Other than the most junior of the girls who hadn’t learnt how to work the system, everyone in this place made it their business to find a weakness in someone else. It was a means of survival for them, instinctive. The discovery of a weakness provided a tiny modicum of control. Because Mai had seen what the Mamasan and The Crow had done to Jon Pavel, and now what Rick had done to Lin, she had a hold, albeit a small one, on all of them. She didn’t know what to do with the information, but she knew it would be useful one day. She would store it away like a crocodile with rotten meat and produce it when the time was right.
Rick pounded from the front of her mind and into the kitchen. The chattering stopped. It was as if the door had been slammed shut, not flung open. ‘Coffee.’ Rick’s voice was gravelly with ganja.
Mai handed him a mug and offered to cook him some eggs. She was the most trusted of the girls. She did most of the shopping and cooking for the establishment—that’s what the Mamasan called it, the establishment, trying to make it sound respectable, though they both knew it was no different to the Bangkok brothel, only cleaner. It was on these shopping expeditions that she had been able to slip out, catch the bus and travel to the Pavels’ house to feed Niran.
Rick had searched her bag when she’d returned and found the baby’s bottle, nappies and jars of food. He’d told The Crow and The Crow had put a hot iron to the soles of her feet so she couldn’t visit Niran again. The burns were healing, but she still walked with a painful shuffle.
The punishment had not kept her from her work. ‘You don’t need your feet to fuck,’ the Mamasan had said as she’d watched her crazy son pressing the searing iron into her flesh.
But that was before Mai had found out what they’d done to Jon Pavel. Things were different now she’d all but witnessed them murder a man. Before, she was the most trusted because they had the greatest hold over her; now she had a hold over them—although they didn’t know it. Soon, she wouldn’t just be the top girl; she’d be a top player too.
Rick said he didn’t want any breakfast. His grey-brown beard was the same colour as the tawny dogs that rooted through the trash outside the Bangkok brothel. His eyes were bloodshot, his breath rancid with stale alcohol. He was in no condition to begin their long bus journey.
Rick took milk for his coffee from the fridge and slammed the door shut with his foot. Lin looked up from her bowl and gasped, ‘My Buddha!’ As the head is holy in Thailand, the feet are unholy. Mai smiled to herself and shook her head—Lin still had much to learn about the farang way.
Small steps pecked down the passageway and Jimmy Jack entered the kitchen. If Rick was a lumbering elephant, Jimmy Jack was a fighting cock. He kept his dirty blond hair scraped back in a ponytail, emphasising the turmeric colour of his skin and his sharp, pointy features. The girls sometimes laughed about him behind his back, saying that his nose was plastic and stuck on with glue.
Rick smiled at the younger man and offered him a cigarette from the crushed packet in his shirt pocket. He knew he had to be nice to Jimmy Jack, and not only because of the long fishing knife he always carried. He might tell Mamasan and The Crow what he had been up to last night—drinking their liquor, smoking their ganja, fucking and beating their girls. In Bangkok, The Crow had burned one of the guardians alive for abusing his trust, covered him in petrol and set him on fire.
Rick had better watch out.
A ghost of a smile played upon Mai’s lips as she hobbled around the breakfast table, clearing up.
Rick ordered the girls upstairs to change and pack. None of them had many clothes of their own. The good ones, which they shared, had already been stored away by the Mamasan to be loaned out when they entertained the richer clients.
These men liked to see their women well dressed and sipping expensive cocktails on yachts or at private parties in fancy mansions. That way they could pretend it was all real, that they were handsome men who went with pretty girls because the girls wanted to be with them. Only when the bedroom doors were closed did the real games begin. When it came down to it, Mai reflected, these men were no different than the dirty boys from last night—cleaner maybe, but their grunts were still the same. (Image 19.1)
Image 19.1
CHAPTER TWENTY
The door to Monty’s hospital room was shut. Stevie couldn’t recall it ever having been shut before. For a moment she hesitated, peering through the grid of the safety glass, anxious for what she might see on the other side. The room looked different, Monty looked different. Most of the tubing was gone and there was only one drip left hanging above the bed. He looked relaxed, propped up with pillows. If not for the drip and the ubiquitous heart monitor, he could have been in bed at home reading the Sunday papers.
A man sat in the visitor’s chair, examining the sheets of paper Monty handed him from a pile on his lap. Must be one of his doctors, Stevie decided; she’d spoken to so many over the past few days she’d lost track of them all.
Monty saw her face against the glass, beckoned her in and introduced her to Colin Zimmel from the AFP. She remembered the name although they had never met. Monty and Col had been in the WAPOL rugby team together until Col had joined the Feds and been transferred east. He’d recently moved back to Perth and Monty had been consulting him for the work he was doing for the CCC.
Monty’s build could have singled him out as a rugby player, but his even features showed little evidence of the game. Col Zimmel’s face on the other hand was a testimony to every scrum, every boot and elbow to the face, every broken cheekbone and flattened nose—not a face you’d want to come across in a dark alley at night. His voice, however, was deep and mellifluous and he seemed genuinely interested in Izzy’s artwork.
‘Izz brought these pictures in when she visited with Dot this morning,’ Monty explained after he’d introduced her to Col. ‘Col reckons she’s very talented.’
Stevie made herself as comfortable as she could on the cramped bed beside Monty, a pillow under her back. ‘He wouldn’t dare say anything else, would he?’
Col laughed. ‘I have to admit I’ve been keeping my eye on the monitor there.’
‘Thank God he won’t be bringing that thing home with him,’ Stevie said. ‘Being nice all the time is becoming quite a strain.’
Monty turned to Col. ‘I’m drinking it in while I can.’ He passed her Izzy’s drawings and she stacked them upon his bedside table. ‘Stevie, I was thinking about what you were telling me earlier, and I reckon you need to have a talk to Col here.’
Stevie feigned ignorance. ‘What do you mean?’
‘This people-trafficking operation you seem to have stumbled across.’
‘I can’t talk to Col about it, Mont. Col needs to see Angus, not me.’
‘I’ve made an appointment to see Angus Wong tomorrow,’ Col said. ‘It’s very important for us to get some sort of information exchange system into place. I just thought...’ He pulled at a cauliflower ear and glanced at Monty who tipped him an encouraging nod. ‘There are a few things you need to know. Monty told me about the attempt on your life the other night; it sounded like a close shave. I think it’s time you knew about the kind of people you’re dealing with.’
‘We’re concerned about your safety,’ Monty said before Stevie could get a word in. ‘You need to know this for your own protection. Humour me and listen to the man—I’m not supposed to be under any stress, remember?’