In Bangkok Nikki and I checked in and waited for Neal to arrive. How had I enmeshed myself in this situation? Neal was such a fruitcake, how could he not get the three of us arrested? You couldn't get away with telling a Thai desk clerk there were C.I.A. agents on your window sill.
But then days passed without Neal showing up. Maybe he couldn't think clearly enough to come. That was what I hoped.
Since he wouldn't be involved in the purchase, I finally decided to leave for Chiang Mai in northern Thailand. I left Nikki in Bangkok. Having her stay behind to wait for Neal was a good excuse to go alone.
The morning I arrived in Chiang Mai, I took a rickshaw to the hotel Jacques had told me about. Actually, the driver said there was no hotel the exact name he'd given me, but there was one that was dose. Good enough. I let the rickshaw go when I went to speak to the receptionist.
Who? No, the desk clerk had never heard of Jacques's friend. No, Chiang Mai had no other hotel with that name.
No contact? No contact location?
I died. Right there in the suburbs of some little village in Thailand.
Now what? My plans lay in ruin. There I was in Chiang Mai with no connection. I had Nikki in Bangkok in an expensive hotel, waiting for me to pay the bill. I had a madman on my hands who was who-knew-where. I had no idea what to do next.
My brain went on strike. It became an empty, quiet space. No thoughts passed through. Nothingness. As my feet left the hotel, my eyes lingered on the pinkness of the flowers in the garden. My feet moved me forward, but I had nowhere to go—I was outside of town without a rickshaw. I left the hotel grounds and faced an empty, unpaved road. But I wasn't healed anywhere. My feet just went, and I followed. When they came to a neighbouring garden, they directed themselves inside. A man in a Chinese rice hat squatted by a bush. My feet stopped. I wasn't looking at the man. I was just aimed in his direction.
Eventually he said hello, and I made a weak gesture in response. "Are you ok?" he asked.
I shrugged.
"What is the matter? Are you alright?"
It spilled out. The whole story. I told him about my mission to the hotel next door, my search for the employee, my woes of not having a connection. "I don't know what to do now," I said.
"That is a dangerous business," the man told me, looking left and right. "You must be careful who you speak to."
I immediately suspected I'd found a saviour. "Do you know where I could buy heroin?" I asked him. "Oh, please. Please?"
"Perhaps, perhaps I can help you. But you must be careful." Saved!
He brought me to a guest house and left me with the owner. The new man agreed he might be able to get me what I wanted, but he was cautious. I stressed that I needed dope right away or I'd be sick. When he took me to a storage room and sold me a gram, I could tell he was impressed by the quantity I inhaled right there.
And then he told me, yes, he could supply me with half a kilo. I moved into his guest house and bought the kind of paint kit I'd used to smuggle dope to America with John. I decided not to funnel the powder through the kit's hole, though. After all, I was only going to Bombay. I worked till dawn packing dope into condoms. Then I opened the flat-bottom ends of the paint tubes, removed some paint, and implanted the cargo, closing the tubes without a crinkle.
Before returning to Bangkok, I called Nikki. No, Neal hadn't shown up. Hallelujah!
And so Nikki didn't carry the paint kit into Bombay. She'd had a vacation at my expense, but I wasn't about to pay her as a carrier if I didn't have to. Without Neal, I didn't have to.
As soon as we landed, I went to investigate what had happened to Neal.
He giggled at me. "I couldn't get it together," he said. "First I couldn't find my passport, then I didn't have the right clothes, then I misplaced the passport again, then it was too Tate. I knew you could do it on your own. You're a big girl."
I didn't answer. What could I say? I was still furious that he'd taken command of my scam and ignored my proposals. He'd burdened me with Nikki and cost me a fortune. Now he was calling me a big girl.
I gave him half the stash as promised and left. I deposited four ounces in my safety deposit box, bought a couple of grams of coke from the unctuous Indian, Rachid, and flew to Goa.
I couldn't wait to see Bach. Within minutes of arriving at the house, I heard him bark at the door.
"Bach!"
Apparently he'd run away from Laura at the first opportunity and had been waiting by the house for my return. The maid and her family had kept him fed, and for entertainment he'd joined a gang of strays on the beach. Bach—oh, Bach! I hugged him as he slurped my face.
By now the new season was well under way, the paddy field crispy brown once again. The beach parties stamped and stamped every night. Goa Freaks crowded Joe Banana's porch all day. They packed into Gregory's restaurant at mealtimes. I timed dinner so the sun would be setting as I crossed the paddy field on the way back.
"Look, Bach. Look at the sky! That orange. This is my home yours too now. Our home."
After a few weeks of visiting, I resumed the routine of sitting locked in the house. I had my stash and my Bach and didn't have the desire to party or meet people. I could hear music blasting from the beach, and if there was a tune I really loved. I'd dance by myself. And sing a bit, like to Steve Miller's "Time keeps on slippin, slippin, slippin, slippin, slippin in to the FUture . . . dit, dit, ditte . . ."
When I went out, it was to buy coke.
I snorted mountains of coke. All my cash went for coke. I didn't have money to pay Lino's rent for the year. On the rare occasion when I sold a gram of smack, I bought coke with the profit. In no time I ran out of dope and had to return to Bombay to the stash in the safety deposit box. This time I brought Bach with me so I could take him to the animal hospital there. He still had trouble with diarrhoea and vomiting. Poor little thing.
He barked at people at the airport and ran up and down the aisle of the plane. Fortunately Air India didn't insist that dogs ride in boxes though I'm sure my fellow passengers weren't enthralled with Bach's antics.
In Bombay I snuck him into the President Hotel, where he had his diarrhoea and puked all over their carpet. At first I covered his messes by moving the furniture around. Alas, though, Bach never liked having his diarrhoea in exactly the same spot twice. Eventually I kept the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door so the maid wouldn't go into coronary arrest when she came to tidy up.
At Dipti's I ran into Rachid, who seemed to be popping up everywhere lately. When I bought coke from him, he suggested I sell for him in Goa.
"Darling, since you're already selling your heroin, why don't you sell my cocaine at the same time? This way you won't have to buy it, and you can make a barrel of money."
Sounded like a good idea. I did have to start selling my dope. I needed rent money for Lino and cash to see me through the season. Maybe could make enough to finance a scam next monsoon. I'd do it! As soon as I returned to Goa, I'd turn my house into a dope den. Hey—might be fun.
I visited Neal. Though still angry at him, I loved him. He was my best friend in the world. I was horrified by what I found.
Eve and Ha had returned to Poona, and Neal was living alone in a slummy room at Bentley's Hotel on Marine Drive. Emaciated, he could hardly lift himself from the bed. Ribs poked through his shirt, and the skin on his neck was baggy.
"Got any coke?" were his first words.
"Yeah, sure, but what's the matter with you?"