Confessions of a Bangkok Private Eye: True Stories From the Case Files of Warren Olson (15 page)

THE CASE OF THE CHINESE CLIENT

I get a lot of business through the internet, so it isn’t unusual for work to come my way through emails. More often than not it’s a tourist who has gone home and is having second thoughts about the fidelity of his new girlfriend. But the email that arrived from ‘Charles’ was different from the average internet inquiry.

For a start, the client didn’t give his full name, or supply an address or telephone number where I could contact him. I ran a check on the ISP address and found that he was in Shanghai, so I figured that he was an expat up in China. Anyway, Charles wanted me to keep tags on two rotund Englishmen who would shortly be arriving in Bangkok. They would be staying at the Landmark and were conducting banking seminars during the day. They were both fans of Playskool Bar at Nana Plaza, which was just around the corner from the hotel. Playskool was always one of my favourites, what with the staff dressing up in sexy school uniforms and having some of the prettiest girls in the plaza. Charles wanted to know how much it would cost for me to keep an eye on the two guys and I told him. Two days later and the money had been transferred into my bank account so I stopped worrying too much about who my client was. Charles also emailed me head-and-shoulder photographs of the two men and promised me a big bonus if I could get a photograph of the bigger of the two guys leaving with a lady of the night.

On the day the two men arrived in Bangkok, I went around to the hotel. I did a quick walk through of the bars and restaurants but there was no sign of the two men. I waited until reception was busy then wandered over and asked to speak to Andrew, the one that Charles was particularly interested in. The harried girl behind the reception desk looked at her computer screen, tapped out a number and handed me the phone. Andrew had a typical upper class plum-in-his-mouth English accent and sounded like he’d been asleep. I switched into my very best Antipodean accent. ‘Howyagoing Cobber, ready to go sink a few tinnies then are ya?’

I got a very polite ‘I beg your pardon’ from Andrew before I apologised and put the phone down. Now that I knew he was in his room, all I had to do was sit in the lobby and watch the lifts. Turned out to be a wasted evening. By midnight he hadn’t appeared so I figured he’d decided to have a night in. He might well have phoned an escort agency for a takeaway but even if that was the case I wouldn’t be able to get a picture, and without a picture there wouldn’t be a bonus.

The next night, I checked the hotel again at 7pm and this time Andrew wasn’t in his room. I checked the bars and restaurants in the hotel and drew a blank, so it seemed fair to assume that the boys were out on the prowl.

I hit Playskool at 8pm, parked myself in a seat at the back and ordered a Jack Daniels. A pretty little thing from Sisaket was soon sitting by my side, massaging my thigh and telling me how handsome I was. After another couple of JDs I was starting to believe her. I’d bought her half a dozen lady drinks by the time a fat, balding man waddled in. It was Andrew. He was greeted like a long-lost friend by the elderly mamasan and ushered to a front-row seat where he could get an eyeful of the girls on offer. It wasn’t long before he had a girl either side and he was buying ladies drinks like there was no tomorrow. I kept buying drinks for myself and my new best friend from Sisaket until Andrew called for his bill. I did the same. I gave Miss Sisaket a big tip and got her phone number, then followed Andrew outside. I had my digital camera with me and was hoping to get a few shots to send to Charles.

I overtook him on the way out and got myself a vantage point in the Nana Hotel car park when he came out. He’d paid barfine for the two girls which got me thinking that perhaps I’d be able to talk Charles into giving me a double bonus. My luck was in. There was an elephant at the Nana Plaza exit and its mahouts were trying to extract cash from the drunken tourists in return for the opportunity to feed a few green bananas to the beast. The authorities don’t like elephants wandering around the city streets. Every now and then one puts a foot through a drain and the traffic gets backed up for miles. Part of the problem is that the old work that the elephants used to do upcountry had now been replaced by machines, so the mahouts don’t have any choice other than to beg.

I made it look as if I was snapping away at the elephant but in fact managed to get several good shots of Andrew and his two hookers. He waddled over to the Nana Disco with the two girls.

I went home, satisfied that I’d earned my fee and bonus. Early next morning I went back to the hotel, hoping to catch Andrew and his two bargirls having breakfast. The two chubby bankers were sitting at a table, devouring plates piled high with a food. As I watched them my heart sank. Sitting in Playskool I’d been sure that it was Andrew who’d walked in. But now that I saw the two Poms together, I realised that I’d had the wrong man. The guy I’d followed and photographed was Andrew’s colleague. Andrew was bigger and balder and about five years older. The whole surveillance operation had been a waste of time. Other than the fact that I’d got Miss Sisaket’s phone number, of course.

I sent the pictures off to Charles, along with a brief report and a note that Andrew had stayed in the hotel. Not strictly true, of course, but I didn’t want to admit that I’d been tailing the wrong guy. Charles took it better than I expected and said that he’d be in touch next time Andrew was back in Bangkok.

I thought that would be the end of it, but three months later I got another email from Charles. Andrew was heading back to Bangkok for a couple of days and would be staying at the Landmark again. The bonus was still on offer—all I needed was a photograph of Andrew with a bargirl. I accepted the job and Charles put the money in my bank account, and emailed me with Andrew’s flight details.

According to Charles, Andrew had an afternoon meeting so I left it until early evening before I went to the hotel. I spotted him in the Huntsman studying a menu, and figured that he’d be there for a while. It looked as if he was eating alone and I started to have visions of my bonus slipping away again, so I decided that maybe I could short-circuit the process by supplying my own temptation.

I took the footbridge over Sukhumvit, ignoring the family of Cambodian beggars who had set up there, and headed for one of my favourite watering holes, the German bar in Soi 7. It’s a well-known pick-up joint, packed with freelancers on the make. There are a lot of over-the-hill hookers and go-go girls who’ve failed their medical, but there are pearls among the dross and one of the pearls was Gay. I worked my way through the growing evening crowd and spotted Gay sitting between two large Australian tourists. I caught her eye and signalled for her to meet me outside.

Gay was in her early twenties with shampoo commercial hair and great breasts courtesy of one of Bangkok’s best plastic surgeons. She had at least two sponsors that I was aware of who both sent her a fair whack every month, and one was trying to get her a visa to visit the UK. She had no plans to visit the UK, though, the guy was going to be disappointed. She had a young son upcountry and was saving to build her own house. She spoke good English. She told the punters that she’d learned English at university, but the truth was that she’d been hooking for more than seven years and had picked it up from the hundreds of guys she’d slept with. I’d used Gay on a few jobs, and I knew she’d be perfect for Andrew. I told her what I wanted, and promised her 1,000 baht plus whatever Andrew gave her. Ten minutes later we were walking into the Huntsman. I made sure we were seated at the table next to Andrew and that he could get a clear view of Gay and her very impressive breasts. I ordered a JD for me and her usual Black Label and soda, and chatted away in Thai for fifteen minutes or so, pretending not to notice the occasional smile that passed between Gay and the Englishman behind me. After I’d finished my drink I said goodbye to Gay and promised to phone her, then left her to it.

While Gay went to work on Andrew, I adjourned to a nearby Pizza Hut. I’d told Gay to get Andrew to buy her dinner and then suggest that they retire to his hotel room. When they were on their way, she was to send me a text, so I was able to relax, order a medium pepperoni pizza and flirt with one of the cute waitresses. By the time Gay sent me the text I had polished off the pizza and had the waitress’s phone number. I was back in the lobby by the time Gay and Andrew were heading for the lifts. I got several good pictures with the zoom lens of them walking arm in arm, which I figured would make Charles a very happy bunny.

I went back to the Pizza Hut for dessert and bit more flirting, and an hour later I got another text from Gay saying that the dirty deed had been done. I met her in the hotel lobby. Andrew had given her 3,000 baht so she was well pleased, especially because he’d wanted nothing more than a blowjob. It had been easy money and there was plenty of time to get back to the German bar to reel in another punter.

I asked her what sort of guy he was and she said he was a gentleman. He loved Thailand and would love to live here, but he had a good job in Shanghai. He’d told her that he didn’t enjoy working with Chinese people and that some of his colleagues were always trying to get him sacked. There was one woman, Char-lee, who really hated him and who made his life a misery. ‘He said he was very happy to meet me because I helped him to forget about her,’ said Gay.

Alarm bells started to ring. Char-lee? Charlie? Charles? I started to wonder if my mysterious client was Andrew’s colleague. Suddenly it started to make sense. If the Chinese colleague got hold of a photograph of Andrew in a compromising position, she could do him a lot of damage. She could have sent it anonymously to the board and it wouldn’t be long before Andrew was told that his services were no longer required. Or maybe she’d decide that a little blackmail would be more profitable. I wasn’t happy about being part of whatever her devious plan was, but on the other hand I didn’t want to lose the bonus that I’d be promised. What’s a private eye to do?

Now, not all investigators have the same high moral standards as yours truly. It’s not unknown for a less-than-professional private eye in Thailand to approach the subject of his investigation and, for a higher fee, agree to file a false report. It wasn’t something that I was in the habit of doing, but I didn’t like the way that Charles had been using me. He (or she) had been less than honest, so I didn’t think that he (or she) deserved any less from me. Andrew was just being one of the lads and I wasn’t happy about being the architect of his downfall. So, the next morning I went over to the hotel in time for breakfast. I saw Andrew attacking the buffet and I waited until he’d sat down before I headed over to his table with a cup of coffee. He didn’t look happy as I sat down at his table, but I went quickly into my speech. I explained that I’d been paid to follow him, and that I had compromising photographs of him. I told him about my mysterious client in Shanghai, and that I had become uneasy about what I was being asked to do. For all I knew the girl he’d taken to his room the previous night could have been a client, I said, even though we both knew exactly what he’d been doing. I said that I didn’t want to lose the bonus I’d been promised if I emailed the pictures to my client, but perhaps there was another option. A small token of Andrew’s appreciation, perhaps, and I could tell the client that Andrew had been whiter than white. I smiled and waited for his reaction. To be honest, I had nothing to lose. If he told me to go and screw myself, I’d just send the pictures and report to Shanghai and pocket my bonus. He stared at me for a while, then nodded and pulled out his wallet. He took out a wad of American dollars, peeled off a few 100-dollar notes and handed them to me.

‘Cash,’ I said. ‘That’ll do nicely.’

I pocketed my retainer, wished him a safe trip home, and left him to his breakfast, picking up a sausage from the buffet on my way out.

Later that day I sent an email to Shanghai Charles. I said that Andrew did little more than eat in the hotel restaurants and visit the Huntsman Bar in the basement. He never even had a sniff of a bargirl. I had no misgivings about telling a little white lie. Andrew was a decent enough guy and I had double the bonus that had been promised, so I reckoned justice had been done. Justice à la Thai private eye.

THE CASE OF THE HUA HIN HUSBANDS

They say that all good things come in threes: the Three Degrees, the Three Stooges, the three very attractive young women that spent ninety minutes making my every sexual fantasy come true in one of the upstairs rooms at the Eden Club in Soi 7. I love things that come in threes, especially three cases in the same place because then I can swing three sets of expenses for a single trip. I figure it’s a perfectly reasonable arrangement. If I have to go and do an overnighter then it’s only fair that the client pays for the hotel, my meals and my transport. The client would be paying the same no matter how many cases I was working on. It’s not like I’m being dishonest by billing them all for the same expenses, it’s more that I’m taking advantage of an advantageous situation, and hand on heart I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.

Anyway, I was on my way to Hua Hin with a song in my heart and three sets of retainers in the bank, all from women as it happens. When I first got into the private-eye game it was almost always girls I was checking up on, and bargirls at that. But as my fame spread, I started to get a fair number of female clients, usually farang women who wanted me to prove that their husbands or boyfriends were straying. Generally it was money for old rope. There are two golden rules about relationships in Thailand: bargirls always lie, and farang men sleep around. They just do. It’s instinct. The scorpion thing. And generally it’s easier to do a check on a farang man than it is to follow a Thai bargirl. The guy will almost certainly stick to one of the farang areas—Sukhumvit Road, Silom Road, Pattaya or Phuket. He’ll probably be staying in a hotel full of tourists or in a condominium building used by farangs so if I’m tailing him, I’m not going to stick out like the proverbial thumb. But bargirls tend to live in predominantly Thai areas where farangs are few and far between and a hell of a lot more visible.

I like Hua Hin. It’s a seaside resort, but it’s a lot less scummy than Pattaya. The sea’s cleaner, for a start, and there’s a better class of tourist. Families go there, mainly, and retired couples. It’s where the Thai Royal Family likes to holiday so the police in Hua Hin keep a tight grip on the nightlife side and there are no go-go bars or soapy massage parlours. There are plenty of beer bars, and more hookers than you can shake a stick at, but it’s nowhere as in your face as Pattaya or Phuket’s Patong beach.

I drove down in a rented Toyota and booked into a room with a sea view at the Hilton. Lovely.

My first case was Bob from Seattle, a frequent visitor to the Land of Smiles. Too frequent, according to his wife, who had decided to divorce him and felt that there would be a certain irony in having the divorce papers served on him while he was in Thailand. I had a quick shower, downed a couple of JDs from the minibar, then wandered down to the hotel where Bob was staying. The wife had emailed me a picture of her husband so I knew who I was looking for. I got myself a corner booth in the hotel coffee shop and settled down with a copy of the
Bangkok Post
.

I was lucky and I had only started on my second cup of coffee when in walked the man himself, with an obvious bargirl in tow. By obvious I mean that she was wearing tight blue jeans, a low-cut black T-shirt, and had a tattoo of a scorpion on her right shoulder. Elementary, my dear Watson!

Bob looked bored and the girl had the sultry pout that bargirls adopt when things aren’t going their way. They sat down in the booth next to mine and I flashed her one of my winning smiles. ‘
Falang kee-neo chai mai
?’ I said.

‘
Nan-non loei
,’ she sighed, confrming that old Bob was indeed a Cheap Charlie.

Bob was so impressed to hear a foreigner speak Thai that he introduced himself and asked if they could join me. He was keen to chat and I guessed he’d been stuck with the sour-faced hooker for a while. The girl started to play footsie with me under the table, which was nice. She slipped off her high heels and massaged the back of my legs with her toes, all the time keeping a butter-wouldn’t-melt look on her face. It seemed that they were both bored stiff with each other.

Bob told me his life story, pretty much, most of which I’d already got second-hand from the wife. He liked Thailand, he said, and was thinking about moving permanently to the Land of Smiles. The problem was, he didn’t know what sort of work he’d be able to do, as work permits are as rare as hen’s teeth in Thailand. Any job that can be done by a Thai, no matter how badly the Thai does it, can’t be given to a foreigner. So other than running a bar or teaching English, there aren’t too many career opportunities.

Bob asked me what I did for a living. ‘Well, Bob,’ I said, ‘I’m a private investigator.’

‘Must be an exciting line of work,’ he said.

I shrugged and took the envelope of legal papers from my jacket pocket. ‘Actually, Bob, it’s pretty boring most of the time,’ I said. ‘Just mundane tasks, like serving summons.’ I dropped the envelope on the table in front of him. ‘By the way, this is yours.’

He said thanks, not realising that I was serious.

As I stood up he shook my hand, and again I don’t think it had quite sunk in. I clapped him on the back. ‘The wife says the next time you’ll see her, it’ll be in court,’ I said. His jaw dropped and I could see that the message had got home. I heard the envelope being ripped open as I walked away and a low groan as he started to read the contents.

I headed back to the hotel, feeling pretty good with myself. I’d only been in town for an hour and I’d already earned a day’s money and covered the cost of my room, the car, two JDs and two coffees.

The second case was a missing person, sort of. A New Yorker called Ann phoned me to ask if I’d track down her husband, Joe, who’d gone missing in Thailand. He’d been at a body-building competition in Australia and had broken his flight in the Land of Smiles with a couple of buddies. The last phone call she’d had from Joe was two weeks earlier and he had said that he was in Hua Hin and that he was drinking in a bar owned by a guy called Kim, and wasn’t sure when he’d be back in the States. If I could find Kim, she said, she was sure I’d be able to find Joe. Now, there’s a pretty big farang population in Hua Hin. Not as many as in Pattaya, but still enough to make it a needle-in-a-haystack job without more definite information. She emailed me photographs of Joe. He was an amateur bodybuilder, a stocky, balding guy in his late twenties who couldn’t have been much more than five foot tall.

I did a quick trip around the bars that were open for the afternoon trade but no one knew of an owner called Kim. I figured I’d have more joy later at night but then I had a brainwave and phoned Ann. It was about one o’clock in the morning in New York and I’d obviously woken her up and the fact that it was a collect call did seem to annoy her somewhat, but she was able to answer my question—which flight did Joe travel to Thailand on? It was Japan Airlines. Flight JAL 006, two weeks ago on Tuesday.

I phoned the airline and told the girl who answered that I was the boss of a tour company based in Bangkok and that I’d lost track of a client that I’d taken to Hua Hin. Had my client by any chance phoned in to reconfirm his ticket? I gave her Joe’s full name and the details of his flight to Bangkok.

Indeed the ticked had been reconfirmed. By a travel agency in Hua Hin. And Joe had also changed his ticket to an open booking, with no flight home. The travel agency wasn’t far from the Hilton so I had a plate of fried noodles and an ice cold Heineken at a street stall and wandered over. The agency was a tiny shop wedged between two bars, both of which had a quartet of fairly attractive girls who all declared that I was a ‘handsum man’ and that I should spend some of my time—and money—with them. I resisted the calls of the sultry sirens and went inside the travel agency.

There was only one girl working in the office, so I played the stupid farang and said that I was a friend of Joe’s and that we were driving back to Bangkok together but that I’d forgotten what hotel he was staying at. She checked her computer and gave me the name and address of his hotel. It was called Kim’s Hotel, which I figured was a good sign.

Kim’s Hotel wasn’t as prestigious as the Hilton and it didn’t have a sea view but it did have a decent-sized pool and I guessed that was where a diminutive body builder might spend his afternoons. I was right. Standing by the diving board was the man himself, wearing nothing but a black thong, flexing his muscles in front of two teenage girls. I watched his show as he went through a full work out, his oiled muscles glistening under the afternoon sun. The two girls were giggling and kept offering him a two-for-one special, staring at 2,000 baht but dropping to half that pretty quickly. Joe just laughed and said that he wasn’t up for an afternooner but that he’d catch up with them later.

After about half an hour, Joe finished his workout and showered at the poolside shower. In view of the nature of the case, I didn’t think there would be any harm in being up front with the NewYorker. I waited until he had towelled himself dry before going over and introducing myself. I told him that I was a private eye and that his wife had paid me to track him down and to find out why he hadn’t gone home.

Joe grinned and nodded at the two sexy girls. ‘That’s why,’ he said.

We went over to a table and sat under a large umbrella and drank beers as Joe gave me his side of the story. I had a Heineken, Joe had a Charng Beer. Another sign of the newbie, that, drinking the local beer. He might as well have had a neon sign over his head flashing ‘I’ve just got off the plane’. Pretty much the only Thais who drank Charng were construction workers. Anyway, Joe told me that he didn’t love Ann. He wasn’t even sure why he’d married her. In New York, his lack of height and hair meant that he didn’t have much luck with women. Ann was pretty much the only woman who’d expressed any interest in him, and it had been her idea to get married. She wasn’t pretty and she wasn’t especially bright, but Joe had said yes because being married to her was better than being on his own. Then he’d come to Thailand and suddenly short, balding Joe was a ‘handsum man’. Within the space of his first week in Thailand he’d had more sex than he’d had in his whole life in the States. And he wasn’t sleeping with dogs either. Every girl he’d bedded had been drop-dead gorgeous, he boasted. And the supply of beautiful girls waiting to have sex with him seemed to be never-ending. Joe was like a kid in a sweetshop, a pig in shit, and all those other clichés. And the way he told it, he was NEVER going back to the United States. He’d already met a couple of body-builders who ran a gym in Bangkok and they had offered him a job. Joe had never really wanted to be an accountant, he’d never loved Ann, and had never enjoyed living in New York. He was taking control of his life, Joe told me. He was starting again in Thailand.

He was, in my humble opinion, making a huge mistake. Like a lot of newbies, he was starting to believe his own publicity. Joe wasn’t a ‘handsum man’, he was just a short, balding, thick-necked Yank with more money than sense. The girls weren’t flocking to him because of his muscles or his personality, it was because he had money and they wanted it. They were bargirls, their job was to make punters feel good so that they would hand over their money. The smiles, the kisses, the sex, were all part of the act. But newbies like Joe sometimes forgot that it was all about money and started to believe that they were somehow more attractive and desirable than they were back home. And providing that he continued to shell out the bucks, they’d continue to live out their fantasy. But as soon as they stopped paying, the girls would stop playing, and reality would hit home. If often hit hard, too, and there are probably hundreds of farang suicides every year in the Land of Smiles, as guys like Joe realised that their fantasy lives were just that—fantasies. And once a guy has got used to being surrounded by attentive, beautiful women who behave like submissive pornstars between the sheets, it was hard, maybe impossible, to go back to the real world.

I always say that when a newbie first starts to hang out with Thai bargirls, the newbie has the money and the bargirls have the experience. At the end of it, the bargirls have the money and the newbie has had the experience.

Anyway, Ann wasn’t paying me to burst Joe’s bubble. She just wanted to know where he was and what he was doing. Now I could tell her, it was up to her what she did next. I got Joe to promise me that he’d phone or email his wife. It seemed the least he could do, under the circumstances.

Case number three was an American woman living in Japan, whose husband Gary was a marine who seemed to be spending more than his fair share of shore leave in Hua Hin. After a little do-it-yourself snooping Carol had discovered a couple of email addresses, one of them belonging to a girl called Mem, Thai phone numbers and a photograph of a pretty young thing working in an opticians store. Carol had also found a bank account number in Hua Hin with details of a 5,000-dollar transfer and had jumped to the obvious conclusion. She told me that she was a reasonable woman and wanted to make absolutely certain that her husband was fooling around. What she didn’t say, of course, was that any evidence I got that incriminated Gary would be useful when it came to thrashing out the divorce settlement. If I could show that Gary was supporting a Thai mistress, an American divorce court would skin him alive.

The name and the number of the bank account was a big help. It would have been a fairly simple matter to get a home address but it would require a large ‘donation’ to a friendly bank clerk so I thought I’d try a cheaper alternative first. The name of the opticians shop was in the photograph and there were only two branches in Hua Hin. I walked by both outlets several times during the day but didn’t see anyone who looked like the girl in the photograph.

Mem was in her mid-twenties and looked fit, not bargirl material but I wouldn’t have kicked her out of bed. I decided to use the old ‘I’m from the embassy and I’m here about Mem’s visa application’ scam. I got my clipboard and a US Immigration application form from my rental car, put on my serious face and marched into the store nearest the Hilton. I gave them my standard speech about Miss Kongyou (Mem’s Thai name) applying for a US visa. The shop girls knew Mem but said that she had quit her job a few months earlier. I put on my worried face and said that there were a couple of things I had to clear up about her visa application and did they know where she was living.