As many as thirty masseuses are sitting around reading magazines or gossiping in low voices, which causes the FBI to turn to me. “These girls, some of them could be… are they straight or on the Game?”
Ah! The simple mind of a farang. “When they work the second floor, they are totally straight. When they work the third floor, they are on the Game at the client’s option.”
“Are we talking morality by altitude, or am I missing something?”
“The second floor is traditional Thai massage, the third is oil. It is very difficult for a young woman to oil a man all over without arousing him, and we are a compassionate people.”
“Compassion pays better too, huh?”
“Three times the price of a straight massage, but the expense is all in the tip. The girls love the third floor, but we are on the second.”
“Got it” from the FBI.
Before we are allowed to climb the stairs to heaven, however, we must have our feet washed. The FBI is ill at ease when her girl tells her to take off her shoes and come sit down in front of a bowl of warm rose-water. No one to arrest, shoot, or interrogate here; Kimberley sees no outlet for her talents, and her forehead is a mass of stress wrinkles. She is afraid that having her feet washed in this way might be anti-American, like cricket and Communism. Five minutes later she turns to me with a clear brow. “Amazing what a lift a simple little thing like that can give you.” Her eyes are sparkling.
I tell the two masseuses that the FBI and I will have adjoining mattresses. Actually, the whole of the second floor consists of mattresses divided one from the other by thin curtains, so we can talk in low voices while the masseuses work on us. We change into thin cotton pants and shirts. A grunt of satisfaction from Kimberley next door as she hits the mattress.
My girl has already begun working my feet, untangling knots of nerves and muscles with their mysterious connections all through the body. A sudden gasp comes from the FBI side. “Wow, it’s like something popped. This is reflexology, right? Isn’t the theory that every organ has a connection to the soles of the feet?”
“And every emotion arises from an organ.” I realize that in some way I am echoing the words of Damrong’s brother. I think of him alone in his cell with the corpse. I could never do it myself, but I understand enough to see how it might work: the disintegration of the cadaver was the liberation of his spirit. It’s a radical technique, though, frowned upon by orthodoxy these days, because the Sangha doesn’t want to be responsible for the cases that go wrong. No such qualms in Cambodia, apparently. How wrong did Phra Titanaka go?
“Yeah, I know that theory. Love is all chemical reactions.”
“Not only love. What the blind call life is virtual reality for those who see.”
Another grunt. “You’re losing me. I’m a nuts-and-bolts farang, remember. Want to know what I found out?”
“Of course.
“The masked man, the monster in the black gimp mask, we know who he is. His name is Stanislaus Kowlovski, Stan for short. Both parents were second-generation Polish immigrants.” She groans suddenly. “My god, I don’t know what organ that corresponded to, but a vivid clip of childhood memory just passed across my eyes. Where was I?”
“So we have the killer?”
“Not yet, but we have his Social Security number, fingerprints, everything. That isometric hardware you’ve got at the airport works fine. All I had to do was give the nerds the challenge of using the DVD to get a still of his irises. Took them less than five minutes.”
“How did they react to the DVD?”
A pause, then softly: “Same as me, Sonchai. Except maybe for a man it’s even worse, to see a beautiful young woman, full of life, do a thing like that. When I told them it wasn’t just a sick fantasy, she really died like that, they couldn’t take it. Hardened agents had to hold back the tears. Amazing.”
“So you’re hunting for him?”
“Sure. Everyone’s excited. International sex offenders are the flavor of the month all over the West. We’ll have him for sure in a few days, unless he has strong connections in another country, which I doubt. He might hail from Kansas, but he’s a California boy through and through.”
“Any rap sheet?”
“No form at all, but plenty of reputation. The LAPD know about him as a male porn star. There are dozens of low-rent movies with his dong in a supporting role.”
“All heterosexual?”
“Yes.”
“All sadistic?”
“No. Not a single one. He was a mainstream stud-you know, the obliging, smiling, baby-oiled, irresistible jock who fades into the background early in the flick while the camera homes in on the girl’s body. They showed me a few pix of him without the mask. A handsome male animal, strong jaw, toothpaste smile. If I didn’t know better, I would have categorized him as harmless beach-bum type-you know, the kind of Ivy League iron-pumper who makes a point of nor kicking sand in other guys’ faces because it’s uncool and blue collar.”
We both take a break from the investigation while the girls go deeper into the torture. Mostly these are country girls from Isaan who were tough enough even before they took up massage and are built like miniature brown tanks. I’m getting the elbow in the liver and trying to think of the next question.
“So, it must have been money that made him do it?”
“What else? It fits in a kind of way. Male porn stars fade as quickly as their female colleagues. He is forty-three, broke, technically bankrupt, and when that happens, you can bet loan sharks are making circles somewhere under the surface. We’re liaising with the LAPD. Ouch! Is it healthy to get an elbow in the gut like that?”
“Helps with digestion. Did any childhood clip come up when she did that?”
“Ten years of car sickness. We lived in Florida, but both sets of grandparents lived in New York. Reunions four times a year. We drove every time.”
A pause while my feet are bent inward and pressed. “So, what we really want is a lead to the paymasters?”
“I’m optimistic. Porn stars of either sex tend not to rate so high in IQ tests. A couple days of interrogation should give us everything.”
We both fall silent under the power of the Wat Po massage technique. There comes a point where the masseuse must confront the sex organ if her client is male. Usually one is totally relaxed and the girl delicately shifts your dormant member from one side of your groin to the other. Often there is humor in the moment, especially if the client has been finding the massage stimulating and the girl gives a why-are-you-so-big? twist to her lips. This time, though, in my relaxed and vulnerable state, the sudden erotic connection triggers off the nightmare I’ve avoided replaying all week. I block it, though, somehow, and now that the massage has reached the relaxing stage, I start to nod off.
I wake in a state of total disorientation. Despite what I told the FBI, I myself do not normally fall asleep during massage. Why has Kimberley opened her curtain? Why is she kneeling next to me, stroking my cheek?
“You started screaming, honey. You were scaring the staff.” Her face is the very picture of compassion when she says, “You’re a passionate man, Sonchai. Anyone can see a part of you kept on loving her, bad as she was.”
After we have dressed and paid, standing together in the narrow soi at something of a loss, I finally have the courage to say, “Kimberley, I have a favor to ask. Can you guess?”
“Sure. You need to watch the video again, and you need me to hold your hand.”
I touch her shoulder. “Thanks, Kimberley.”
24
The video and Stanislaus Kowlovski’s performance in it weigh on my mind all the way home. Knowing I’m going to have to put myself through it all over again is a little like the second parachute jump. I’ve never done it, but I’ve heard people talk: the first jump is tolerable because you don’t know what to expect. On the second something deep in the mind rebels, a feeling like, Why am I driving myself through this terminal horror? After all, Vikorn wouldn’t bat an eye if I gave up investigating the Damrong video altogether. In fact, he would prefer it. I’m asking myself this question as I reach home, kiss Chanya, pat the Lump, and eat the food she puts before me with love and devotion in her eyes. She catches my gaze with hers for a moment, then swallows hard. I think, Oh Buddha, she has seen into my heart. Then a lover’s intuition kicks in, and I grab her and kiss her. The darling was feeling threatened because I had a massage with my farang friend. Chanya would never be challenged by a Thai girl, but she is overawed by Kimberley, whom she believes to represent the Western side of my mind: much as she loves me, Chanya can never forget I am a leuk kreung, a half-caste, and must surely have farang tendencies and farang preferences lurking somewhere.