Chapter Five
Little Miss Lonesome tonight. Almost midnight and she stepped from a battered taxi into the main drag of Angeles City, an arduous bus ride from Metro Manila given the flooding. It had been a terrible thing, what took place. Now it was bail-out time…
A tightrope walker must always have ‘Plan-B’.
The tightrope walker, the name on her papers -- Jaisuwan Pakdee-Chayochaichana -- remained hidden, her name longer than anybody else’s and nobody could say or even pronounce it anyhow. They called her ‘Anna’. Everybody called her by that name.
From now on she could blend in or be killed…she adjusted her blouse having changed in the mother’s room at the bus station, discarding the old one that was saturated with blood. Still had the taste in her mouth after biting her attacker’s arm. Easy! She could chomp through a branch of oak ever since the reconstruction.
It was her first ever visit to Angeles City but she had studied the maps well beforehand, there was an address she knew she must find and quickly. Fast approaching midnight, she hadn’t slept for ages but she was in survival mode. Flight or fight. She tried to cast out any thoughts of the Hatfield boy.
He’d be dead by now.
She was searching for a large place known as the ‘Montego Bay A-Go Go’, she knew the place had some fellow countrymen there; they worked there, entertainers. People in their thousands, drawn like moths along Fields Avenue by a stream of lights and thumping music along the way. Crowds milled along the closed-off section. At the witching hour the place was full, roughened old foreigners with their girls, trike operators, and packs of urchins, those watching or being watched. Young couples strolling arm in arm. Bar-hop and Karaoke; anything the fun-doctor ordered. Local people returning home and drifting to work…drunks, demons and nearby a group of pious Catholic nuns were handing out leaflets to sinners aplenty. They were in competition with the holy-rollers, the born-again preachers who occupied the opposite side of Margarita Station; they bellowed and thundered their dire warnings of lakes of fire and repentance.
“The end is nigh,” cried the missionary man, a sallow foreigner with black trousers, a briefcase and a megaphone into which he bellowed: “Behold your savior…repent! Embrace the Lord!”
Pakdee-Chayochaichana copped the trumpeting from the preacher in her right ear, she turned and gave the man a withering stare…he shut up for just a moment. “The end’ll be nigh for you, my friend,” she snarled at the guy. She kept going. In her country the guy would be locked up. Religious maniacs.
Toward the end she saw the neon signs and imitation palm trees out front, found it. Opposite stood three noisy loudmouth Europeans who were cursing and waving their arms, they’d just been thrown out; she sidestepped them and approached a door shrouded by a black curtain.
Two Filipino ‘machos’ stood there, skylarking; both had dark suit pants and skintight tee-shirts with the sleeves rolled up, one tee-shirt bore the logo ‘MANNY PACQUIAO’ the home grown world champion; pound for pound the hardest hitting fighter in history. Moments earlier they’d ejected the three visitors amid a hail of fisticuffs and slaps from stiletto shoes after one of them had tried to rip the bikini-top from one of the dancers inside. They were on the far side of the potholed road yelling at all and sundry, if they returned they would likely be lynched so they could stay on the other side and shout all night. Seated nearby the bouncers was an elderly security guard with a revolver, a nightstick and an old stainless flashlight. Above the entrance was a sign posted:
‘NO WEAPONS, NO DRUGS AND NO UNACCOMPANIED LADIES.’
The doormen saw her approach and blocked the door.
“Very sorry, ma’am. No single ladies allowed in; read the notice please.” ‘Manny’ spoke. For all his muscles and lightning fists he had a high and effeminate voice.
Had to get inside. She stood in front of them and addressed the one blocking the way:
“Excuse me; velly solly. I ohn-ree visitor. I tourist visit from Korea.”
She spoke in deliberately broken Pidgin-English. Reality was she could speak and write English better than any professor in a bow-tie.
The bouncers looked at each other and back at her; at five-eight-plus she was as tall as they were and in her right hand were three yellow notes, each one bearing the quotation:
‘THE FILIPINO IS WORTH DYING FOR.’
Five hundred Pesos times three, one each for the doormen and one for the old guard whose face brightened; he nodded to the welterweights and the door swung upon.
She entered to a thick fog of cigarette smoke, strobe lights and frigid air con. The stage to the center and on it were no less than twenty bored show girls, all of them from places with exotic names like ‘Samar Island’ and ‘General Santos’ and all in metallic gold bikinis, like everything else on ‘Fields’ would’ve been fashionable in the 1970s. They were clumsily attempting to move in high heels that matched the outfits. Pakdee squinted; they all had number badges on their tops, a disgrace she figured. Along the wall were seated a selection of older western guys and some big spenders from Japan and Korea, all totally outnumbered by females.
She searched the club and found what she had come for: on a second stage, raised a level higher was a line of four coyote dancers in denim micro hot pants and well secured tops along with platform running shoes…the adults-only cheerleaders from hell, fueled by a mix of whisky, sticky rice and stay-awake pills. Heavily tanned and heavily tattooed girls with the physiques of aerobics instructors. They turned one other around like little clockwork robots, unstoppable and powerful. Choreographed…’Radio-Viagra’ gave way to electronic house rhythms, it beat monotonously.
The coyote gang, all imported from Thailand; they were professionals, there to work, not look pretty. Thai pole dancers were popular these days…nubile and energetic; they ran rings around anybody. The Filipinos were talented singers however; they just couldn’t dance to save their lives. It was a peculiar trade.
As she approached one of the showgirls began to make eye contact, through the smoke a smile. Pakdee made her move, she motioned the dancer closer and discretely slid a banknote into the dancers’ fishnet, she smiled and mouthed the words ‘thank you’ then it was the dancer who took a good look at this customer’s tip -- a real twenty-dollar bill. The coyote girl stopped and gaped; removed the bill and shot another look at it drawing the attention of the manageress who moved in like a starving hyena. The mama-san was a middle aged boiler about thirteen stone and a face like a diesel locomotive, biceps bigger than the doormen and a personality to match her looks. Glared at the coyote then turned to Pakdee.
“You like?” yelled the mama-san in her ear, pointing to the stage above them.
“Beautiful! She can sit next to me, please. I buy her drink.”
“Where you come from?” The mama-san inched closer to her, the breath odor was foul, like the food.
“Korea -- I businesswoman,” nodding.
The mama-san was trying to figure this one out: thousands of Korean men of all ages came to Angeles and the strip, yet in all her years this was the first female to get inside the bar. She would have to have word with the doormen…she frowned. Kinky piece of work…
“These ladies, for dancing only!” The mama-san squawked like a sulfur-crested parrot. “Not go with customers.” She whirled around to the low stage stocked with dozens of local pretties; all bored witless, some texting as they tried to dance, others falling asleep as they clutched the stainless poles. “Take your pick.”
“Local girls are lazy!” Pakdee yelled over the music…some cash thrust into the mama-san’s hand. A lot of cash. The stout boiler gaped at the Pesos then she shrieked at the dancer who stopped and approached, she came and squatted down, flashing a broad dumb-ass smile. Bimbos need not always be blondes.
“Where you stay?” The mama-san demanded; she frowned at the ‘businesswoman’.
Pakdee handed the mama-san a card. “
Close by,” she said.
Several minutes later, the coyote had changed, gotten her bag; they stepped out from the Montego Bay into the street and crossed to where the taxi-trikes waited and Pakdee spoke to the dancer, this time in Thai language: “We are going to your place, not mine.”
The dancer stopped dead, hearing this, one of her own. Before she could collect her thoughts they were interrupted, this time by a wolf-whistle and booming voice from its inebriated owner. They faced the swaying drunk giant. The way was blocked.
“Excuse me?”
“Sexy ladies, where you go?” A guttural voice. The big European and his companions had seen them leave the club, arm-in-arm.
A threesome; dream on.
The nightclub was on the other side of the road. The dancer was behind her new friend and she saw her flex her left hand, the wristwatch she had on clicked open and slid into her back pocket. Then the coyote saw, on her new friend’s right wrist was a solid and chunky bracelet shaped like a cobra, shiny and wrapping the entire way around, jagged edged and sharp on the outside. Flicked up her collar; sewn in the top of Pakdee’s silk jacket was a line of no less than two dozen razor blades, designed to tear off the thumb of anyone who grabbed her from behind. Tooled up, more booby traps than a prison gang would take to a rumble.
No need to say a word, Nattaya Coyote the dancer, dropped back.
“Please move out of our way, now or I will move you myself.” The taller lady spoke with no emotion. “I only ask one time…”
The drunk leaned closer to her. Wasn’t moving. Mouth like a brewery.
“You und vich army?”
A minute spec of saliva landed on her forehead, Pakdee grimaced. Yuck.
“Trust me when I say -- you do not want to meet my army -- ever…”
He snorted, no intention of moving; he looked sideways at his buddy then back at the two girls, never knew what hit him. The palm of her hand crashed into his nose shattering it like a door slammed in his face, she followed and landed her right knee hard in his lower chest with a sharp crack, dropping him sideways on the mud. The second man let fly with a wide and predictable haymaker that flew over her head and she ducked, punching him hard in the groin, doubling him over with a howl of pain then shoving him by the collar into the ground with a hard thump. He landed and struck jaw-first on something hard, out cold. She leapt at the third one who turned to run, he tripped in a pot-hole, twisting his ankle and falling, winded. None of them got up.
Five seconds, maybe a fraction less.
Pakdee spun around to check on the dancer and she caught sight of the club doormen bolting toward them. She squared up to the two Filipinos stopping them in their tracks -- they couldn’t miss the injured foreigners, one would be sore and the other two would need a bus.
“Easy, ma’am.” The high voice with the ‘Manny’ shirt held up his hand. “We just came to see if you needed assistance.” He glanced at the other doorman, muttering something in Tagalog.
One on the ground clutching his ribcage with blood all over his shirt, the second one unconscious and the third doubled up a few feet away. Bawling his blue eyes out. The doormen backed away and returned to the club entrance. The manager surely would be having words about this; they had broken all the rules. They had let an unaccompanied lady and a weapon inside. Drugs? No idea what she’d taken…PCP maybe? The Filipino boys had got a few good ones in before the Germans stormed out but now it looked like a cement-truck had ploughed right through them -- head on.
The dancer had a look of fear when her new friend from the old country took her by the wrist and she struggled, resisting. Grip like a vice.
“Come -- we are going to your room, not mine. I don’t have a room.”
The dancer stammered, shaking her head, making excuses. Nervous now.
“I’m meant to dance…I never go with another lady customer before-”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” She jerked the dancer toward a waiting taxi-trike; they needed to leave quickly as a crowd was starting to gather. “I never sleep with another woman in my life. I need somewhere to stay. The bar fine was just to get you out of there.”
Once they were away the tension eased. Pakdee turned to the coyote girl crammed next to her in the little side-car.
“My friends call me Anna.”
The dancer nodded. “My name is Nat -- short for Nattaya…” She giggled. “Where’d you learn boxing like that? Are you a man dressed up-”
“You mean a lady boy? No way! Some call me that. I am no different to you.”
Nat frowned. “Are you dangerous for me?”
“Not if you keep your trap shut.” She paused a moment as the trike clattered over some huge pot-holes, throwing up water. “I only need to disappear for a few days. I will pay handsomely then I will go. If you agree to this we will reward you. The time comes for you to return to your home we will look out for you and we will not forget.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
Pakdee turned and drew close. Hot breath, a whiff of peppermint, sterile…she chewed gum incessantly. The coyote-girl saw the eyes, jet black, and a little black stud in the ear visible to her…a tiny ace of spades.
“If you don’t agree then so many bad things might happen, to me but maybe for you too,” she said. “I am doing a job for some people. They are the kind of people you don’t wish to meet. Trust me.”
“Who do you work for then? Are you mafia?”
‘Mafia’, the term was distasteful. Pakdee turned away for a moment. “I work for one man, an officer and patriot, a person of power and influence. He is not mafia. He is a good man.” The tiny vehicle clattered and jarred them both. “Give me shelter I will make it worth your while. We are countrymen. Never forget, we are Thai people and we are not the same as others…so do we have a deal or not?”
Nattaya thought about this before nodding. “Deal!”
Pakdee extended her right hand this time, the same hand that could knock a person out cold or rupture someone’s nuts. They were squeezed into the tiny sidecar on the trike and the dancer felt respect, she was awed by her new friend, the way she had dropped the three drunks. Tentatively they shook.
The coyote gang took her in to their squalid box, they moved into the other room. Four girls to a double-mattress, their guest wanted the other room alone. In the sanctuary of a steamy fan-cooled solitude, Pakdee Chayochaichana collected her thoughts.
How could it turn out like this?
The orders from above had been clear: Infiltrate the gang, seduce them if necessary. Dazzle them with her financial prowess and the people she knew then convince them to move offshore; away from Bangkok and preferably out of the region altogether. Steal or misplace the things they were selling. The cargo business, the airfreight and now Hatfield’s abduction, day before yesterday. Taken. No warning at all, out of the blue.
A feeling of rage overcame her. A true gentleman, he was honest and bright, perhaps too honest for his own good and the only foreigner she had really liked, save her adoptive parents.
The dealings with Will Hatfield had overstepped the mark -- no longer a ‘honey pot’ trap, he was so different.
Shaking with anger. Somebody would pay. Sure!
There were enough greenbacks to survive as long as necessary, stashed as only she knew how. A few tucked in her top; another three grand in Franklins rolled tightly into a little rubber gadget and secreted. Stay off the radar, no calls, no internet and stay inside. One other thing, she needed a concealable, a nine would be ideal just in case and plenty of rounds. A cinch to buy here, whole place was awash with guns.
She was dead-tired and slid back on the bedding, soon she would sleep but the dreams that hounded her would surely come. They always did, especially when there was danger around. Not so much nightmares, more like bad dreams…really bad…the aimless spirits of deceased children. Killed by fevers and misadventures; traffic acciden
ts or murdered. There was a word in Thai language for this kind of ghost…it wasn’t a very nice word. Dead ones, taken before their time was due.
The child would reach out, follow her and send her mad. Only had to touch her just one single time and that would be the end, she would cross over. No return.
The child-spirit held out its hands; burning with bright yellow flames…flaming hands…a sure sign of deceit and danger.
“Anne! Sister Anne! Come play! Take care of me! Don’t leave me.”
Every time Pakdee slept. Forever walking over the lake with the other lost souls in that white gown, the dead always wore white. Whenever danger was close.
Holed up in there, then came the day and the English-edition newspaper, one of the coyote-gang was reading it. Uncensored color images, the crime and the outrage. Will Hatfield’s remains had been found. She wanted to scream but kept silent, just shaking, gagging. The coyote girls had picked up a gun for her somewhere. She shut her eyes and cocked the stainless Beretta and held the muzzle to her heart a while, shaking uncontrollably before dropping it in front of her. She hit the mattress cover again and again with her hands until she had no strength left. No grief left either. Only purpose now was to finish the job she had started.
Handle it! Squeeze the trigger for what; we all die someday…
She took a deep breath.
Get up! Get it together!
Now her turn to strike back and strike hard…she picked up the heavy thing and closed the hammer, carefully. Knew how to use it, too…they’d taught her, her controllers. She was a marksman. Put all fifteen shots into a cigarette packet from ten yards using an M9; she’d done it once, she could outscore the regular soldiers. Even the instructor, he couldn’t do that. This gun the girls had got for her, exactly the same, she stuffed it in behind her belt, and she stood. She cracked her knuckles, cracked her neck. Stretched and took a deep breath, held her hands out, the trembling had stopped. A sense of purpose, at last. She’d need to find Will Hatfield even if he had been killed, see for herself. Get some closure. Carry on with the mission. Her job.
She’d need to get back home. Settle the score. Hunt them all down. Snuff ‘em out like rats. That’s what the syndicate members were; they were rats…every single last one of them. Rats!