Back in 2007 I had a friend in Pattaya. Fabo had heart of gold and the young Belgian oil explorer was happiest with a Heineken in his hand and his eye on Gai, the Rubenesque beauty of the Buffalo Bar. He had loved her forever. She loved him too in her own way, whenever she could do so. Love him long time.
Gai was a popular girl.
I liked drinking with Fabo, because he didn’t talk the usual farang bullshit, ie how bargirls were bad or Thai were lazy or how Pattaya sucked. The Charleroi native was happy with his life and with good reason. Fabo worked on seismic ships trawling the ocean bottom for pockets of oil. His tours ran one month off-shore and then one month in Pattaya.
His haunts were the same as mine; Welkom on Soi 3 in the daytime and Buffalo Bar nights.
Two years ago I found him in Welkom Inn’s garden. Six empty Heinekens were on the table. The Belgian did not look happy.
Most farangs flee sad faces, because most sad faces are caused by either bad love stories or no money. The first they have heard too many times and listening to the latter means that sooner or later they would be asked for a loan.
Fabo had a good job and I was broke, so there was no danger of my having to shed money for his company.
I sat down and asked, “Why the long face?”
“Poo’s been arrested for Ja Bah.” Poo was his wife. They had met at the Welkom Inn. Possession for Yah Bah was a gold mine for the Tam-Luat or Thai police. If they said you were guilty, you were guilty, unless the right amount of baht passed hands. “The police came to the house, because of a family disturbance.”
“You were fighting with her?” Fabo forgave Poo everything.
“Not me. A German friend.”
“German friend?”
The Belgian oil worker and I drank most afternoons at the Belgian Embassy on Sai 3. I had never met any German friends.
“Yes, he is an old friend on Poo. He left his Doberman with us, because pets aren’t allowed in his apartment. He shows up every few days to make sure the dog was okay.”
It was a strange arrangement. Pattaya had thousands of them.
“He say something to Poo. She get angry. They fight and the police come. They know the German. The police had tested her urine. It came up purple for ja-bah. They took her straight to the monkey house.”
He was hiding something, but not all the truth.
“What’s this German look like?”
“Like a Reeperbahn pimp.”
“He’s from Hamburg?” I had worked at a nightclub for the ErosCenter Zuhalterei in 1982. “Does he have a lot of knife scars on his left forearm?”
“Yes.”
The telephone rang and he lifted his finger.
“I have to go. My German cousin is helping get her out of jail.”
I said nothing, as Fabo got on a motorcycle to meet the German.
Better him than me, because Lucien had another name in St. Pauli.
SS Tommy.
The marrow in my spine froze.
Later that night I met Fabo at the Buffalo, which he calls ‘le campange’ or the country. It had once been surrounded by coconut trees instead of the townhouses of today.
He was in a better mood. Gai was at his side. She was free tonight. So was Fabo.
“Now I can tell you story.” Fabo ordered us beers. “You know Lucien leaves dog with Poo. He comes every day. Friends of Poo are no good. They do jah bah. One day they start fight with Lucien. He beats them up. They decide that if they kill the dog, Lucien won’t come see Poo.”
“That’s some stupid thinking.”
“I did not say they were smart.” Fabo shrugged pleasantly, as if he acknowledged he was glad not to have seen this scene. “Lucien discovers his dog is dead and beats up the boys again. The police come. They are friends with Lucien. They arrest the boys, who say that Poo is taking jah bah.”
The story was sordid and it was heading toward more sordid.
“I pay the police 20,000 baht. She has to be clean one year. If not, back to the monkey house. Lucien helps me with the judge. He knows everyone.”
“Good.” I could have told him the truth ie that Poo won’t be able to say off the gear for a year.
No sense in that. He knows the future already, but I was surprised at how good Lucien had been through the entire affair.
“But tonight she stays in monkey house, so I stay here with Gai.” Fabo hugged Gai’s ample hips.
He was a a lucky man.
Several days later Fabo bailed out his wife and called me to celebrate her release. My wife wasn’t into drunken parties and I motorcycled over to Fabo’s villa behind the Sukhumvit Hills. All the French and Belges from the Embassy were there, but they weren’t in their usual good mood. Something was off and I immediately spotted why.
SS Tommy sat in the best chair in the house.
He was my height, but his muscle had been pumped by a gym.
No steroids.
Gym only.
The German was no fake tough guy. His body looked like he had been dropped through a meat grinder. His left arm bore the scars of many knife fights. His crooked nose followed the route of an alpine pass. His eyes stared at me with the promise of murder. I greeted him in German.
“Why do you speak German?” His voice reeked of suspicion.
“I lived in Hamburg in 1982 and worked at a nightclub for a pimp. BSirs.”
“For Cali?”
I didn’t say the name often.
Cali was the head pimp for the GmBH, Hamburg’s biggest gang. He had been shot too many times to die from anything other than a peaceful death.
“Yes, he worked for Thomas Bond.” The old pimp led an empire of sin from the ErosCenter.
“Thomas Bond was my teacher.” Lucien’s eyes narrowed to razor blades.
“I met him once.” I had done him a favor. I never mentioned it to anyone. I never had a problem with the pimps, but one. SS Tommy. I stood to get a beer.
“You stay here. You not go away. Are you police?” He didn’t recognize me. It had been over ten years. His fingers dug into my thigh like icepicks.
“No, like I said I was the Tursteher at a nightclub on Eppendorfer Weg. BSirs.” I had earned my living as a doorman in New York, Paris, London, and Germany. I was no criminal.
Nearing Christmas a pimp, SS Tommy, had presented a bill for 20,000 Marks.
For sleeping with a girl.
Astrid’s never saying she had worked for him didn’t matter to SS Tommy. He wanted his money. I gave him the keys to my VW and said I would have the rest tomorrow. I caught the midnight train to Paris that evening.
“I can’t recall meeting you.”
“I don’t believe you. You are maybe police.” He stared at me with his head tilted. “You can’t look me in the eyes.”
“I never lie.” I could only see one eye. “Telling the truth is easier.”
The leader of a Thai motorcycle gang showed up. Lucien stood up to wai his comrade. I decided this was time to leave.
Fabo later said Lucien missed me.
I missed him too like anyone misses someone wanting to kill them, for he was a man to avoid and be seen avoiding,
And they say there are no good Germans.
Even the bad ones are good sometimes, especially if they make Fabo happy.