Gaijin Cowgirl (22): The encroaching world

“Listen, I’m in a situation, and I wonder if you could help me out.”

(Previous chapter, or start at the beginning.)

Nothing but a pearly light penetrated the room – not the sounds of activity out back along the klong, not the whispering feet of the houseboy, not the impatient honks of car horns along the soi out front, and certainly not the roar of propellers and jet engines at the airport a few miles down the road. For now, there was no war in Vietnam, no secret bombings in Laos, no screaming children and refugee mothers. Just the gauze of the mosquito net, slowly illuminating around them as the sun once again rose over Bangkok.

The forms within the netting stirred. A few nudges, then a woman’s giggle. They enjoyed a long, slow kiss, the white American man and the brown Thai woman. The languorous prologue was followed by lovemaking that roused them fully from sleep. Afterward, she rested her head against the crook of his arm and toyed with the hair on his chest and arms. Body hair still fascinated her.

“Neung,” the man said absently, staring through the netting. The sun was fully up, the mosquitoes had retreated, but he didn’t feel like disturbing the barrier. There was little beyond it that he liked anymore, and no doubt the world would intrude soon enough. He continued his recitation of numbers in the Thai language. Sawng, saam, sii, haa….

She lifted her head onto her palm and traced her finger along his handsome face with its eyes the color of the noon sky.

He reached up and stroked her nose. “Ja mook,” he said, and she nodded, her eyes glowing. His finger moved to her ear, tickling her into another giggle. “Hoo.” Correct. His finger now traced itself to her mouth; she playfully bit it. “Park,” he said, and this time she rewarded him by placing her park against his.

Then he brushed her left eye, then her right. He struggled to remember the word, even as the lovers stared at each other. “Damn, eyes, no wait, don’t tell me…tar.”

“Yes, tar,” she said.

“Priya, you have the most lovely tars I’ve ever seen.”

She clung to him. “So do you, Fred Benson.”

“I was serious last night, you know.”

“Don’t spoil the morning.”

“Priya, I can’t just go back and forget about you. Never. I love you.”

“But your wife.”

“I’ll divorce her.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, believe it.”

“And my husband?”

“Can’t you leave him? Come with me back to America? I’ve only got another nine months left on my contract. We can have everything arranged by the time I leave. No one has to know until we’ve both got our bags packed, all ready to leave.”

She shook her head. “Mai chai. He would never allow it – he could stop me. He could stop us both.”

He sighed in frustration. He had married Daisy Huxley last year, days before shipping out to his dream posting for US AID in Southeast Asia. She couldn’t join him as an unmarried woman, and she feared Fred would lose interest if he went without her. She and her father had insisted on a hasty wedding. Fred, blinded by her family’s considerable fortune, agreed.

Daisy hated everything about life in Bangkok – the bugs, the heat, the foreign smells and sounds, and – most of all – being left with other Americans’ alcoholic wives. Her “spells” kicked in. She took longer leaves back Stateside.

Initially this suited him, freeing him to concentrate on helping win the affection and allegiance of the hill tribes. But lately work had become more about cynical mediocrities like Jeb Maxwell striking deals with corrupt figures like General Pau, and Fred Benson had lost his appetite for the whole thing.

Meeting Priya had kept him interested in Bangkok. She was remarkable, the daughter of a diplomat, educated abroad during her father’s sojourns in Europe, and she was beautiful. She also happened to be married to a prominent banker with regime ties.

The affair had begun as a shelter against loneliness, something to be enjoyed and quickly discarded. But it didn’t work out that way, and they took increasing risks to be together. Fred had lost count of how many people were now in on the secret. Soon, he knew, it would become too public, and he would be faced with a stark choice.

“Priya,” he said, “you know, even a week ago I would have said the same thing. I would have assumed that at some point we’d stop this, I’d go back to New York with Daisy, get that law degree my father wanted me to have, and start having kids. That world made sense to me. I believed in it. But now, after what’s happened, I…I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

She remained quiet. He had brooded all last night, fueled by too many Mekong whiskeys, about the plane full of refugees that had been shot down. Eighteen dead, eleven of them kids. The Air America charter on a C-47 Gooney Bird transport was supposed to have gone straight from Buon Ma Thuot to Laos, taking the Hmong villagers out of harm’s way, now that the area was temporarily lost to the Vietcong. But unknown to him, the pilots had been given other, secret instructions, first to make a delivery to Saigon before heading to Laos. The plane was shot down, and the Vietnamese seized the pilots along with the heroin, and then killed the villagers who had survived the crash.

“I don’t care what the others say, Priya. I want someone good like you to be a part of my life.”

“If I left Chokchai we could never stay in Thailand safely.”

“I know. You’ve lived in the West before, you can do it.”

“What you are asking, Fred…you just don’t know.”

She hugged him and he held her tightly. Outside they heard the houseboy hammering as he repaired the gate, and the laughter of children, and the chatter of a mynah bird. The outside world was rapidly encroaching.

The telephone rang, and the morning’s peace became a memory.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” she said.

He parted the netting and swung his feet onto the cool tiled floor.

“Khun Fred,” he heard the houseboy call, “fone!”

“I know,” he called back. “I got it.” He picked up the receiver in the bedroom. “Hello?”

“Fred, it’s Jack.”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, I got some news for you. You aren’t going to like it.”

“Just say it.”

“Maxwell: they’re not going to fire him.”

“What?”

“It gets worse.”

“How can it get worse?”

“They’re promoting him.”

“You’re kidding.” It took a minute to sink in. “A promotion.”

“That’s government thinking for you,” Jack said. “I just thought you’d want to hear it from a friend first. You know?”

“Yeah. Okay, thanks Jack.”

“You coming in today?”

“I am now.” He hung up and turned to Priya, who crouched on the edge of the teak bed. “Looks like I’m not getting the day off after all,” he told her. He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice; Daisy was expected back from the US tomorrow evening.

“I understand.”

He moved into the adjacent bathroom where he poured cold water from a jar over his body, then shaved. The houseboy had laid out breakfast and the Bangkok Post on the terrace overlooking the canal – breakfast for two, for the youth was a necessary accomplice to Fred’s affair. He quickly ate his fried rice with shrimp paste and chili without enjoyment. Priya ate a mango and drank green tea. She combed her long, black hair, put on her makeup, and left in Fred’s car, shielding her face with a parasol.

While his driver took Priya home, Fred waited on the terrace, anger and resentment pulling a tightening knot inside of him. The serenity of the canal – the fragrance from the frangipani trees, the boats laden with fish and fruits plying the klong, the women bathing in their sarongs – failed to calm him.

He scoured the paper. There was a long story about the accusations against the two US pilots captured by the North Vietnamese, and another headline dredging up charges that the CIA was involved in running drugs. Poor Bruce; it was unlikely he realized what he had been asked to transport by Maxwell. The pilots of Air America usually preferred not to know.

The driver returned. Fred Benson put on a tie and left for the embassy. He made straight for Jack Robbins’ office with the door marked ‘Attaché, AID’.

“Plausible deniability,” Jack said, handing him a cup of coffee. “You know the drill, Fred. AA is a commercial airline. That flight to Saigon was on a private contract. It had nothing to do with the CIA.”

Fred Benson snorted. The air was tight with the door to Jack’s office shut, and he was sweating despite the fans. He stared outside the open window at the manicured lawn and the wall along Wireless Road. The cloudy sky smelled of rain.

“I don’t see how plausible deniability means rewarding a corrupt handler.”

“Leffner stepped in,” Jack said, referring to the senior political officer on the third floor, a powerful man widely assumed to be an intelligence agent. “Out of the blue, said Jeb was on some vital assignment and nobody was to touch him. He put a few calls in to AA to smooth feathers. I assure you, as far as the pilots are concerned, Jeb’s name is mud, but someone higher up decided he’s going to stay, at least for now.”

Fred buried his face in his hands. “And I suppose since somebody has to fall on their sword, it’s going to be me.”

“Well, it is your name on the manifest. And it’s my ass too, you know. AID paid for the refugee evacuation and the rice delivery.”

“So that’s it.”

“No, not yet. I’m fighting hard as nails to make sure your resignation is honorable, keep your record and pension intact.”

“When do I leave?”

“There’s an AA flight to Tokyo next Tuesday. From there you’ve got a connection on PanAm to San Francisco.”

“Tell me, Jack, look me in the eye and tell me this is happening.”

Jack didn’t waver. “Fred, look on the bright side. You’re going home. Daisy’ll be thrilled.”

Fred meandered to his desk, noticed that no one would look his way. He sifted paperwork but it was all a blur. He had to see Priya. He exited the building to find his driver and directed him to go to her home on a quiet soi near Surawong road. But as they approached, he saw her husband’s car parked outside. Chokchai had returned.

Fred Benson didn’t want to go back to his bungalow. He wanted to fight.

“Asia Hotel,” he said.

Fred knew some of the pilots whom he had contracted on behalf of AID liked to hang out at the Tivoli coffee shop or in the dark bar at the hotel. It was one of the more respectable AA hangouts; Fred avoided the fleshpots in Patpong.

Sure enough, when he stepped inside the café, he saw a few clusters of pilots eating lunch and beginning the day’s drinking.

Fred recognized one of the fixed-wing men, Heyerdal, who was quietly eating an omelet by himself. “Mind if I join you?”

The pilot looked up in surprise. “Benson, right?”

“That’s right.”

“I flew for you.”

“Yes.” Fred seated himself opposite. “Rice drops to Montagnards.”

“Sure. I remember.”

“Listen, I’m in a situation, and I wonder if you could help me out.”

“Yeah, I heard all about your situation.”

“The contract I had made with AA had nothing to do with going to Saigon. Nothing to do with drugs.”

“Not so loud, man. We’re not having this conversation. Besides, I got a hangover.”

“Sorry,” Fred said, embarrassed. “Is this early for you?”

“Days off, I go golfing, no matter how much I drink. I’ll be on the back nine in thirty minutes.”

“About that mission.”

Heyerdal lowered his voice. “Look, we know who was responsible. But we can’t talk about it. And we can’t help you.”

“This isn’t about keeping my job. I want to know what Maxwell’s up to, why Leffner protected him. I just wonder if there’s any gossip, anything buzzing around.”

Heyerdal signaled for the waitress. “Yeah, well, beats me why anyone would defend a prick like Maxwell. He couldn’t find his own asshole in the dark with a flashlight. I sure as hell won’t fly any missions for him.”

“But will someone else?”

The Thai waitress refilled Heyerdal’s coffee cup. “Yeah,” he said when she had left, “I understand Maxwell’s fishing around for pilots. To fly something large, like another Gooney Bird. And he’s paying good money, a grand and a half for a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“I don’t know, I just refused him flat. He didn’t like it but to hell with him.”

“Know who might take it?”

“Yeah, but you know, Fred, I really shouldn’t be telling you any of this stuff.”

“Come on, Heyerdal. It’s not just my reputation. Maxwell’s given AA a real black eye. He arranged a shipment of heroin on a flight contracted by the US government and now it’s front-page news. We know these things happen, but you don’t think you AA guys have a stake in this if it’s in the papers? Someone’s letting him get away with murder, at my expense, and I want to know why.”

“I’m not telling you the business of any pilot.”

“I understand that. I’m not trying to make trouble for you guys. I’m after Maxwell, not the airline.”

Heyerdal said, “All right, Benson. I reckon I’m happy to do anything that screws that son of a bitch. He’s talking to a pilot named Bruckhouser. Know him?”

“No.”

“He’s been flying mainly STOL aircraft out of Vientiane. Word is he’s cuckoo.”

“I thought all you guys were a little cuckoo.”

Heyerdal chuckled. “Shit, you got to be one crazy son of a bitch to do this job. What I’m talking about is a different class of nuts. Well, Bruiser – that’s what he calls himself – finally cracked, couldn’t handle Laos anymore so they’re trying to see if he works out down here. I saw him and Max talking in this bar last night. Bruiser seems like somebody who sure could use fifteen hundred bucks.”

“Just what class of nuts we talking about?”

“There’s some stories that he got carried away one night in Vientiane. Cut a girl up. Had to leave in a hurry, company didn’t want the publicity or a scene.”

“Thanks, Heyerdal. I owe you one.”

“You put Maxwell in the shitter where he belongs, consider it even.”

* * *

The giant C-46 transport roared over Fred Benson’s car and touched down in a cloud of dust. Don Muang airport roared with activity, where Air America planes rubbed shoulders with PanAm and other commercial airliners.

Fred bypassed the terminal and made for the hangars, showing his AID badge. He had no clearance, but the Thai soldiers didn’t ask any questions when they saw a white man with the embassy ID.

Someone pointed down a strip where several C-46s and C-47s were parked. The big twin-engine transports, sometimes also known as Douglas DC-3s, were all AA.

A shrill trumpet splintered the non-stop buzz of airplanes landing and taking off. Fred saw a Thai mahout on foot urging an elephant to join him up on the gangplank of a Gooney. The elephant trumpeted again, following her master.

Nearby stood a pilot with his arms folded, shaking his head. He was a giant of a man, almost a match for the elephant, with a wild tangle of bright orange hair. Fred couldn’t help but be fascinated by the mahout’s luring the elephant into the cavernous hold of the plane.

“I know AA flies anything, but this is ridiculous,” Fred said.

The pilot spat tobacco juice. “You telling me.”

“How’s that little guy get the elephant in there?”

“Says the elephant’s in love with him.”

“What?”

“Yeah. It’s a girl elephant. Follows him everywhere.”

“Hey, I’m looking for a pilot named Bruckhouser.”

The pilot spat another wad. “That’s me.” Fred looked up at the giant and decided he lived up to his nickname. Bruiser asked, “You the po-lice?”

“No.”

“Cause I ain’t talking to no po-lice and I ain’t talking ‘bout Vientiane.”

“I’m not interested in that.”

“So who the fuck are you?”

“I hear you’re doing a job for Jeb Maxwell.”

“Not today I ain’t. I got to take this fucking elephant to Taipei. Fucking gift to Chiang Kai-shek.”

As if being reminded of the unhappy news, the elephant trumpeted and stamped its foot, wobbling the gangplank.

“Hey, goddamn it,” Bruckhouser shouted at the mahout, “make her knock that shit off.” The Thai smiled nervously and tried to sooth the beast. The pilot turned to Fred. “You looking for Jeb?”

“Well, not quite….”

“Cause you better ask him about any contract, not me.”

“Can you just tell me where he wants you to go?”

The pilot peered down at Fred as if noticing him for the first time. “Who’s asking so many questions anyhow?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well I ain’t got time, so go tell it to someone else. I gotta get this here elephant to Taipei and won’t be back till Monday.”

“Know where I can find Maxwell?”

“Sure, buddy. You can find him right there.”

Fred turned around. A Toyota sedan approached. He was trapped. He had intended to find out what Maxwell was doing on the quiet.

The Toyota halted beside them, and Fred could see the driver was a Japanese man in a chauffeur’s uniform. The rear doors opened. On the far side another Japanese got out, a man Fred’s age, wearing a dark business suit, sunglasses, and sporting a closely cropped buzz haircut. And from the near side…

“Well, well, what a surprise,” said Jeb Maxwell, adjusting his sunglasses. “Fred Benson of all people. And here I’ve been running all over Bangkok looking for you.”

(Next chapter.)