Excerpt
Chapter
5
George
Snow danced over to the booth, his weathered face stretched tightly
over his skull the shape of a light bulb. Snow was stoned and
grinding his teeth in a twisted smile at a couple of HQ regulars
blocking his path. A few sweating matted strands of chest hair
sticking out of his Hawaiian shirt. Snow always wore the same
uniform: an untucked Hawaiian shirt, jeans, and white tennis shoes.
His thick glasses made his eyes appear two times larger than life.
Snow's short-cropped hair thinned at the temples, and the ragged
edge of a cheap haircut curved around the base of the neck. He
always looked in need of a shave. Sweat dripped from his chin
and nose, and he was constantly wiping his face with tissues that
he balled up and tossed on the floor. He loved Bangkok, the Beach
Boys, and California. And he hated lawyers.
"Tuttle,
hey, man. I gave one of our old-time favorites, good ole Lek,
two-baht for a golden oldie Jukebox number?... number 215... Man,
you won't believe what this guy knows! He's the only man in the
universe who remembers the number of every song on the HQ jukebox."
"I'm
impressed," said Lawrence, smiling at Tuttle.
"He's
not wasted twenty years." He turned to Tuttle, reaching over
and scooping up a hand of French fries. "When you die they're
gonna put a bronze plaque with your name on it over the jukebox.
It's gonna say Tuttle knew every song and face by heart. Number
215. 'Like a Virgin'. That ought to be the theme song on Friday
nights at HQ. They should use some imagination. Come up with themes.
A little inspiration. Something that draws in a better kind of
crowd. And most of all, it gives you something to look forward
to. If you can't be a virgin, be like a virgin. There's the theme
for the '90s. There's always another way, man. There's always
another way in Thailand."
"I've
been in Bangkok three days. And the advice I'm getting is all
over the place," said Lawrence. Tuttle's eyes narrowed slightly,
a grin appeared on his face, Lawrence was learning faster than
he thought possible.
"Forget
everything Tuttle's told you. just listen to this plan; you follow
it, and your life will be filled with women and the good life.
Scout out a remote, a to-hell-and-gone Lahu village. Man, you
gotta travel light. Tuttle here is the expert on packing the small
bag and finding a girl to carry it. Put everything in a light
shoulder bag. Staging is important. The most important thing in
any fucking production. That and light and costume. What do you
put inside the bag? All you pack are half a dozen magic tricks.
You phone a specialty magic shop in Manhattan. It'd cost you fifteen
bucks for ten minutes. Give them your American Express number
and just fucking order and order. Make certain they courier the
stuff or you'll be waiting around HQ for years like Tuttle here
trying to get your shit together and break away."
Tuttle
raised his head and Snow stopped talking for a second. "Ask
him what goes on the shopping list," said Tuttle, giving
Lawrence a wink as a nineteen-year-old who spoke no more than
a dozen words of English climbed on his lap and kissed him on
each eyebrow.
"The
shopping list? Okay, first buy that illusion of fire that leaps
from the palm of the hand. It blows people away. They can't explain
it; they can't fucking believe it. Fire jets. A crowd forms in
seconds. Next go for the illusion called " Hot Lava";
mutant lava spits straight from your fingertips. And to keep your
act in high gear, throw in a few multicolored scarves, some ropes
that you cut into pieces and then with a move of your hand the
rope is one piece again. And the clincher act is great, man. You
swallow handful of needles and about three feet of white thread.
Then you slowly pull the thread out. Each needle is lined up like
clothes pegs on the thread. Five minutes later you're crowned
as Lahu Godman. Your audience becomes your subjects. They only
want to please you. There's no future in pissing off a god.
"You
won't be the first Lahu Godman to come down the pike. The Lahu
got a fucked-up history of Messianic movements. Like clockwork
every twenty-five years some wando stumbles into one of their
villages, claims the title, leads them to revolt, and gets a large
number of them massacred. The Lahu are overdue. It's been more
than twenty-five years, man. Show one or two of the illusions–magicians
never call them tricks-to the headman of the village, and you're
in business as Lahu Godman XIV."
Droplets
of sweat rolled off Snow's upper lip as he spoke. He drank two
Klosters, and ordered a third as he laid out the Lahu Godman plan
for Lawrence. Tuttle had heard Snow's struggle with reality before.
He was content to let Snow carry on uninterrupted. Lawrence had
showed some interest in Snow’s planned compact with the devil.
That intrigued Tuttle; this spore of interest in a mechanical
device used for deceit. He tried to imagine Lawrence dressed up
in hilltribe shaman clothing, and the troubled, awe-struck faces
of the villagers as he pulled threaded needles out of his throat.
"Why
haven't you applied for the job?" Lawrence asked.
"Why
hasn't Tuttle?"
It
was one of those questions that carried the merchandise of their
mutual past. At college Tuttle had led an exclusive group of students.
He had the kind of power that people would have gladly relinquished
their possessions or money to join his band, if he had asked that
of them. Even after he had gone, his ghostly influence had remained;
an underground voice that could never be ignored or dismissed.
Tuttle had become a hard-core, another two-bit high-density a
Lahu Godman, Lawrence thought. Tuttle had forfeited his claim
to the myth of a man who had fled civilization to find spiritual
communion deep into the jungles of Southeast Asia. But when fully
understood, Lawrence was convinced, Tuttle had not become some
primordial explorer but another of countless farangs who had been
stranded on the slime mould of Zeno's.
"Every
night Tuttle auditions for the Lahu Godman role. Does he get a
call back? No way, Jose. He pays his purple COD like the rest
of us. He's not a student of the visuals. Tuttle would only get
hurt. The Lahu would take him apart like an edible berry."
"Why
not stay here? There's no shortage of women," said Lawrence.
Snow
glanced at Tuttle and smiled. "You ain't told him, man?"
asked Snow. Tuttle shook his head as the girl on his lap massaged
his neck.
"Told
me what?" asked Lawrence, looking back and forth between
Snow and Tuttle.
"You
share this ant colony with every anteater in the world, man. We're
talking about well-used girls who have been fondled, fingered,
licked, and sucked by legions of the unwashed rejects from New
York to Berlin. Get real lucky and you might find a ringer. And
you know what? Every resident shows up looking for the same invisible,
supernatural girl who descends from the heavens above the jukebox.
She walks over to your booth, hooks her finger, and says follow
me. But she ain't never coming; she don't exist, and that's why
we have to invent her. Pray for her coming one night. Meanwhile,
you end up with another girl who Gunter or Wolfgang has pawed
and gnawed the night before."
"Magic,"
said Tuttle, brushing the hair away from the girl's face on his
lap. "That's what you were saying, Snow."
"That's
it. Magic. Take the bus north of Chiang Mai. Stop at any shithole
village. Climb off in the middle of nowhere and hike up a mountain.
Find a hill tribe with a tradition of Godmen. Then audition for
the role. You show them a lava flow, and straightaway you get
a long term contract. Next, you settle into the village. Close
it off to those fucking trekkers. Man, no fucking trekkers, yuppie
lawyers and accountants ever get in. To make your point, leak
a little lava; throw a jet of fire out of the palm of your hand.
You got their attention now. So you roll with it. Second order
of the day-and this is why you've called New York City at great
expense, paid for a courier to get the illusions delivered-is
the numero uno. You call the headmen of the village, sit them
down in a circle. Smoke a few pipes of opium to mellow them out.
Then you lay the trip on them."
Snow
paused, licking his thin, dry lips; his eyes looking blurred beneath
the thick glasses. He unwrapped a piece of hard-rock candy and
popped it into his mouth and made loud sucking sounds.
"And
lay what on them?" asked Lawrence.
"Lahu
Godman wants virgins," said Snow with a sense of satisfaction.
He crinkled his nose as he continued to suck the candy. He unwrapped
a second piece of candy and dropped it into the open mouth of
the young girl sitting on Tuttle's lap. "That's the first
phrase you learn in Lahu. It's the first phrase out of the mouth
of any self-respecting Lahu Godman. Round up all the virgins,
man. You make one of the head guys your major domo. His job is
to deliver virgins. You let him know this is a full-time job.
He's on call twenty-four hours a day. And if he fucks up, man,
there's a massive price to pay. Lahu Godman's got no fucking sense
of humor about virgins. Every night and every morning, like clockwork,
you get a virgin in a white silk gown carried on a chair and put
down in your room. Sooner or later, you have to face the reality
of life. Your majordomo's gonna crawl on his hands and knees across
your floor, looking as grim as death, and holding his balls-because,
man, you've threatened to have lava leaking out of his balls if
he ever doubled-crossed you-and he lays on the bad news. The village
has gone virgin dry. There ain't a single virgin you haven't fucked
before breakfast or after dinner.
"The
first crisis of your reign. You can't let them think for one minute
that any Lahu Godman is gonna put up with this shit about no more
virgins. You throw a jet of fire and graze the right earlobe of
your major domo. That does the trick. He's pissing in his pants
and thinking that it, is lava leaking down his leg. He's freaking
out. Word spreads quickly through the village just how much the
godman is disappointed in this no virgin news.
"More
virgins, you roar. Lahu Godman say, go to next village and steal
their virgins. This is, of course, an act of war. But the villagers
have no choice. You got them entertained and scared out of their
gourds, man, I'm telling you, they'll raid every fucking village
between Chiang Mai and Mae Sai. You'll get their relatives Federal
Expressing virgins from Burma and Laos.
"No
more goddamn condoms, worry about clap, AIDS, virulen herpes,
killer crabs. Just give the line, Lahu Godman want official visit
with morel virgins. Or shoot a spike of flames up the ass."
Tuttle
stretched his legs out as girl left to join her friends at a table
near the television set. They watched a Thai kickboxing match
with a couple of waiters.
"You've
left out the down side, George," said Tuttle.
"Which
is?" asked Lawrence.
Snow
held the melted down piece of red rock candy between his teeth
and pointed at his mouth. Then spit the piece of candy into an
empty Kloster beer bottle.
"You
need self-will, man. You've got to know when to stop. Tuttle and
I've gone over my Lahu Godman trip. You see, he's got a point.
All these Lahu Godmen ruin it for everyone else. Each one gets
a little taste of power, and before you know it, fucking virgins
isn't enough fun for a day. He's getting his rocks off at breakfast,
lunch, and dinner. Then he gets a real funny idea. He forgets
about making the call to New York, his couriered tricks, his American
Express bill—and he convinces himself the illusions are magic.
He thinks he is a real Lahu Godman. People filter in from other
villages to bow down at his feet. He's an event. What began as
sex ends as politics. He becomes a politician with a mission.
With an agenda. With an ideology, man, and that's the worst of
all. He thinks he's figured out some great system for how time
passes through the world. It's not that hard. The villagers believe
him; after all, he's fucked every virgin in a hundred-mile radius.
But this is a different scale. Every Lahu Godman ends up not only
fucking all the virgins, but everyone else. So the villagers do
the right thing. They get their revenge. They get rid of him.
Shoot him, man. Spear him, bury him alive, cut off his fucking
head, his dick, and his balls and bury them all in different ratholes.
No Lahu Godman dies a natural death in his bed with his grandchildren
around him.
"So
I stick to the safe ground. just the standard bullshit, no tricks,
no virgins, one night at a time, purples handed out COD. Maybe
you could handle it. Ask yourself if your contentment factor is
two virgins a day. Or three. You've gotta be brutally honest with
your answer. if you want to go for it, my old man works in Hollywood,
and I might get some development money for a script. But I need
a real life character who's done the trip, man. Think about it.
You'd get a story created by credit, and some back-end money Lahu
Godman and a cast of virgins is the kind of stuff people want
to see. Man up against himself and the hill tribes of Thailand.
Special-effects heaven. People would go nuts over the story.
"Or
you can hang out at HQ like the rest of us, listen the music on
the jukebox, knock back Mekhong and Coke, and ask yourself if
you've ever taken Noi back to your apartment. I'd go upcountry
and take on the Lahu, but know my own limitations. I wouldn't
stop with the virgins.
Man,
the American State Department would have to send in a team of
forensic experts to dig up a mountainside just to find where they
had buried my ass. And I'll be perfectly frank with you. The Lahu
are exporting most of their virgins to Bangkok. The Chinese characters
in that business aren't impressed with my cutting into their supply
of virgins.
"But
while the power lasted, think of the possibilities. Each morning,
the first words out of your mouth, 'More virgins. Lahu Godman
wants more virgins.'
"The
best you can hope for in Southeast Asia is a war. During the war,
Vietnam was a well-ordered society. All the women in the bars;
all the men in uniform getting their asses shot off in the jungle.
Peace sucks. You get desperate thoughts. And before you know,
you've had two too many drinks, and you're on the telephone, and
the guy answers the phone over a crackling line. You tell him-this
is Bangkok, listen carefully. I'm an apprentice Lahu Godman, can
you give me a quote on a few illusions. Does all your shit come
with clear instructions. And when you're packing the order, put
in an extra couple kilos of lava dust."
"Lawrence
practices law in Los Angeles," said Tuttle, a couple of moments
in Snow's thoughtful silence. The revelation darkened Snow s face;
his features twisted into a look of scorn. He slowly unwrapped
another piece of hard rock candy, staring down at the tabletop.
"What
kinda law, man?"
"Pension
law."
"A
Lahu Godman for the ancients in America," said Snow, shaking
his head. His tone had changed as well as his expression. A crude
bomb had exploded his dream.
"We
were at UCLA together in the'60s," said Tuttle to fill the
awkward silence. "We shared an apartment together. It's been
a long time since we've seen each other. He's a good guy, George.
Not every lawyer's a complete asshole."
"Thanks,"said
Lawrence, who had grown uncomfortable as if it had been announced
he was the carrier of a fatal virus.
"I
guess it could be a comedy. Lahu Godman racks up a billable hours
with hilltribe virgins," said Snow, with a slanting glance
at Tuttle. "Lahu Godman sues major domo for failure to deliver.
Lahu Godman pleads insanity.
After
Snow had gone, Lawrence slumped in his booth, a confused, perplexed
expression on his face. Snow's unscheduled arrival and departure
had left skid marks on his ego. His livelihood had always been
a source of pride; of course, he knew of the anti-lawyer jokes,
but knew underneath that his position provided a powerful identity
and monetary significance. His name and the name of his law firm
opened any door in Los Angeles. But in Zeno's he was a displaced
person; Snow had treated him as if he were a representative of
evil, someone devoted to the force of decline, greed, and intolerance.
"It's
an irrational thing with Snow. His hatred of lawyers," said
Tuttle, rubbing his jaw. "Don't take it personally."
"I didn't," said Lawrence, lying. "He lives in
Bangkok?" "He has a room at the Highland Hotel on Sathorn
Road. Your basic box that comes with no windows or carpets. The
girls love it, he says. It reminds them of their own rooms. They
can't afford windows. Outside his hotel on Sathorn Road is a traffic
nightmare. Ten lanes of tuk-tuk hard braking all night. Sirens
wailing. Paint thinner heads going one hundred-ten-plus on motorcycles.
The sounds of madness pounding in his head. He uses the place
to refine his Lahu Godman act. He picks up girls from Silom Road
and takes them back. They are like Valley girls. That Silom Road
Valley girl and her deflowered friend know people who gossip to
rangers, cops, Thai males with guns, bikers who eat bags of yah
mah-speed. One day Snow's going to be an item in the Bangkok Post
Thai male with paint thinner on his breath flees the scene. That’s
after he wrapped blocks of piano wire around Snow's neck for screwing
his sister."
Tuttle
had logged enough time in Thailand to know that magic wasn't for
the cities. Not in peace time. Bangkok was a one-shot, try-out
location for certain drifters like Snow who sooner or later found
enough courage to take their show to a hilltribe audience. Tuttle
didn't tell Lawrence the real reason for Snow's disappointment
about the lawyer business. Snow had been looking for some years
among the newcomers to Zeno's for a sponsor. Someone to finance
his trip. His father had nothing to do with Hollywood. But life
had dealt Snow the hand as a major domo to watch, in his mind's
eye, some other farang's ass busily pumping away on a virgin that
by rights, he believed, belonged to him.
'Like
a Virgin' played on the jukebox. Several girls sang along to the
lyrics, dancing in an open circle, bumping hips, laughing, and
ignoring the kick-boxing on the television at the other end of
the room. The song got played several times each night that Tuttle
came into Zeno's. Snow got a little tearful each time it played.
"I'm fucking serious," he'd say, "I'm buying the
rights to the music for my film." No one ever believed that
Snow was serious about the song, the Lahu Godman movie, or his
own life.
Snow
had gone for a smoke in the alley. Before he left, he warned Lawrence
to keep his plan confidential. "And don't tell anyone about
the Lahu Godman idea. You're a lawyer. You understand that original
ideas can't be used. Anyway, I don't want it getting around."
The more Snow had thought about it, the more he convinced himself
that he should go upcountry and apply for the Lahu Godman job.
After a few months at the Highland Hotel he had begun to miss
not having a window.
