wandered down the strip. “You want girl? You want see show? Real sex show. No charge. You want massage?” Down the centre of the road was a line of stalls selling cheap clothes, cassette and video tapes and souvenirs. Lehman breathed in the night air, a heady mix of exotic spices, sweat and exhaust fumes. A teenage Thai boy tugged at the back of his shirt and grinned when Lehman turned to look at him.

“Sex show?” the boy said, nodding encouragingly.

Lehman shook his head.

“You want boy?”

“Christ, no. Definitely not.”

“Go on, Dan,” leered Carmody. “Go for it.”

Lehman said nothing, but he scowled and gave Carmody the finger.

The Americans were soon surrounded by a group of young Thai men entreating them to try the various delights of Pat Pong, which seemed to consist of sex shows, young girls, young boys, and one very seedy-looking individual who promised the participation of a very large dog. They became increasingly vocal and aggressive until Tyler spoke to them sharply in their own language and they backed away.

“Come on, a friend of mine used to run a bar down here,” Tyler said to the Americans. “Let’s see if he’s still there.” Without waiting for them to agree he made off down the crowded sidewalk, ignoring the hustlers and pimps who stood at every doorway alongside girls in bikinis and miniskirts. The vets followed close behind, weaving their way through the crowds.

“Here it is,” said Tyler and he veered left, through a doorway and up a flight of steep wooden steps. Lehman had no time to catch the name of the bar, but it seemed to be no different from the scores of others they had walked by. From somewhere above their heads they could hear a pulsing beat, and as they climbed higher it grew louder and clearer. It was the Rolling Stones’ “Paint It Black”.

At the top of the stairs were a pair of wooden doors with small glass windows set into them. The glass was criss-crossed with embedded wires but through it the Americans could see flashing lights, red, blue and green. On either side of the doors sat pretty young Thai girls wearing bright orange bikinis, smoking cigarettes and giggling. Judging their ages was next to impossible: their skins were golden brown and unlined, their hair jet black and glossy, with the muscle tone of teenagers but the world-weary eyes of girls who’d slept with too many men at too young an age. Lehman would have put them at between sixteen and twenty-eight years old, but wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been told that some of them were in their thirties. They jumped to their feet as they saw the Americans coming up the stairs, flashing white smiles and stubbing out their cigarettes.

“Welcome, welcome,” they sang, like startled songbirds, and pushed open the double doors. Music billowed out like fog, and they blinked as they walked into the main bar. It was almost too much to take in at once, a sensory overload that made their minds whirl. To the left was a raised oblong dance-floor, about one metre wide and ten metres long, on which stood four girls, naked except for identical pairs of black high-heeled shoes, gyrating in time to the music and smiling at no one in particular. Lehman felt something warm and dry slide into his hand and squeeze, and when he looked down it was to see a small girl looking up at him. She was wearing the same orange bikini as the girls outside and it did little to conceal her breasts which she jiggled against his arm as she grinned up at him.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi,” replied Lehman. She had shoulder-length hair, as black as tar, parted in the middle with a small, black and white bow at the back. Her eyes were a melting brown and wide, her nose was slightly flattened as if she were pressing her face against a glass window and she pouted her lips as if someone had told her that it was the way to a man’s heart. She was pretty, but in a girlish way, and Lehman felt slightly uneasy at his hand being held by such a young girl wearing little more than her underwear. He had the feeling that if it had happened in a bar in Los Angeles he’d be jumped on by the Vice Squad, but as he looked around he could see that the bar was full of middle-aged men being similarly attended to by teenage girls.

“You like me?” she said, and giggled when Lehman said that he did. Horvitz and Lewis had also been grabbed by equally attractive girls and Tyler had been seized by two. From where Lehman was standing they looked like twins, tall for Thais with close-cropped hair and large breasts which they rubbed against his chest as they whispered to him.

Tyler was ignoring the twins and looking over at the main dance-floor which was circular and in the middle of the bar. Girls in white blouses and jeans were serving drinks to predominantly middle-aged male customers who sat on stools and watched the dozen or so naked girls dancing. Several of the girls were holding on to gold poles which ran from the ceiling to the floor and smiling whenever a customer caught their eye. Some of the girls were clearly very young, their bodies as sleek as baby seals with next to no hair between their legs, their smiles open and guileless. More girls were standing next to the drinking tourists, their hands rubbing and probing as they alternated between talking and pouting.

“My name Lorn,” said the girl at Lehman’s side. She pressed her hand against her flat stomach and moved it from side to side.

“Hello, Lorn. My name’s Dan.”

“Shall we sit down?” Tyler said, his voice carrying over the music without shouting.

The vets nodded and Tyler spoke in the ear of one of his twins. She nodded eagerly and led him over to the bar where she began moving girls aside and asking customers if they’d mind moving until she managed to arrange five empty stools. Tyler took the middle seat, with Carmody and Horvitz on his left, and Lewis and Lehman to his right.

Lorn snuggled up next to Lehman, her hand slipping deftly between his thighs as she rested her cheek against his arm. The twins stood behind Tyler, both with their arms around his waist and before their drinks had been placed in front of them, Horvitz, Lewis and Carmody also had company. Two spotlights above the bar were flashing different coloured beams of light which were reflected off a mirrored wall behind the bar and the reflections of the girls were swathed in red, blue and green light as they danced.

“You like me?” asked Lorn again.

“Of course,” said Lehman. “How old are you?”

He felt her shrug against his arm. “Seventeen,” she said. “What hotel you stay at?”

Lehman told her and she nodded wisely. “Good hotel,” she said. “We go now?”

“Go where?”

“Your hotel. We make love.” The hand squeezed him and pushed deeper between his legs.

“Looks like you’ve scored,” grinned Lewis. He had been taken over by a plump girl with waist-length hair who was stroking his arm and nuzzling his neck. “Brings back memories this, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, sure does,” agreed Lehman, though the thought flashed through his mind that most of the memories weren’t all that pleasant, and he regretted the times he’d bedded hookers – not because he’d ever caught anything but because he always felt so goddamn empty after the act. He looked down at Lorn’s pleading eyes and he was tempted, no doubt about it, but he knew that if he took her back to his room and made love to her, no matter how physically satisfying it was, he would feel disgusted with himself afterwards as she showered and dressed and left him in the empty bed.

She misread the look in his eyes and her smile widened. “We go now?” she said, bouncing up and down like a puppy wanting to go for a walk.

He smiled at her enthusiasm. “Maybe later,” he said. “Let me buy you a drink.”

She nodded and spoke to one of the waitresses in rapid Thai. “You buy for my friends?” she asked and Lehman agreed. Small glasses of clear liquid appeared in front of the girls, six in all. Lehman lifted up Lorn’s and tasted it. It was sweet and obviously non-alcoholic.

“Seven Up,” she said and smiled like a child.

“So you won’t get drunk,” said Lehman.

“Me not like drunk,” she said seriously and sipped at her drink.

The bill arrived in a blue plastic beaker which a waitress placed in front of Lehman. He lifted it out and looked at it. It was about a third of the price a round would have cost him in Los Angeles, and the company there wouldn’t have been anywhere near as pretty.

The music stopped with the sound of a needle being scraped across a record and the girls on the podium scrambled off and were replaced by a thin girl with pockmarked cheeks which she’d tried to conceal with make-up. She was wearing a black bikini which she peeled off as she moved lethargically around the stage to Frank Sinatra singing “New York, New York”. Her hands moved around her groin and then one finger slipped inside her vagina and emerged with a thin length of string as if she were about to pull out a sanitary towel. It grew longer and longer until she had almost eighteen inches pulled out and then something metallic slipped out from between her legs.

“Christ!” gasped Carmody. “That’s a fucking razor blade!”

The blade glinted wetly under the lights as it swung on the string. The girl pulled again and another six inches of string emerged followed by a second blade. The girl gyrated her hips and opened her legs wider and carried on pulling. A third blade slipped out, and a fourth, and a fifth. By the time she’d finished there were eight blades hanging on a piece of string which was a good five feet long. She held it above her head like washing on a line as her audience clapped enthusiastically.

“They can’t be real,” said Carmody. “They’d cut her to fucking bits.”

The girl smiled sweetly at Carmody and spoke to one of the waitresses who then handed Carmody a sheet of paper and asked him to hold it out in front of him. He did as she asked and then the girl on the stage knelt down and took one of the blades in her hand. She drew it slowly down the paper and it cut it cleanly into two pieces.

“Looks real enough to me,” laughed Lewis, raising his glass.

“Well I’ll be fucked,” said Carmody, looking at the two pieces of paper.

“Larry, considering where we are I’d say that was a distinct possibility,” said Tyler.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Carmody, raising his glass.

The five Americans clashed their glasses together, raised them in salute, and drank.

“Dan, how you spell your name?” asked Lorn.

“Pardon?”

“Your name. How you spell?”

Lehman spelled his name and Lorn repeated it and then she leaned across the bar and spoke to the girl on the stage who was laying a large sheet of paper on the dance-floor as Frank Sinatra was replaced by the Beach Boys. Lorn slid back off the bar and grinned at Dan. “What’s happening?” he asked.

“Watch,” she said and waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

The girl squatted over the paper and held out her hand to one of the waitresses and took hold of a thick felt-tipped pen, holding it up for everyone to see.

“What’s going on?” Carmody asked.

“Watch,” said Lehman, raising and lowering his eyebrows. By his side Lorn giggled and pinched his arm.

The girl took the cap off the pen and slowly inserted it, backwards, into her vagina. Carmody began making whooping noises and banged his claw on the bar, rattling his glass. The men watched the pen gradually disappear until just two inches remained visible, then the girl positioned herself over the sheet of paper and began using small movements of her hips to write.