both jobs in record time. I switched on the television and flicked through the channels. Inane game shows, boring chat shows, soap operas with giggling girls and foppish boys, the usual Thai fare. I stopped at the closed circuit view of the Kitten Club. Alan was sitting at the bar, his head in his hands. His mate was standing next to him, patting him on the back. I figured that Cindee had obviously been on him and given him an earful. I suddenly didn’t feel so happy about what I’d done. I’d done what I’d been paid to do, no question of that. And I’d been professional. But Alan was just doing what guys the whole world did and I felt bad for him. I just hoped that Cindee would make do with making him feel like shit for a few weeks and that she didn’t set Singaporean lawyers on him. I thought about going downstairs and buying him a few beers but there was an outside chance that he might figure out who’d sent the photographs to his wife so I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and I sneaked out for a few JD and Cokes at a bar overlooking the cesspool that passes for a sea. Having my thighs stroked by a long- haired beauty and being told that I’m a ‘hansum man’ always does wonders for my self-esteem.
At just after ten I wandered down to Gradai’s Cabaret. I already had all the information I needed, but Ronnie had paid me for three days so I figured that the least I could do was to see what the Isaan Allstars were like in full swing. The place was half-empty, or half-full depending on your point of view. The clientele seemed to be solely working class Thais drinking Chang beer or cheap whiskey. The cabaret was a couple of old comedians doing a slapstick routine that wasn’t funny in any language, and there seemed to be more waitresses and bar staff than there were paying customers. I doubted it would stay in business for more than a few months. It was only Ronnie’s money that was keeping it going.
Gradai and the Allstars came on stage just before midnight. She was wearing a too-tight red sequinned dress that showed off her silicon breasts, and far too much make-up. The Allstars were in denim and wore cowboy hats and were actually quite good. Gradai was terrible, though, and any dreams she had of making it to the big time were just that: dreams. At one point she said she’d take requests from the audience. I thought of asking her if she could play ‘Over The Hills And Far Away’ but figured she wouldn’t get the joke. I asked if they’d sing my favourite country tune, ‘Hua Jai Kradart’ about a man who complains that Thai women treat his heart like paper, screw it up and toss it out when they have used it.
It got a huge round of applause from the staff, but I don’t think that Gradai got the significance of the song. That was pretty much how she’d used Ronnie. Taken his money, lied to him, all but abandoned her kid. That’s no way for a woman to behave. I understand it when bargirls lie and steal and cheat. That’s their job. And their instinct. But Gradai was Ronnie’s wife and the mother of their child. There was no need for her to lie and steal. If she’d wanted out of the marriage the honourable thing would have been to have told him, sorted out their financial affairs and left him. I raised my glass to Gradai as the Allstars finished their song and she smiled and waved with her ring-encrusted hand. Rings paid for by Ronnie, I was sure.
I got an en email from Ronnie a few days later. He was divorcing Gradai, and she’d told him he could have sole custody of the boy. She, of course, was keeping sole custody of the cabaret and the half-built house. I got an email from Cindee, too. She was divorcing Alan, and thanked me for my help. I emailed her back, explaining that Alan was only blowing off steam, that the girls meant nothing to him, that she might think about giving him another chance, but I never heard back from her.
I don’t know what happened to the cabaret, but I’m still waiting to see Gradai and the Isaan Allstars in the Top Ten. I’m not exactly holding my breath.
THE CASE OF THE BARGIRL WHO TRIED
Like I said before, the bread and butter work of a Thai private eye is checking up on bargirls. The typical client is a middle-aged guy who’s come to Thailand, met the love of his life dancing around a silver pole, and then got back home. Back in the real world he phones his new-found love every day, starts to send her money so that she won’t have to sell her body, and starts to dream about bringing her back to his country and living happily ever after. The typical bargirl is from Isarn, dark-skinned and snub nosed, probably has a tattoo or two, a few scars from a motorcycle accident, and stretch marks from the kid she’s left in the care of her parents upcountry. Oh yeah, and a Thai boyfriend or husband hidden away and helping her to spend her ill-gotten gains.
Usually what happens is that something starts to nag at the guy. Maybe the girl keeps asking for money, maybe her phone gets switched off late at night, maybe he hears a man’s voice in the background. Or maybe he just visits one of the many websites that details all the pitfalls in a bargirl-farang relationship. That’s when the guy gets in touch with me. The email or phone call follows a standard pattern. The guy met the girl in a bar, she hated the work and was just waiting for a white knight to rescue her. ‘She’s not a regular bargirl,’ is something I always hear. ‘She’s different.’
At that point part of me wants to say that they’re all the same, that they are all just hookers hooking, and that the best way to see if a bargirl is lying is to check if her lips are moving. Rule number one in the private-eye game: If a bargirl’s lips are moving, she’s lying. Rule number two: If a bargirl’s lips aren’t moving, she’s preparing her next lie. But I don’t tell the client that, of course. I tell them how much I charge and I give them the number of my bank account and then once the money’s been transferred I go through the motions.
Do marriages between bargirls and expats ever work? I’ve known of a few, but success stories are as rare as hen’s teeth. I don’t understand why anyone thinks they are going to meet the love of their life in what is effectively a brothel. The girls are selling sex, not love. They rarely, if ever, confuse the two, but lots of guys don’t seem to understand that there is a difference. Still, if everyone knew the score there’d be a lot less work for the likes of me, so I’m not complaining.
Anyway, when Damien called me from Australia, there was nothing he told me that I hadn’t heard before. He’d just got back to Melbourne from yet another holiday in the Land of Smiles and he needed help on two fronts. He had a regular Thai girlfriend, a former pole dancer of course, and he wanted help getting her a visa so that she could visit him in Australia, and he wanted to check that she was on the straight and narrow. In my experience, the only thing straight and narrow about a bargirl is the pole they dance around, but I bit my tongue and had a long chat with him.
First thing I told him was that I couldn’t do anything to speed up his visa application. I’m not saying there aren’t ways and means of greasing things at the Australian Embassy, but I don’t have those sort of contacts and even if I did I’d use them very sparingly because bribing embassy officials is a quick way to end up behind bars.
The Australian Embassy, and the British and United States embassies for that matter, take their time issuing visas, especially to young girls with no steady job, no pay slips, no land or money in the bank. A visa could take as much as six months before it was approved, and that was always good for business because during those six months the boyfriend would be fretting in his country while the girl was sitting in Thailand having to ask him for more and more to support herself, and her family. A lot of bargirls are simply rejected for visas. Hardly surprising when a lot of them turn up for their embassy interview wearing a low cut top, tight jeans, and sporting a tattoo of a scorpion on their shoulder.
Damien didn’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. He was in his mid forties and Ann was twenty-two. That always sets alarm bells ringing for me. A twenty-year age gap is huge even when you’re dealing with a couple from the same culture. But when the guy is effectively a sex tourist and the girl is a hooker half his age, well, it’s hardly a match made in heaven, is it? Anyway, he told me that Ann had been a star dancer at Hollywood Strip but that he had helped set her up with her own business, selling clothes on the street around the corner from Nana Plaza. He’d gone upcountry and met her family in Saraburi and had agreed to pay a small sin sot. Ann had been to the embassy for a preliminary interview but they hadn’t been satisfied with the evidence she’d provided. According to Damien she was finding the hours long and the work hard and that she wasn’t making much of a return on the business. She’d told Damien that he’d have to start sending her money or she’d go back to the Hollywood Strip. It was the usual scenario for a farang far from Thailand, caught between a rock and a hard place. If he didn’t send money, the girl would doubt his intentions. If he did send her cash, he’d start to wonder if she was just after his money.
I told Damien that I could definitely run a check on her, and that would at least put his mind at rest. Plus, if I didn’t find anything, that boded well for her visa eventually coming through. He wired me a retainer and emailed me her details and a couple of photographs and I got down to business. Ann was a looker, long hair, long legs, curvy figure, very kissable lips. I was sure she’d have made a small fortune dancing and hooking in Nana Plaza.
